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Don’t cry for me

My tormentors from the West, the mockers in the neighbourhood, my children; the chichi and benevolent ones, ladies and gentlemen. It would be sad to present a formulaic greeting now for even if it is an evening, it is not a good one. So, I won't say good evening.

I won't also say you are welcome because I am sure I didn't invite anyone here. The reasons for your presence here today are well written on your faces; it has always been the same with all of you except for some of my children, who you are also working hard to corrupt. 

Ladies and gentlemen, if it is necessary to introduce myself again, it will be for the same reason that I must be blunt. I am an old strong woman, a mighty mother of warriors from East Africa. I am small yet wide. On 241,551 square kilometres I rest. I am not just a mother. I am so endowed, and that is particularly why some of you are here. When I susu, I create a flood at the end of the northern part of this great ancestor many call black. Some of my children are shoebills, cheetahs and cranes. Today, I sadly also offer some of my own to water their sweat in the Middle East. Yes, I am a proud mother that has endured torment since1894 before which I was an innocent old virgin girl who did not know how to form my lips to say yes or no. That girl whose parents nurtured to receive strangers with gladness; the Biblical Abraham had taught me that some visitors may be angels. I did not know that on that particular day I could receive a dark angel. I am a mother who however bore strong sons that shook off some of the tender deeply driven crawls of the monsters I had welcomed to my home. The long stressful overstayed welcome of 68 years finally ended. My children, Emute, Obore, Amino and others that engineered this, you should be rewarded.

Dear ladies and gentlemen, I am now an old revolving mother. My life is a snail. I reason not as you expect. I am frail. I look into my glasses and weigh the weight I will soon leave behind and feel sad. This is not because I have failed as a parent; I welcomed my own children to take over. I threw away the strangers and danced in the kitchen. I guided them to find a new song for me. They did and as I sat behind the door of the kitchen, I listened; it was sweet. God danced in the song. It was He and I that my children swore by. I lifted my eyes and thanked God. Gladness oozed through the deep valleys of sorrow that strangers had engraved on my heart. I felt gladder. How refreshing!

Oh! Whoever bore my other children I am shocked. They are different! They changed! The song remained but a white elephant. It is a bitter song to listen to; simply tainted with la-di-da. My children have left the course, but they are not alone. Here, among you listeners are the guides to this route of devastation. You simply gave it time and I was a fool to think I would trust my children.

I am now an old woman. The one you have always tried to frustrate the most. My songs of revenge do not do anything to you because you have the cash; which bait, you use to hoodwink my foolish children. You have the infrastructure that they think they will own when I am finally dried up like cassava ready for muteere. The time when they finally confirm that my blood is sticky dry in my tiny veins. They think you will welcome them to your tables of tranquility and dine for a celebration. They don’t know that you have better plans for them; plans to destroy more of their brothers and sisters I will have left behind for them to protect. Foolish children! They can’t even learn from their brothers Gadhafi, Osama, Bashir. Yes, the foolish Galatians of this womb of mine.

To you my tormentors, even when I am frail, I am not dying soon. Yes, you may need to give me a number of centuries. Before my final death, I may die a number of deaths. During this time, I will be dying only noble deaths. Yes, noble deaths! I will die strong; pressed against the wall, dying but fighting back. I will take some of your children. I will frustrate you.

And to my children, I know you are foolish. Typical dupes. But my womanhood is not retired. I am Sarah. I will bring to this house an offspring one day. One that will wash away the tears of my children. You will be cursed and destroyed by the strangers that I sent away and you brought back. You will be taken and used as plastics; recycled a thousand times until no one can recognize you. You will be brought back to my house for rest; should you find a crazy sibling; you may return to the neighbours like a lid of soda; your ghost will beg for where to rest in vain. You who have betrayed your mother.

You, my youngsters, don’t cry for me. In you lies the untapped potential; you will sprout. I will certainly not die before I see you blossom. You will give me back the bones to stand on, the spirit to breathe with; I will live again. We shall watch this house become a living thing again.

Ladies and gentlemen who came to hear me give my last wishes; I am sorry to shame you. These bones are not giving up. The defilement you have done including you, my own children, is not bogging me down. Tomorrow is another day.

Thank you!