I remember as a child how I would be mesmerized when mama sang to me as I suckled on her breast.
She always had one hand ensuring I balanced on her lap, and the other stirring the pot of porridge which the older children would have. I loved how she always peaked down at me with a smile and laugh and nuzzled my little nose as her voice shook the hut.
But now, as my weight pressed down on her, the lovely smell that once soothed me to sleep was now replaced with the scent of debwalo, that which we call the final release.
A few moons past, the white men came through our path. They had funny hats and talked in a way that made the little ones laugh but one think was for sure to those that were in charge, they looked just like the gwongo (spirits) those who hide along the forbidden path.
The white men shook the huts, went through our lands and demanded the chief give up all that we had and when they were met with defiance from our warriors who took stand, they vowed to come back for what they knew they couldn’t have.
I remember as a child how my papa would pick me up off the ground and spin me around.
He was strong because of how well he worked the lands and he was mighty because how many fights he had under his arm.
My papa was my everything and as his cold hands now lay a few inches away from my broken arm and the soil they pour over our corpses sinks into my wounded gash, I knew paradise was gone and it would no longer return to our lands.