The guffaws and satirical chuckles of justice

Celebration and jubilance, both from home, and those away from home. The owners of the house and the Am-Haretz, the poor of the land, all out there singing in joy, some genuine, some, well, you see them screaming with their mouth but not their voices. Some people stood out, the outsiders, they were literally weeping louder than the bereaved. The streets for a day or two were/are coloured in red, green, black and white, the colours of our flag. The masks of smiles were put on lest people don’t see you out shouting along with them, dancing to the tune of victory. We dance alongside ‘brothers’, happy that the merchants of death have finally been able to barter their product, the trade is complete. We lay down red carpets over the skulls and bones flattened by our dancing bare heels and irrigate the flowers on its side with the red blood of the victims ready to welcome the man, the new king of the courts, his honourable the man who got away with murder, oops, the man who used a condom when raping the nation so the traces of semen were never seen on the country’s labia. Dance my people, dance, sing songs of joy because none of your children is rotting in the graves. Shout and scream in joy because your parents are in your house preparing ugali for your supper. Why should you grieve when justice misses its mark? It was your man in court so you go singing your God is alive. He is, has always been and believe me, that man upstairs never misses, never forgets. Let the giant raincoats of mistrials shelter you from the rains temporarily but soon, soon, when the storms hit harder... I am happy too, I am happy for Kenya and the man bigger than it. This country is sick. Tumours of malignant narcissism are sprouting up everywhere and spreading the cancer of everyone for himself and God for him too in many homesteads. To less important stories now;

Well, somewhere in the white turned grey tent, water is leaking upon a sickly seventeen year old mother, suckling a malnourished child that might never see the light of the next morning, a child who is a queen of her mother’s nightmares, a memory of the pain of gang rape and fistula, the labour pains and now, the loss of her last hope. Justice, what she hoped for will never be tangible, just like the smoke that burnt their huts and cows to ashes. It is time for her to now gulp hard then move on with life, it has never been fair, it will never be. Justice in the meanwhile sits in the trees like a Nigerian movie devil, laughing guffawing, chuckling, mocking and spitting at the same time. It is there, always been there but it has to be earned either by money or blood, this time blood and prejudice won the bet. It doesn’t matter to her anymore. Let the drummers drum, let the singers sing and let the cymbals crash into each other. She will dance whichever way the puppeteers move her. She shall sit down when they sit and wallow in their misery. Sing though people, sing and dance. The thief is free and when he has stolen everything from your enemies, he shall walk in and take all that you call yours.