Freedom

Amaiweee!  Amaiweee!

Women and children weep,

Sitting on the dry, baked earth of the land that was once theirs.

Someone has died.

Their eyes red-rimmed, the men sit solemnly on stumps of trees and look on.

They can’t afford the beer that used to be a man’s traditional mask of grief.

They are mourning Freedom for the second time.

The first time she died, she was gone for aeons.

She languished in prison.

Her name was poison to anyone who spoke of her,

As the colonial masters corralled her people onto small prison plots like the cattle they kept.

When the land had soaked up enough blood,

The spirits of her ancestors released her.

Freedom was free.

How the people sang and laughed and celebrated with Bob Marley.

Our Dear Leader was born that day in 1980.

He was more cunning than the colonial master.

He dressed up Freedom in finery that blinded people to his wickedness.

Soon, Freedom was his.

She could walk among the people

But only if they didn't criticize Our Dear Leader.

She no longer smiled or looked at ease.

When the people asked what ailed her, she could not speak.

Freedom had become a slave.

Soon the people could not see her except when Our Dear Leader exhibited her.

Only he and his deserved to be graced by her presence.

Thirty-three years passed with less and less glimpse of Freedom.

Her name could not be spoken, except in darkness amongst trusted friends.

Hope for Freedom was fading.

She was ill and isolated with only a few people brave enough to fight for her.

Friends from far and near pleaded with Our Dear Leader on her behalf to no avail.

The end came when all the people of the land pleaded for Freedom.

For three days they waited for news about her,

Praying and hoping that she was alive.

Our Dear Leader gave them an empty coffin.

The one in which Freedom was to be buried.

An eerie silence now engulfs the whole country.

The women and children have exhausted their tears.

No one has seen Freedom, dead or alive.

A voice whispers from that subconscious place between life and death.

“Chinyarara, mwana wangu.  Usacheme ini ndiripo.  Calm yourself my child.  Don't cry, I am right here.”

Freedom is not dead.  We will meet again.