When the bandits left Sambisa,
they left a sign for us to remember
that they were here longer than
we had thought. Even in Eden,
it is difficult to forget that the jacket
my little brother was obsessed with,
was the sign left for our kingdom.
In this poem, I am invisible to the eyes
because something tells me they aren’t gone
really. In the old world, I imagined
severally, how city should be a name for havens
and a country to be heaven for God.
I hope this poem too isn’t an imagination,
a sequel to what was written
about a burning home of a people _
a lover of God and holy writings
whose faith were made of straws and rafters
something too weak to walk ethnicity away.