I am forgetting Auma from Uyoma.
I forget the small scar above her eyebrow,
the way she held my wrist when crossing a busy road,
how we shared roasted maize beside the lake
and argued about which clouds looked like animals.
I forget the green kitenge she wore on Sundays,
the blue bead she kept beneath her blouse,
the way she wiped mango juice from my mouth
with the corner of her dress.

I am forgetting Kenya in pieces.
The smell of rain after drought,
hot chapati folded inside newspaper,
the first matatu hooting in the morning,
its windows crowded with faces.
I forget the taste of tea when my mother
put too much milk in it,
the damp collar of my shirt after walking home,
the mosquito that got me slapping my nose
in the middle of the night.

I am forgetting my boiling anger at the dinner table.
The clinic where father died unattended.
The day mother plucked a strand of another
woman’s hair from behind my ears.
I forget the landlord’s fist against our door,
the smell of paraffin when the stove misbehaved,
the taste of blood after a fight behind the kiosk.
I no longer remember who I was angry with.

Yesterday, a neighbor asked where I’m from.
I said Kenya. I told him about Uyoma, about Auma,
about the lake opening its blue mouth at dusk.
He asked what the lake smells like.
I opened my mouth.
For a moment, I could almost taste the water.
Then it was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by cnrdmroglu from Pexels