By Shem Onderi
Neighbor, in joy and quarrel, in laughter and grief,
We have endured together — shared abundance and emptiness.
You’ve heard my visitors gossip about others you know well.
Not once, but often, we’ve borrowed cooking oil, lamp gas,
A tin here, a spoon there — small things that filled big gaps.
Our families have taken turns going hungry,
And not once did your kitchen smoke rise
Without me knowing — the sweet aroma disappearing
Like an unspoken comfort. We’ve traded recipes,
Swapped secrets of flavor over fences barely standing.
We’ve passed back and forth the tins of flour,
Just enough to hush the hunger in our children’s bellies.
Grams of sugar to sweeten porridge,
A single needle passed from hand to hand —
Shared like a tailor, our measurements scribbled side by side.
My walls are made of mud, patched with your cows’ dung.
Our chickens trespass each other’s gardens,
Our dogs bark in shifts through the night.
Yours soil my homestead, mine seek shelter in your kennel.
But neighbor, we are growing old.
Our loud habits should quiet now.
Don’t shout my flaws to those who already see them.
Yes — my roof leaks, but I’m saving.
A housing scheme matures soon.
Let’s lower our voices. I see your truths too,
But I won’t let the walls repeat them.
Neighbor, I can’t replace you.
I need you.
Just speak no evil.