Chidimma Ewelukwa
The Questions Children Ask
Our teacher says
every story
should begin
with hope.
I keep wondering
if hope still remembers
the road to our street.
The swing
in the playground
moves only
when the wind comes
looking for children.
My little brother
still asks
whether schools
can grow back
the way trees do
after the rain.
The grown-ups
keep talking
about borders,
victory and history.
Their voices
are so loud
they never hear
the questions children ask.
My friend
used to race me
to the corner shop.
Now,
his football
waits alone
beside a broken wall,
still expecting his feet.
Every night,
my mother counts us
before she sleeps.
Every morning,
she counts us again.
No child should learn
to tell the difference
between thunder
and falling shells.
No mother
should have to
kiss a forehead
as though
it might be
the last time.
The world says
we are tomorrow.
Then let tomorrow
grow old enough
to walk home
without fear.
Leave the iron
to bridges.
Let mornings
begin again
with birds arriving
before sirens.
