BIRD KNOWS
At the arse end of the world, after many days' travel and sweaty journeys on foot, you finally arrive at the Mandara Mountains, where all life is so humble and arduous that it has no meaning or worthy of mention. Whether a grain of sand is carried away from its family by the wind, an ant falls from a stone and breaks its neck, or a child is born, it goes unnoticed. Everything happens in complete insignificance.
The night is illuminated. Black swaths with a fiery fringe drift toward the sky, obscuring the stars. "My children! The goats!". The cries of pain go unheard among thorns and bare rocks.
But the bird is there and saw everything. Bird knows.
Mandara Mountains, 2022
DESERT ROSE
She had left early to avoid the heat of noon. When she stopped on a hill to drink, she looked over a small plain. The sun had scorched the grass and the naked granite rocks looked like huge marbles a child had forgotten after playing. In the middle of the barren landscape stood a primaeval-looking plant, with bright pink flowers, so strangely beautiful that for a short moment the idea came to her that the plant had been mistaken about its location.
Mandara Mountains, 2020
THE TEMPTATION OF FATHER A.
Next, Elizabeth stepped up to the altar. Father A.’s hand trembled as he reached for the host. He looked up to Charles Lwanga, who was truly tried and tested in all kinds of tribulations. But over Charles the heavens seemed to open and Father A. remained alone with the others who cried for help in the fire.
Malindi, 2021
WHEN THE RAIN DOESN’T COME
Dried seeds hang motionless from emaciated trees. Searing air, too thin to breathe, chewing on dust. The moonlight poisons the night. Spectral shadows wander through the house. Faraway rumbling. But when will the first drops burst in the dust?
The tribulation dwells beyond the dry river bed. On furry wings it flutters silently over arid, boiling sand. My storm lantern flickers anxiously in the gloom. Groping its way towards me, the approaching guest is thankful for my beacon.
Quivering light behind the mountains. Nightly, the flickering penetrates the cracks and crevices of the house, without fulfilling the promise. Finally, the heavy clouds retreat behind the horizon.
The bronze chain clashes and groans to the rhythm of his incessant scratching. Outside the window he squanders youth and strength. The coughing and barking disperses among thorns and brambles.
Towards midnight a balmy breeze is rising. Dry grass sways gently in the wind.
It rains! The heavenly gift erupts over the plain. Old blood, faeces, and tears are swept away. The uproar is followed by a whispering, dripping, cozy silence. The earth exhales the scent of pure happiness. A sea of glittering precious stones shines in the moonlight. On the rock before my window, the dog sinks into blissful dreams, twitching his paws.
Godigong, 2018
MIDA CREEK
When he had enough of the people and their never-ending progress, he escaped here. It seemed to him as armies of dark giants marched on long stilt-shaped legs towards the sea. He wanted to join them, but reluctantly they gave in to his urge and finally opened a gap in their closed ranks. Carefully he entered, and shrouded in shadow, he followed the endlessly winding channels of salt water.
Here, he was alone with the rippling of the returning tide, the smacking sounds of the opening oysters, the clicking of the crabs' scissors, the buzzing, chirping and fluting of insects, birds and monkeys.
At night he was surrounded by twinkling fireflies, which seemed to lose themselves among the stars.
Watamu, 2020
DEMONS OF THE NIGHT
Plagued by remorse, he sought her heavy, sweet scent after prayer. But as he quietly walked through the mango canopy and suddenly caught a whiff of cinnamon and jasmine, he clung to his prayer chain.
Gede, 2020
OUMARA
The strong boys looked proud and bold as they rode on horses along the sandy road, without a saddle. The hooves of the wild animals kicked up sand and dust, dancing in the late afternoon sun. Suddenly, I heard my name. He stood there with his bicycle, in front of the house. I ran and shouted, "I'm coming, Oumara, wait for me!“
Godigong, 2020
UNDER THE MANGO TREE
Below the house he had a small garden, a stone's throw away from the stream, fenced in with thorny bushes and a rusty gate. The stream was now dry, but if you dug a foot deep hole, water seeped in and it was enough to water the flowers, vegetables and fruits. With a ladle bowl and a clay jug he went down to the water hole. A pretty dress lay in the sun to dry. When he scooped the water he heard a soft giggle. He looked up and let the bowl sink at the sight of her.
Soulédé, 2019
KAROLINA
He had tried to follow her secretly. But when he stepped out of the beach bar, she turned to look at him over the edge of her sunglasses and smiled. His stomach contracted. She said something in a language he didn't understand. He wanted to approach her, but feared her beauty and the monkey. Then, she picked up her beach clothes and returned to the bar without looking back again. Something broke inside him.
Malindi, 2017
MAMA ON THE BATTLEFIELD
He was old enough now for his mother to tell him about the war. She washed the dishes and he dried them.
She told of the day's low-flying fighters and the bombers that threw „Christmas trees“ high up at night to stake the area of total destruction before the incendiary bombs descended on the city and sparked a firestorm. She told of her grandfather, who because of unbearable joint pain was wrapped in cotton wool. With a needle in his hand, he had to hold out beside her cot and watch out that she would not stop breathing when the sirens howled.
And she told him about the countless lives lost on the battlefield, and if not lives, so at least innocence. She leaned on the edge of the sink and paused.
"They said that when soldiers die in battle, they call for their mother."
Zuffenhausen, 2018