(2024)

The country I must still call
home wades in crimes committed without the fear
of daylight. A grandpa from a village only reachable by trained feet
speaks of roads that bury the wretched in their lake-sized potholes. He leaves
a will behind every time he ventures to refined suburbs where our leaders and their cadres
reside; where public hospitals boast of doctors and medicine you only afford by selling a
body part. In the city, iron sheets meant for the old man’s leaking roof glitter
from the home of a certain minister, a certain head of Parliament.
The Honorables visit the village only when they need the ballot
box stuffed in their favor. They zoom past the wretched
in tinted Land Cruisers—police sirens saving them
from the agony of rush-hour traffic.
In America, I must refrain from speaking
ill of the land that still holds my placenta:
who knows which shopping mall will spring
up to sit on my roots. At night, l speak
to my ancestors, asking for assurance
that I’m not a traitor for seeking greener
grass this side. Our pastoral forefathers
crossed hills and valleys to find
pasture for our cattle and they
always came back home.