By Amos Wisley
The shocking news of a virus, a flu then the name!
“Corona” and “covid-19” the name so scary as flame,
The virus silently spread as man touch and rush to blame,
In news, world economies come crushing sick and lame,
Airspaces and cities closed in lock-down fear and dilemma,
In slums the sound of cry, the alarming cry of little children,
Cry of hunger, bitterness and boredom in the lock-down.
The little ones full of feces from shortage of diapers,
No open markets, all depend on charity and no schools,
Schools ones a source of knowledge now a source of worry
Older ones smelly as taps run dry, water services halted.
Then there; death, spine chilling and countless mourning.
As from stories of old, the great flu and Spanish flu,
We are the unfortunate generation for the pandemic.
Where from should I cry, who to should I go?
Down lock-up in a lock-down, as the greedy roam,
Hunger, the virus, death, worry and still looted from.
En-slaved by greed and creed our politicians die,
They die as they spread the virus in mass rallies.
Awakened by their paranoia religious exorcists harvest,
The harvest is big, money for prayer grow in fame.
Business men get their chance, for riches lie in disaster,
Their bait, face masks and sanitizers make a gold rush.
Look, almost to expire goods are no more disposed,
Co-operations dominate give aways, thanks to charity.
The virus weaponized, opponents in lock-down as others roam.
A time to loot as the public is busy counting the dead,
The relief supplies and funds find pockets to fill too.
I weep, weep for those unable to live and unable to die,
Everyday every morning they mourn in slum emptiness,
‘What! Again, am alive’, still breathing, still living in despair,
Nightfall they pray for peace but deep down they hope to die,
Soon the morning comes creeping through the twilight,
A long day to endure before the night comes again,
The daylight throws in its mighty horrifying news,
The night of worry and whirling wild thoughts is no better,
But replaced by anxiety of seeing where you cant go,
I am stuck in lock-down but the mental lock-down hurts more!
I cry, my brain hurts in thoughts no jobs and no business.
I hear concubines cry too, broke and “lousy” as housewives,
Prostitutes barred from their mischief and their business banned,
Keep distance no assembly, no dating and so too are weddings.
The “invisible enemy” poisons each from within,
But the slum society survival is poisoned from without.
Should I mourn for you, you who die chocked alone,
Choked by your very breadth and blood in quarantine?
Should I mourn for you, you who got buried at night,
You without a “funeral” rubbed by only “the sorry”?
Sent-off without respect and honor to our rituals,
The old buried like boys and infants, no more class.
Or should I mourn for you, you the unfortunate,
You saved from death but got up with the rage of hunger?
No work no shopping and no meal to “servants of hunger”.
For all men are servants of hunger before they dine.
I pity you; you the lone survivor, the dead know no pain,
You with nothing to live for and no one to die for.
I write for fun mostly in local language for informal occasions. The pandemic has deeply affected me personally and I have actively participated in assisting the affected.
This poem is written by Amos Wisley also known as The Owl by friends for the unfortunate generation affected by Covid-19. The poem was written from Paradise village of the Mukuru slums of Nairobi Kenya to show the point of view of my fellow slum dwellers and how we have been affected. I am not a famous poet I am just a young community or village elder in the slum. I do write things for fun as a way of avoiding idling and drug abuse which is destroying many in this slum.