Two more poems by Shaaban
I've never killed a man before;
a few chickens, yes,
and once a goat at home,
when people danced in the village,
but not a man with eyes just like my own.
And yet it isn't hard.
I just shut out the voice that cracks in fear,
the accent so familiar -
we all speak like that round here.
And then, my panga chopping
like I'm chopping wood
I turn and fill the church with blood.
An expat drives to work
When I am far from here
and under distant skies
I wonder if I'll still recall
what daily meets my eyes:
the dusty road, the scrubby grass,
the goats, a cow or two,
the cloudless sky, and then the sea
a deeper shade of blue.
Read more from Shaaban HERE
Shaaban would love to hear what you think of her poem - email her now
Back to Poetry Competition
TO ENTER THE NEXT POETRY COMPETITION - CLICK HERE