They set your body ablaze and laughed at how fast it burnt,
Someone said that your body and Petrol were made for each other,
You wailed in denial, writhed in the pain, and begged for mercy,
to your last breath you swore that you had not stolen the motorcycle
even as the flames on your clothes, fueled by the cheap petrol blistered your skin,
You maintained your innocence, even quoted the mighty God as your witness,
but your tormentors were not the Christian type. They never listened.
Because listening offers guilt, to ignore your pleas of mercy was more fun.
I stood there. Beside your oppressors. They called you and “us” names,
I listened. Then I defended you, amidst all the cursing and shouting,
I was on your side. because they were wrong, you didn’t do it.
because they didn’t know the truth I was on the side of every street kid.
even though slaps flew over my head like it was an airspace of sorts,
I plead with the smart, kind looking man. Begged him to do something,
And he did. with the most violent aggression his big cheeks could assemble,
he spat on my head, warned that I would join you if I took it any further,
On second thought he also kicked me in the belly. I surprised him. I never cried.
It was painful, I wanted to bend and touch my harmed belly and ease the pain,
But I didn’t, I stared back hard at him and thanked him for nothing.
I tried everything, to save you, prayed that they would embrace sense,
but all they preferred to see was hatred, tons and kilos of it.
Because they were many, they were right. because they had the might,
they condemned you; a fifteen year old for a crime you didn’t commit.
I cried because you orphaned me and your kite, I screamed because it wasn’t fair,
condemnation it turned out, had the unshakable power to always unite.
a disgruntled and prejudiced folk, who thought they had the right to kill.
I’ve grown, studied and got a job. Twelve years have been difficult without you,
Last week they killed another man in Lira, he was a criminal, a thief,
thought I would be glad, but I wasn’t. Instead I was angry, guess I haven’t healed,
“mob injustice” still offends me, I see your hair, melting down your head,
even though sometimes they kill criminals; real murderers and defilers,
you would think It should make me feel sort of appeased or happier,
but it doesn’t. it disgusts me that some people think they’re God,
It disgusts me to think that I almost believed that Trump was possibly right,
Perhaps we were a “shithole”, I wasn’t sure, only thing I knew was that;
we could do better.