you remember it, the music of your childhood through walls,
walks in Kisumu Ndogo,
same kind of walks you’ve taken all your life,
aware of everything that’s without, aware of night.
a memory in the name of a face comes back,
those years, those days, the cousin,
the drumming, the costumes, the women jumping,
the curious lack of colour.
why has this music come back to me?
why must I remember
this face in the name of a memory?
what can be called innocence, going back,
if it has no slight trace of a primary colour?
or a false crystal ball?