Jatelo,
your son, Benz,
came with open arms.
A rich businessman from the city
that eats the filthy.
He roamed the markets in Alego,
distributing money like
it’s dry grass and he, wind.
Our daughters
lined up, from Boro
to Hawinga.
Kissed his clean feet
like starving ants.
His snake tongue
long and sharp
promised to build
them a city.
Our daughters
once the loudest at the market
Shut their mouths
and refused to sell fish.
They sat cross-legged,
and waited.
For perfumed children
in soft bellies.
June grew colder
as their bellies softened.
That snake-tongued
thief, nowhere to be seen.
We’ve heard about
his city girls.
Tar on their lips,
gleaming gloss,
flowery earrings.
We know,
they smell like lavender,
while our daughters
sit still and rot like fish.
Jatelo,
Tell your son to
stay in the city.
It’s August now,
and our daughters
weep with the rain
Brown mucus tears
flow down their cheeks,
and cling to the rain’s bleeding feet.
Our businessmen have fled Alego.
Our markets are empty.
There’s no more fish to sell.
We sit still
and smell death.
Victoria Kerubo is a writer and architectural designer based in Nairobi, Kenya. Her writing gravitates towards the absurdities of life. She currently experiments with different poetry forms, ranging from lyrical to traditional to free-verse. Her work has been featured in the Kalahari Review, Writers’ Space Africa, and elsewhere. You can follow her on Substack as @atamisijui.
Cover photo credit: Sebastian Luna