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Our pens bleed with anxieties.
And as they bleed, we remember,
Every gap that separates us.
Tribal barriers, choice of cuisines.
But, as the sun is sure to rise when dawn breaks,
So shall these gaps be filled;
Filled with ballads and sonnets.
With odes and eulogies to the gods that guard our land.
Our grandmas and grandpas, too, shall be remembered as we write.
For what ingrates we shall all be
If we ignore their modest acts of simplicities__
The ritual during planting seasons,
To the festival at harvest time;
These very sacred rites, which are like an oath,
Sown in the depths of their hearts?
The storytime around the night-fire,
The songs we hear them sing at the square;
The enthralling steps of their dances,
When the samba is being pounded into those unmistakable rhythms;
The etiquette at meal time,
The lullabies we hear them sing
As they bribe our eyes to yield to slumber.
Ah, these are things we remember,
When we write of home.
This was written by our contributing writer, Emmanuel Gleekia.
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