Dust

by Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor

You can’t live the songs of people who don’t know your name.”

She listened. It did not occur to either of them that she, too, might speak.

The Kenya National Library Services Camel caravan pitching camp for the night.

He understood that as long as there was enough to move the day, beyond a grumble, people really didn’t care to know why their lives had become harder. They prayed. They organized themselves into cooperatives. They prayed.

She asked, Are you cruel? He answered, Would I know if I were?

“Words are so small. They cannot show the womb of my heart.”

“Akai-ma, how does madness come? Can it arrive with the sound of wailing? It’s inside.” She stops. “It cries. Like a baby.”