A poem by Peter Kidi.
I. A Cry for Bread
We marched with empty stomachs,
our shadows thinner than our hope,
our feet carving pleas into the dust,
But the wind swallowed our voices whole.
We asked for bread,
but the air turned to smoke,
and the sky rained bullets instead.
Tell me, who knew hunger was a crime?
II. A Thirst Unquenched
Our lips, cracked like the earth beneath,
whispered prayers to a silent God.
Water—just a drop—
yet the well of mercy had run dry.
Ten liters, they say.
For a child, a mother, a father, a dream.
How do you break a fast with dust?
How do you quench a soul with empty hands
III. The Cost of Dignity
We held nothing but our voices,
yet they saw weapons in our words.
They silenced us with fire and gas,
turning protest into a funeral march.
Tell me, when did dignity become treason?
When did asking for life deserve death?
Are we not bones and blood like you?
Or do refugees not bleed red enough?
IV. A Grave Called Refuge
They called this place a safe haven,
but safety does not taste like sorrow.
Protection does not wear boots,
and justice does not pull the trigger.
Now, some of us sleep beneath the soil,
cradled by the very dust we walked upon.
They sought shelter, found silence.
They asked for life, found death.
V. Where is Humanity?
Tell me, world, do you see us now?
Do you hear the echoes of our last breaths?
Or must we die a thousand times
before you whisper our names?
Refuge is not a grave.
A child’s hunger is not war.
A mother’s tears are not a crime.
But silence—oh, silence is.
All artwork by Victor Ndula.
This poem is part of the collection by the author contained in the Kakuma Booklet available to read online.
The project was funded by CPAID ref no ES/W00786X/1