The Aftermath:

The streets are quiet,

and the wails have muffled

The smoke is clear,

and guns are back in the holster

The blood is almost dry

a blackening sheet of red on asphalt

Flags fly, full mast,

and bodies are quietly buried, no wake.

Mothers of scared children

let out a sigh of relief

Shop owners pick up broken glass

and finger bullet holes on their metal gates

Somewhere, a mother has lost their only son

and a bullet tore through a beloved daughter’s eye

Somewhere, a husband is missing

and a livelihood reduced to ash

Somewhere, a woman freezes

at the slight bang of the door

Somewhere, a child wets the bed

and a teen cries themselves to sleep

Somewhere a grandmother prays

a death grip on prayer beads

Everywhere, hearts shatter.

I pray that, soon, mama mboga will call

and the children will play on the street again

Old women will sit on their front yards

and visitors will call again

Boda bodas will honk

and young people will dance on TikTok again

Men will gather on the side of the road

and argue about football again

But until then,

Say the names of those who died

whisper their hopes and silent dreams

Bury them in the middle of town

lest we dare to forget.