by Benson Amollo
Hands create a distance
Not just when they tremble before the shake
For between the shoelaces and his firm hands askance
Then pounding knocks at the door
Something was wrong
Seventeen spits from a merciless revolver to my count
Gone, so gone was a man I had known
They killed him
A fine man, a nice man, a kind man
My mother’s man
And as they left taking nothing from him
For nothing to take he had
In a pool of red ooze, lay hands once firm
A back once strong, eyes once steely
The orphanage would soon set in
In that place of loneliness where needs outstrip means
Where breadwinners are missing
Where sore limbs go unattended
Where the women’s sorority has no celebrity
The children seek answers
But where was the world…?
How come the loud knocks were silent?
Why did they kill my father whose place no other?
And how many more must they kill?
Just a matter of time before it can reveal
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Benson Amollo is an Kenyan journalist and poet.