18

Out of the village now.
















































18.























It is quiet where they used to swim.














And dream.


















Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!






























The air beats,
Slowly.

































It may be them,




































The 18 sacrifices of freedom.






























What?

























You say Willie Mwaluka calls them criminals?




























Perhaps Willie was waking up from a deep slumber.


































He was at a party, Willie:































Perhaps.




































Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!












































The trees shake,


































And tremble.









































It's them,




































Perhaps.

































The 18.






























Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!




























The Big One says Eleven!





























He was away, perhaps:





































Touring his fish pond.
































Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!






















































The clenched fists:

































He has vowed revenge;
To walk in the streets.
Unarmed,
No bodyguard!


































Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!



























He is day-dreaming;
He bathes with shoes on in the bath tab.
A coward: He fears the soil!







































He carries a carpet in his former school bag.









































To roll it down when planting maize.
And rice.































When harvesting figs in his dreams.








































Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!




















































Salute the 18,
And not the gun sounds.





































The eye-less bullet.













































Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!

































He is counting the damage;
With his swollen eyes.

















































Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!
He is assessing losses,
With his fingers.





































A wave in the air,
It's not the fresh air,
Or part of the fun fare.
















































It's the 18:
Chasing them away in the winds,
At the stroke of his hands.










































Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!



































It is everywhere:

































































The silence.














































































































Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!
Eighteen!