Celebrating East African Writing!
Imagine that this sonnet is a flag,
A pole along its straight left edge, the wind
Creating chaos through its fabric, wind
From countless ethnic homelands. Never flat,
And never calm like Peace, the flag is torn.
These rips become the fences marking plots,
The rows of fences that divide our land.
Our green is scored and shredded: on one hand
Whole Highlands for the rich, while others squat.
Is such partition Unity and Peace?
So this is what we we’ve stooped to: steeped in blood,
We fight between ourselves, and fail to see
Our enemy is inequality:
It’s wealth, not tribe, that threatens brotherhood.