Mother dear, you will not die

Her hair was in cornrows, the way my mother had done mine severally; but her skin, it was so dark and shiny, not like the normal African skin or the colour of her people,


Her skin was dark the colour of hate and destruction, it was dark...like fire had burned it. She lay face down turned away from the sky she will never see again and the little black child next to her lay there armless and burnt as well...yes this is my country 2015. my people. burned like swine, women raped like slaves and the children many died and melted onto the mothers they were latching onto when the bomb went off. Mother dear, you will not die.


I have never seen disaster, but that wouldn't stop the tears from flowing, because every time I see another photo, not in the main media but the little blogs that cared to post...I don't think of it as another dead body, no that's what people who cant imagine do. i think of all their possible names; Aisha? Zainab? Fatima? These are popular names amongst my people. I wont let your names be forgotten, you will not die.

They lay in the streets, dead, unsheltered. who will pray over my people? because nobody is left to pray? who will perform their last ritual baths as it is required of Muslims? because nobody is left. The people point their fingers silently at the oppressors that don't even care except for their next pay check not to talk about the handsome bonuses they will take home to their sheltered kids whom will never know abject poverty.


Mother dear, you will not die.