Dust

by Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor

“You will hear the voice of my memories stronger than the voice of my death—that is, if death ever had a voice.” —JUAN RULFO, Pedro Páramo

HERE. SHE COULD PAINT THIS; HOLD THE BRUSH AS A STABBING knife. There. Coloring in landscapes of loss. She could draw this for him, this longing to hear his particular voice, listening for echoes of bloodied footsteps, borrowing dead eyes to help her find him again. Here. Jagged precipices of wounding, and over cliffs, an immense waterfall of yearning, falling and falling into nothingness.

As with so many men of Kenya from his time, his manner is genteel English colonial stranded in time’s paradoxes.

They also hear the sudden and explosive rhythms of a country shooting its people and tearing out its own heart.