Your uncle repeats, “Omwana ggwe, oli bulungi?” awaits your response.
You sit on the bed, alone. Your mother’s eyes, urging. Your response:
—————————————————————————————————“…”

Bedroom walls pass tremors from railways. They peel
the baby blue paint. This is how your ends speak to you.
—————————————————————————————————“…”

A VHS tape plays in a corner. Your mother and father run this
for visitors–convince them you had a voice.
—————————————————————————————————“…”

A 4-year-old’s cries, familiar, echo from the speakers, fade
into backgrounds alongside wrinkled portraits.
—————————————————————————————————“…”

From a tooth mark in your bed frame, a splinter pokes, asks
whether you also know the feeling of scarcely belonging.
—————————————————————————————————“…”

Your mother has wondered at times if you exist somewhere
between realms of seen and unseen. A ghost child.
—————————————————————————————————“…”

Your pillow holds a softcover prayer book, Christ on its back.
Your father wonders whether it’s a question of faith.
—————————————————————————————————“…”

The ghosts may be speaking to you. May be ready to return
their hold on your tongue. You try to ask them. –
—————————————————————————————————“…”

The tape finished a while ago. White noise breaks,
prickled, patchy, then stops.
—————————————————————————————————“…”

Within the silence, –  —“Omwana ggwe. Ogenda. Kugamba. Ki?”
——————–  ——–“Child. What. Is. Your. Response?”

*
From Magma 89, Performance

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