Weep For This Place Called Home

I’ve woken up to war cries outside my window. Kibera has poured out into our neighbourhood, one rival group hunting down another, sticks and stones in hand. Cries of war rent the air.

The mob stops occasionally to ransack kiosks nearby. Gun shots interrupt the mayhem. My next door neighbour is inconsolable. Her sister was out walking in Riruta trying to get away from it all with her children and she ran into a mob. The last she heard from her, she was trying to beg someone to let her into their house. Our watchman says he ran into Mungiki on his way from Kawangware to work. If you glance out into the distance, there’s smoke rising up out of Kibera, testimony to what transpired there at night.

In response, army helicopters are flying menacingly low.

Now I agree with Ptochos. In re-reading it, I can see how my shell-shocked blogging has come off as glib.

Yesterday’s hasty enthronement in the face of unresolved issues is going to haunt this country for a long time to come. It’s no matter to gloss over.

Meanwhile, the grinches who stole the election are safe in their high-walled, heavily guarded compounds far far away from here.

Weep for this place called home. Something needs to be done. Or UNDONE.

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It's calmed down now. We're venturing out tentatively. There are cars on the road, there weren't before.

Yet in the middle of all this, the people give me hope. My neighbour downstairs says she’s noticed children roaming around unsupervised. She’s gone out to bring them back, into her home if necessary.

Because they’re just children.