Joyce_ A tribute


I was busy chasing after this beautiful girl I had just met when we were woken up by screams from Kamau’s homestead. We did not switch on the lights first as we were not sure if they would come to our house next. The next sound I heard was of someone breaking the front door glass window and we knew that it was now our turn. My father took me and Joyce my sister to the guest bedroom and told us to stay inside, no matter what we had.

In the sitting room I could clearly hear people arguing in loud voices, with Kamau being told to beat my father with the whip they had given him. “If you do not, then I will whip your mother before your eyes…” The date was January 1st 2008, and I can never forget the events of this fateful day. I could not stand it any more. I felt like I should go and take that whip out of Kamau’s hand and personally whip every single person that was there.

I looked at tears rolling down my seven year old little sister’s eyes, as she asked, “Is Daddy going to die?” “No,” I told her, wishing that I would even come close to believing what I was saying myself.

The door swung open and we saw a young man probably in his early or late twenties standing over us with an AK47. He motioned to us to get out and head to where they were holding my father. This was not just any nightmare; I could recognize at least three of the seven thugs that had just attacked us. Their leader said, “You have been in power too long, and now it is our turn. When you came here, you took our land from us and now your field is getting more produce because you have bewitched our farms. You will pay for all that you have done to us.” My father had a gun pointed to his head. The guy holding it looked like he could just fire it at any moment even without provocation. I saw in his eyes that he was probably high on something illegal. The man went on and on to blame my father for the fact that other people from my community had come into the neighborhood and were now proprietors of thriving businesses.

He tried to drive some sense into them, but they were not having any word of it. Then one of them said, “Boss, I like this one, can I keep it?” holding Joyce up in the air by her dress. I saw the tears flowing my sister’s cheeks and I stood to head towards her to rescue her, and the last thing I remember was a huge slap on my face.

I am looking at the Obituaries Section as I write this, looking at the picture of my father and the article says, “…he is survived by a son James and a daughter Joyce…” I cannot stop the tears from rolling down. I have no idea when I will see her face in the paper. I heard that they raped a number of women in their rampage and killed some women. What had they done to my sister?

Did she survive? I do not know, I wish I could find her. She is probably in a corner crying herself to sleep because she has nobody to sing her ‘Rock a by Baby’ like I always did. I could not let her sleep in my arms as she watched her favorite cartoon Tom and Jerry. I could feel her losing her strength as she felt filthy hands on her. I had n idea what to do. I wanted to strangle someone. Maybe I should go and whip the stupid politicians who argued about the election results.

Its four years later, and I am still waiting for Joyce. Joyce, if you are reading this, this is for you.

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