Beneath Sugarloaf no sugarcane grow.
I would be harvesting a boom.
I would be producing sugar for every home.
But I am neither harvesting
Nor producing into sugar the harvested.
I am harvesting tears.
Tears whose weight surpass the strength of flood.
The volume of which the deepest well cannot contain.
Tears of Mothers, fathers, husbands, wives
Grandmothers and grandfathers.
Tears of death and loss.
Tears of pain and horror.
The people have died.
My mother’s house is lost.
Where my father pitched his tent.
I cannot locate anywhere.
The cars are broken and swallowed.
The farms are covered.
With mud and the crops buried alive.
The hospitals, the schools all gone.
The sky has frowned at us.
The stars failed to bright.
And darkness has surrounded us.
The dew has fallen on dead plants.
And the morning sun rose to our mourning.
We are not fighting each other in a civil war.
We have not been attacked by terrorists.
No missile has been released
By the strong and mighty
Against our people.
Ebola has not visited yet again.
But the wrath of mud and flood.
It has done us evil without mercy.
Many have died than could be imagined.
I weep greatly.
I have tears no more.
My throat is dry.
My voice is broken.
It cannot reach far.
My head is aching.
It has no space to comprehend.
My heart is heavy and bitter.
My feet cannot stand on its own.
My pride and strength has left me.
From the south, north, east and west.
Call me the strong and able.
Come from the hinterland
The mainland and the Island.
For the sake of the bereaved land.
Bring with you a new hope.
That my children will have faith in our dream again.
That they will boast again of tomorrow.

©Daniel Oberko 2017

image from: https://storybird.com