Njeri!

Njeri!

Njeri!

Where are you

my second born child—

where are you?

Where’s the little girl

that was attached to my hip—

the last born for twelve years,

 before my mother, Wanjera,[1]

re-opened the womb?

Where’s the child that came out of the

womb speaking without stammering—

the little girl who wrote stories and

poems before she could spell?

Where’s Waithera’s jewel—

the child whom some said

would become a judge or lawyer,

the girl with petite form

and a lot of brains?

Where is Waithera’s genius?

Where’s my good-hearted daughter—

the woman whose smile made men’s knees weak,

she, whose dowry I’ll never see—

she, who’ll never get to name me?

Where’s the child

that I affectionately called Princess?

Where did she go,

taking with her

the humor,

the compassion and creativity—

gifts so generously bestowed upon her,

then taken away by jealous gods?

Where’s my beloved daughter?

Njeri!

Njeri!

Njeri!

Njeriiiiii!