The Ghost of Jevanjee by Sheila Nyanduaki Okongo Omare (Kenya)

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Second place Poem

The Ghost of Jevanjee by Sheila Nyanduaki Okongo  Omare (Kenya)

You knew he would visit you,

sitting on the concrete bench, alone, pretending to be immersed in an old book

He greets your silence like an old friend

and stays there.

He will bother to describe the trees to you

each one of them

points at the shrubs by your feet and say- choose the one that speaks to you most and I’ll give you its  name.

The sun will burn your back for attention

the ants will pilgrimage up your skin like hungry hands

but you will do nothing about it.

He will tell you this- when the imminent rain comes, don’t run away from it

allow it to wash your shadow clean

until it no longer darkens the ground above you.

And that even there,

in the midst of  love oaths

buried earthworms

hands pressed together in worry

planned sabbaticals

eagles’ droppings

‘I am the bread of life’ sermons

thieves with no faces

memories of sex

great jokes told with closed mouths

smooth stones and potted flowers.

Even there,

you will find two friends:

Wrath, which burns but is sweeter

and Mercy, which suffocates but is lighter.

Choose one,

and it will give you your name.

THINGS THAT WERE LOST IN OUR VAGINAS by Nyachiro Lydia Kasese, (Tanzania)

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THINGS THAT WERE LOST IN OUR VAGINAS by Nyachiro Lydia Kasese, (Tanzania)

Last week I found my seven year old cousin in the nude,

legs wide open in a sitting position and hands prying into her vagina as if searching for something there.

I wanted to ask her mother if maybe her new boyfriend may have dropped a penny there,

may have, lost his keys in the crevices of her vaginal lips so much so that it gave her an itch she had to scratch, gave her an ache whose source she had to find.

I wanted to rush over and close her legs,

wanted to wrap them shut with the kangas my mother covered herself with as she explained how boys were haram.

But there were no words where they should have been.

I wanted to wrap my hands around her body and teach her how to pray to the gods,

but I feared my hands may feel like his on her skin,

I feared that my voice may break in the midst of salah

and she would smell his scent on my body and know that we shared the same demons,

that our scars made the same tracks only mine have been running for over ten years now,

and yet every night since I taught her how to hate the stench of submission,

we kneel with our heads bowed down and still say “inshallah”