JC Niala

            You were the odd amongst the keets.

            The one, who would as I nursed Okelo

            fall off the earthenware pot-turned-perch

            by the confusion of black and white spotted siblings

            on my mother’s veranda.

            And I did not name you.

            It was enough that you would not be eaten

            by my family at least

            but learn to forage and

            like a seamstress

            pick out dudus,

            from the fabric of soul underneath

            the bombax and bottlebrush trees.

            The overhanging roof

            descended to cocoon us,

            Okelo at my breast, born

            on the same morning

            you all hatched.

            You who would not be contained.

            Your bright chirps would unveil

            my mornings when still wrecked

            by broken sleep I would slip along,

            slowly to the outside

            and listen to the sound of Okelo’s suckles

            amidst your birdsong

            she would later mimic and sing,

            as she toddled

            on the silken sandpit near

            where I lunched,

            while she snoozed.

            The day you were taken

            Your mother, would have

            I am sure,

            uttered the same warning as

            when she pecked you

            back into line.

            Stay close.

            Do not go into the open green space.

            but you strayed

            and into the talons of Kite

            so swift

            you, your mother or I

            were caught on a breath

            and did not cry out.

            We watched you

            reduced to a cluster of feathers,

            picked clean.

            The mobile’s shadow

            hovered over Okelo’s cot.

            Okelo stirred,

            I leapt for her.