The Rains of Africa

What An African Woman Thinks: Justice and Peace

Read What An African Woman Thinks: Justice and Peace.

This particular post brought tears to my eyes. It's good to hear stories of sanity and small acts of kindness which, in the end, really are not so very small in the midst of such horrendous violence.

Shiru

9 January 2008, 9:25 AM
A young woman told her story to a CNN reporter.

All is comfort and quiet. A full refrigerator hums,
the clock ticks- a quarter after nine,
and I haven't stirred to shower or do anything
worthwhile today. As I procrastinate,

a woman in Nairobi sits in a crowded camp
helplessly watching her child begin to go hungry
and her husband's slow, unaided journey back
from a machete-crazed abyss of hatred
and blind rage. His wounds will heal,
though he may not, nor his children,
nor the wife of his youth. For who finds
the dark and twisted path back to the land
of the living from this rape of humanity?

I find myself perturbed at my annoyance
upon finding my coffee cold. There is nothing for it-
I am helpless- am I complacent?-
and she will watch- today,
tomorrow,
the day after-
alone.

The Fields

THE FIELDS
7 January 2008, 12:17 PM

O, Beloved- you've told me of your Africa,
and I've longed to see Kericho, and the lovely
green fields of tea- the flavor embodied
in the top two leaves and the buds of Kenyan chai.
I could almost see the kinsmen of your heart
walking through the fields, singing beautiful songs,
laughing and flashing bright colors in the wind and rain.

How many died in the fields today?

So strange to grieve so deeply for a place and a people
I have never seen except through your eyes. But I do,
Beloved. I mourn the ebony of midnight skies,
the white diamonds scattered within, the red
of an African sunset, and the blood
seeping into the emerald fields.

I Don't Want to Forget

28 March 2007, 8:39 PM

I don’t want to forget how it feels
not to know if you want me; to wish you did;
to fear our first meeting, and yet long for it
with every fiber of my carefully assembled
person, outside and in- curious if this is the place
where Love might grow again.

I don’t want to forget the rush of hearing
words I never thought that I would hear,
after watching as you fumbled with your fears,
your dignity and confidence, wondering
what you really meant by coming here today;
to wish you wouldn’t leave before you bring yourself to say
you’d like to see me again, because I so enjoyed the time.

I don’t want to forget a single syllable
of Edward, James or William,
and I want to remember When Africa Was Home.
I’d very much like to taste that Port
just one more time before the memory gets past me,
and you become so familiar I can’t remember
what it’s like to wonder what you’re thinking,
if you’re wanting, when and if you’ll see me,
how long it’s been since I’ve been in the presence
of a man who wasn’t focused on the Goal-
had I ever known a man who wasn’t fixed upon
some distant point he’d never actually see
if he refused to move his eye from it to look at me…

I don’t want to forget sharing Indian food,
plans gone awry, and mystical encounters
in chaotic spaces; finding Home in unfamiliar faces;
faces we would barely have noticed a year ago;
faces we could not live without today.

Civilized Haircut

28 May 2007, 10:18 AM

I have this thing against
a civilized haircut. I’ve come to enjoy
all things growing a little more wild
than convention smiles upon.

Reminds me of the days
I never saw- you in Kenya,
growing up in darkest Africa,
going barefoot always,
except when monsoon season
came and left the dusty ground
muddy with the rains of Kenya.

I prefer to see as much of you,
as much of me be free-
free like the wind that sent
the black coats flying,
set the colors and Kerichans
singing in the open fields,
without a care
for a civilized haircut.

African

14 March 2007, 10:32 AM

There's something big and beautiful
and green and natural and so very real
about my African- I find him true,
more tangible than any color, taste or scent
heretofore discovered by my senses;
green- the shade of misty Kenyan
mountains in the morning;
intoxicating- a scent that pours
from acres of drying leaves, overwhelms
even only ever in my mind;
bright- the sound of Kerichans singing
in black trenchcoats and flashes of happy
colors underneath, all blended and blissful,
flying in the wind and rain.