The ogre is coming

Reflecting on Kenya’s (and similar) election crises

The children are crying

They’ve seen it before –

Its images from the past

Of sharp bloodletting fangs

Still fresh and vivid

Have been flashing on the wall!

Now a spooky darkness shrouds the room

With their squinting little eyes

They try, helplessly, to peer through

Hoping for a flicker of light

They hear voices

Of adults

Bragging, disparaging, threatening, menacing

Like puffs of malevolent serpents

The voices turn into a drowning noise

And melt into indistinctive voices

Of children

Painfully, the children prick up their ears

Craving the voice of an adult in the room

There is none

The children are scared

The ogre is coming

I will write this poem without rhyme

I’ll write no lines in lyrical rhyme

I’ll seek no words, and waste no time

I’ll write these lines in record haste

Or maybe I’ll simply copy and paste

The texts of the tales writ before me

By folks that first struggled to be

Those who walked and lived in shame

Or were made to feel they were to blame:

For the resilience and dark hue of their skin

For being born with vaginas, not penises

For loving differently from what’s the norm

For discovering their assigned gender was but a lie

For the faith of their kin and the names they carry

For the geographical placement of their ancestors

 

I’ll write no lines in lyrical rhyme

I’ll waste no time, I’ll write in haste

I’ll simply paste the lines I’ll copy

From the texts of records of your shameful acts

I’ll invade your little mind with a wealth of information

That’s been flashing its light before your shrouded eyes

I’ll school you in the realm of equality and rights

I’ll exorcise the fear that resides in your ignorant skull

I’ll write it straight, and waste no metaphors

I’ll seek no metric rhythm and waste no time,

I’ll leave you no time to commit more crime

Your phobia revolts me, I’m out of time

I’ll soothe you no more with lyrical rhyme