Do you build from the debris, or do you sweep the ash into an urn and send love away? What do you do with the destruction? — James-Ibe Chinaza
I too would like to understand ruin for the promise it sows.
Why everything that remains, I must hold against the light
to test for the hope that carried it through.
The weather sifted through whatever
it found on its way to ruin. In the year of the landslide,
no bird life was found on our porch. The crop
followed the call of water. In the year of the rainstorm,
the dew still floated on the leaves of all the uprooted trees
like a good thing.
We cleared the debris in daylight and anticipated its return
in the night. I am beginning to count on time now for a kinder memory.
The loosening on Mami’s lips upon seeing everything that managed to endure
and stay—the cement slab on dad’s graveyard, the gravel beneath
the headstone, the light at the centre of her eyeballs. In the year of sun,
we painted the roof a bright-red, broadened out the sills
for the birds. They returned, and rebuilt, and abounded in their
song. No matter how much the weather disrobes, a song
will still find a way to outlive the ruin,
to proffer to us every root that clings onto its trunk,
each layer of soil that refuses to wash away,
as the miracle we have been waiting for.
Footnote: Daddy, I want to know if your hands are veiny like mine. If they are timeless enough to outstretch and clear out a mound of debris.
Naomi Nduta Waweru (Swan XVIII)
Naomi Nduta Waweru (Swan XVIII) writes her poems, short fiction and essays from Nairobi, Kenya. She made the 2023 Kikwetu flash fiction longlist, is an alumni of the Nairobi Writing Academy as well as the Ubwali Masterclass 2024. When she grows up, she wants to be a list of further possibilities. Reach her on
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Photo by Julius Drost on Unsplash