To The Memory of Ernest Muiru, age 25
Death removes us from one plane, sets us at another place, death communicates suddenly, not subtle at all, a finality of a reaper, bent on plucking a life, whichever way, One dies, one assumes rest, but raises more questions, all the answers may be solved, some vaguely, others fully, Perhaps you were asking, to be helped, may be you said your house, was going, you could not afford rent, you imagined how you could survive, you went to UNHCR for help, perhaps they said: "wait my dear we shall work on your case," it could be you tested acceptance, you could have asked to be allowed, to sit down so that you rest, you could have touched your stomach, most likely out of the desire to assuage, the pangs of hunger, you may have smiled, your beaming face being mistaken for a well off person, you went back to UNHCR several times, you believed in knocking on doors, perhaps they said: "wait my dear we shall work on your case," Now all we...
