They declared black the colour of my people,
the Luo and the Taita and every shade within,
including them who chose here over past homes.
Green signified the land and its fertility,
of Marsabit and Muranga and Malindi,
every altitude and region between.

Red was the blood spilled till ’63 in wars
our own and not, every encounter known
and shrouded in silence a declaration
of our right to direct our destiny. White
was the way they hoped we would live
for posterity: in peace, love and unity.

But in the city blood spews as rocks fly
to kill kinship, and police in turn
set young limbs in their sights
every temple hot and righteous
vengeful fists on freedoms fields

and blood spews in the Rift Valley
an artery bearing a jagged rift cut
a century deep, so we fight and die today
to honor the memory though
there are healing-salts at Magadi.

Mourning, and being mourned,
I see the flag and hope aloud now:
white stripes – light this night
bring peace, love, bind us whole.

Let this rich blood build and heal us,
warm and show us how green
Mt Kenya, Turkana, Kibera,
how precious still Ancient Ones see them be.