(In memory of Gladys Katoi)
Hurled about by sons of bitches
as if it were sand on beaches
or maize grains winnowed by farmers
that makes us weep this much?
That tiny piece of metal
has robbed us of our beloved
parent, mother and wife
And hosting sorrow for us
at the most inopportune time.
But how could it happen really?
If the law hovers around all time
And why has the sons of bitches not been netted?
If the law claims to be tirelessly handling the case
Oh, men we're becoming mad!
We'll strip and show you nakedness
Cursing your generations
If we harvest not fruits of your job!
(c) wafula p'khisa
-Thigh of an Elephant-
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