this is not how we die.
on a diet of unknowns: ketepa and the smell of acrylics/ we dance to lyrics/ we have never known– childhoods activated like we once spoke lingala (but we perhaps did, or not)– [fated to the uncertainty of living– as though we were dead]
and we have learnt to bury each other with dry eyes; we have cried all the tears/ for people we didn’t know (but mostly for ourselves)
usha’ahi enda funeral ya artist ukaanza kuimagine n’ani next?
“no one acknowledges me”, said between puffs and sips/ perhaps a deeper yearning for meaning/but we get into this nothingness– a nothingness that will never know us by name/ a blankness that stares back at us/ mourning before we are dead.
this is how we die.
