Black Lamb Poem by Brian Nyakundi

My town.
The place I have called home since birth.
The place I solemnly destroy
The place they say I betray.
The town am enthusiastically
Decorating...
Painting...
with blood
Of both the guilty and well,
Not so guilty.
None escapes my wrath.

Someone had to do something,
Anything.
I took the riffle
Strapped it in my arms.
For all these years we lived in perpetual fear,
Of the inevitable... clash
I decided to be among the
pioneers, beginners
Of the cleansing of this land, its atrocities.
The only cleanser - blood
Doesn't really matter who's. Someday you will thank me.

Our leaders pretense was
quite abhorring, even disgusting.
'We are one people ' they boldly proclaimed
While the divide was clear.
Factions in utter repulsion
Actions void of conviction.

Independence?
Only by word.
Shackles of poverty engulf
Us.
They dine on our flesh
Their wine, our blood.
Capitalism they label it.
This had to end, one way or another.
I tell you that someday, somehow
You will thank me.

This I do for your child
The one you clutched dearly
As you fled.
This is for the generations to come,
The ones who will clearly understand my revelations,
And vindicate my actions.
Call me all you want
Murderer, philander,
Cruel, scoundrel,
Name it.
But I care less.
Sacrifices had to be made
To avert a looming end.

Am ready to be battered,
Waiting to be martyred
To achieve the aspired.
They call me a rebel,
Refrain from this label.
Soon I will be
The fallen Savior
The prodigal son.
The black Lamb.
The one who was brave enough to do something.