Saturday 8 November 2014

A LETTER TO THE FUTURE



I imagine a future, a future where peace reigns
In the breasts of men
Where killing the other will be regarded
As an affront to society, an abominable act.

Somebody hand me a pen I write this letter
Give me a blank paper I scribble these thoughts
Give me a corner I write this letter
Somebody allow me to weep my agony on this page.

Today, let us ask ourselves serious questions
Let us today hang our dirty linen in public
Let us show our festered wounds
Let us bare our chests today and show our scars
Today, let us prostrate ourselves to Truth.

Truth must we speak, O Souls which love lies,
Clouded by ethnic bigotry, prejudices and senseless cocoons
We have become a segregationist society, too tribal
Too flammable, we are explosives
Our hearts are burning with hatred
Our consciences are dead, we now justify murder!

I am Pokot.
I have Turkana friends.
I talk with them and hear their dreams and hopes.
A few months ago, I struck friendship with an Illchamus lady
I have talked and lived with Marakwet brothers.
I work with a Samburu.
I share a name with a Turkana.
One thing that I have learnt is the bond that unites us all.
The love that God has for us all.
Another is hardship.
A pastoralist boy is mostly born without the benefit of a maternity ward
That boy will squeeze whatever breast-milk he may from his mother
Whose breasts, symbolically and figuratively, are shrivelled from scant resources
Most likely, he may not receive vaccines
He will not lie in a baby-cot, a hide will suffice
That boy’s bath is two mouthfuls of water, one to apply soap
The other to rinse him
Most likely, he may not go to school
And will be a herdsboy
When the time comes, he will marry the girl of his dreams
And he will sire other pastoralists.

So, it gets confusing to me when life brought forth in such hard conditions
Should be easily taken away.
It pains me to see years of nature’s mercy upon the life of a pastoralist
Wasted away, not by disease and famine, but bullets.

As an intellectual, I may justify the deaths at Kapedo
Just to fit into my ethnic dimensions
I may not understand all the dynamics
But I speak not for the Pokots nor the Turkanas
I speak for the mothers of those killed
I speak for the wives of those killed
For they let their men set forth
And in the evening, they waited upon them
They were no more.
They thought love would last forever
These women would bury their sons and husbands
And their hearts will cry for many nights
These women will ask themselves so many questions
Questions like why were their sons and husbands killed
The fresh grave mounds will remain mum
And they will hear people say,
The Pokots are bad, The Turkanas are bad,
They killed us first, we have lived here before
And like swords jabbed at their hearts
They will receive this empty chatter
Through their tears, they may whisper
Life is cruel, my husband’s life, my son’s life
Is as worthless as cowdung (But not, because even cowdung
is manure)

And that woman will weep at her son’s/husband’s grave
Seeking answers.
But the mound will now be stiff and parched
Just like the hearts of men and women
Who killed her son or husband.

But the most hurting words she will hear
Will not be from the illiterate, merciless bandits
But from the educated bigots.
With the benefit of their learning, they will spew ethnic vitriol
With the fluency of overfed honey-badgers
They will shame learning and walk naked
Crying ‘kill them!’ ‘Kill them’
I exaggerate. Though they won’t be naked
They would have bared their debauched hearts
And that is still nakedness.

I imagine a future, a future where peace reigns
In the breasts of men
Where killing the other will be regarded
As an affront to society, an abominable act.

Somebody hand me a pen I write this letter
Give me a blank paper I scribble these thoughts
Give me a corner I write this letter
Somebody allow me to weep my agony on this page.

This is my letter to the future
To the society that a Pokot and a Turkana
Will realize that cattle rustling delayed
Their leap into the future.
This is my letter to the future
That speaks to an educated Pokot or Turkana
To address the underlying issues and create solutions
To this problem, this problem that has held back our development
This is my letter to the future
To lambast any political leader who rallies behind community ignorance and braggadocio
To create mistrust and hatred among us
This is my letter to the future
To realize eventually that we have so many big problems
Awaiting us, in addition to cattle-rustling and border disputes,
This is my letter to the future
To mothers and women to take up their rightful role
In bringing peace
For they have been the most affected
And the cry of a woman can move men to action
This is my letter to the future
To County Leaders to spur development to its people
And give priority to peace dialogues
This is my letter to the future
To everybody to preach peace
This is my letter to the future
To change the nature of our discourse
From the mundane to evidence-based and solution-oriented.

c) Lorot Salem



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