La Niña | Gathondu Mwangi
Brown rice. Yellow lentils.
Black scar burned into each.
Small bowl. A little water.
No salt.
This could be a meal for a bird
Grandma’s last dinner.
The last time I called Cũcũ
she said “thank you
for thinking about me,”
her voice strong as a sparrow’s.
Shame, sorrow, anger folded into the cracks of our silences.
I too have known aloneness.
Like an aloe I have lived on drops
of affection.
Nights I have listened to the quiet
gargle of a water cooler
quench its own thirst.
Months I have sung in response
to a chorus of bloated mosquitoes.
December and the rains arrive
out of time, inundate my dreams
nests waterlog, drop like plops
from yellow fever trees.
I found my Grandma fallen
on the floor of the house where she lived.
The coroner said bronchopneumonia
her right lung a leaf folded into itself.
We waited so long
for a change of season
for a little girl to leave
this is what the late rain brings.
About the Author:
Gathondu Mwangi is a Geographer and writer. Born and raised in Kenya, he travels occasionally to the US where he is undertaking his graduate studies. His work has previously appeared in World Literature Today, Worcester Review, The Fourth River and Kwani.