Where is your God?

He asked me only one question. Eyebrows furrowed over sunken eyes which ran deep into his soul, his skin was spread to thinly, like the last of scrapings butter on bread. He had an inch long deep wound to his elbow; someone had sprung him on the way home last night with a dirty panga. his makeshift bandage of old washing cloth and matooke leaves slipped and slid this way and that as he walked, revealing once scarlett blood caked and cracking and turning a putrid toprical yellow. But now he stood still, upright, unbowed. He asked me again, gently but with a gale wind force. not of resentment or anger, but with a curiousity which would have been beautiful if it were from the lips of a child. but he had lived and his life soaked his question with only dark colours.

you people you talk of freedom. you talk of hope. and you talk of god. but you are liars. where is your god here? your leaders talk of humanity together and good and evil and triumphing over darkness and terror. but here i tell you there is nothing. our world is as big as the ocean i have never seen but as small as the ground i till everyday. there is nothing for me but this red earth. and where here is your god?

does he wait until we have enough food? or enough money to build with cement and iron? or maybe until we can go swimming in pools with fanta? tell sir, where do you find him - i hear you have supermarkets and cars. do you find him there? or is it just in your cold churches and libraries? maybe you tell me i am hard headed and stubborn with bad manners. and you are right - i am hot headed sometimes. but in this life there is hope or no hope and with no hope we are just like the sugar canes growing today and spat out tomorrow. please ask yourselves can this god you preach really give you enough hope here where we are forgotten.