WHO MURDERED MY TRADITION? By Aliyon Mwenda NMK Nobody saw a thing. We never saw him run away. Even after weeks of searching, they never found his finger prints or the weapon that he used But we who were there saw it happen. We know murder was committed that day. Somebody was slaughtered Somebody killed my tradition and they got away with it. Who murdered my tradition? Who executed it all? Who diluted my rich culture so to leave it tasteless? Colorless so that it’s impossible for my young one to tell what color his tradition is. Who murdered my black society? Who is the culprit? What weapon did he use? Did he use a gun so he had to use my own copper bullets and shoot my tradition and make holes through and through it that even standing from one side I can see the other end? Did he use a knife? Rip it into pieces or simply cut it right through the neck that its blood can run out and paint the face of my child blind so as not to see the future? Or maybe he pierced the knife through it and cut it open to let the inside fall down exposed Oh, someone has to tell me. Did he use a rope so as to tie my tradition round the neck and up against the mukuyu tree and let it fall down dead? We who were there can testify to have seen it happen. But no one saw him run away. We never found a trace of wheels of his chariot, so we thought he traveled by water We never saw him dive in and disappear under water, so we reasoned he must have had wings But we didn’t even see his flying machine land on our soil so we guessed he must have travelled by foot We found foot prints of a white man leading up west The culprit is me I have invited a murderer in my home. He has murdered my tradition and disrespected my culture, insulted my black peel and stole my nation’s pride He murdered my tradition and got away with it So, it won’t have to be a ghost story to scare me There are enough ghosts on the street. I see them everyday They are painted in colorfully disgusting things they call make-up They draw lines above their eyes and dress like they are in bed They let me see the inside them on the street while they are coated with layers of painfully smelling perfume so that they scent like overcooked cabbage What’s that smell? It’s a dead body, somebody killed my tradition I am scared. Somebody murdered my tradition!! The young men let their clothing fall down the buttocks. The prison is no longer the building guarded by uniform men with guns. We hung chains all over our necks to imprison ourselves and bounce up and down in tune of unknown music of an alien.
Posted on: Tue, 27 Aug 2013 07:03:23 +0000
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