Patricia Jabbeh Wesley
AFTER THE FIRST WAR:
NA DE EERSTE OORLOG:
Voor de oorlogsdoden
Tijdens het eerste staakt-het-vuren kwamen we soms
een pluk van iemands haar tegen,
of een lang heupbot,
soms in onze tuinbezem,
verlaten toen we vluchtten,
verlaten in onze haast om
onszelf te redden van de bombardementen,
van de dood, van de massamoorden van Samuel Doe.
Maar toen we thuiskwamen van de massamoorden
van Charles Taylor, achtervolgden de geesten
van dode lichamen ons ’s nachts,
soms stonden ze daar, bij een straathoek
in onze nachtmerries,
zoekend naar antwoorden, waarom we ze lieten
sterven, ze lieten vermoorden, rebellen hun hoofden eraf lieten hakken
in plaats van hun ledematen.
Op een dag, op weg naar Monrovia, op zoek
naar het leven dat we verloren hadden,
naar voedsel, op zoek
naar visa om die ellendige plek te ontvluchten,
naar onze zielen die verloren gingen in de herinnering
aan vele bloedbaden,
liepen mijn man en ik door de spookstraten van Sinkor,
daar was het, langs een struikachtige
straatkant, een lang bot, wat resten
van een gebroken schedel, en ik verstijfde, kijkend,
alsof ik niet al te veel verloren ledematen had gezien,
verloren stukken van een volk,
die de afgeslachtenen vergaten mee te nemen toen ze stierven,
en mijn man greep mijn arm,
sloeg zijn arm om me heen,
en trok me mee in zijn kalmte,
en we liepen verder
alsof die botten niet van ons waren
niet aan ons volk toebehoorden.
Soms vraag ik me af of sommige botten
en haren, en verloren stukken van mensen
niet de familie waren die we nog steeds
dromen op een dag weer te zien.
Misschien zijn dat degenen die we 's nachts
ontmoeten, en die ons vragen waarom degenen die hen
in stukken sneden nog steeds over ons bloedige land regeren,
daar 's nachts staan,
wanneer de maan verborgen is in de donkere
nacht, wanneer de maan verborgen is
in het donker van de nacht.
AFTER THE FIRST WAR:
For the war dead
In the first ceasefire, we used to come upon
a bundle of someone’s hair,
a long hip bone here,
sometimes in our backyard brush,
abandoned when we fled,
abandoned in our rush to save
ourselves from the bombings,
from death, from the massacres of Samuel Doe.
But coming home from the massacres
of Charles Taylor, the ghosts
of dead Bodies haunted us at night,
sometimes, they stood there, near a street
corner in our nightmares,
needing answers, why we let them
die, let them be killed, let rebels slash their
heads off instead of their limbs.
One day, on our way to Monrovia in search
of the life we had lost,
in search of food, in search
of visas to flee that miserable place, in search
of our souls being lost in the memory
of many massacres,
my husband and I, walking the ghost
streets of Sinkor, there it was, along a bushy
street side, a long bone, some remnants
of a broken skull, and I froze, looking,
as if I had not already seen
too many lost limbs, lost pieces of a people,
the massacred forgot to take along when they died,
and my husband would grab my arm,
put his arm around me,
and draw me away into his calm,
and we kept on walking
as if those bones did not belong to us
did not belong to our people.
Sometimes, I wonder if some of the bones
and hair, and lost pieces of people
were not the family we still dream
of seeing someday.
Maybe, those are the ones we meet
at night, asking us why those that cut
them up still reign over our bloody land,
standing there at night,
when the moon is hidden in the dark
night, when the moon is hidden
in the dark of the night.
Publisher: Cutthroat Magazine,
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AFTER THE FIRST WAR:
For the war dead
In the first ceasefire, we used to come upon
a bundle of someone’s hair,
a long hip bone here,
sometimes in our backyard brush,
abandoned when we fled,
abandoned in our rush to save
ourselves from the bombings,
from death, from the massacres of Samuel Doe.
But coming home from the massacres
of Charles Taylor, the ghosts
of dead Bodies haunted us at night,
sometimes, they stood there, near a street
corner in our nightmares,
needing answers, why we let them
die, let them be killed, let rebels slash their
heads off instead of their limbs.
One day, on our way to Monrovia in search
of the life we had lost,
in search of food, in search
of visas to flee that miserable place, in search
of our souls being lost in the memory
of many massacres,
my husband and I, walking the ghost
streets of Sinkor, there it was, along a bushy
street side, a long bone, some remnants
of a broken skull, and I froze, looking,
as if I had not already seen
too many lost limbs, lost pieces of a people,
the massacred forgot to take along when they died,
and my husband would grab my arm,
put his arm around me,
and draw me away into his calm,
and we kept on walking
as if those bones did not belong to us
did not belong to our people.
Sometimes, I wonder if some of the bones
and hair, and lost pieces of people
were not the family we still dream
of seeing someday.
Maybe, those are the ones we meet
at night, asking us why those that cut
them up still reign over our bloody land,
standing there at night,
when the moon is hidden in the dark
night, when the moon is hidden
in the dark of the night.
AFTER THE FIRST WAR:
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