February 25, 2026

by RICHARD PHIRI

I Know My Children

We sit in his room still. The pastor’s word was not

the truth, even though she squeezed my palms in

agreement. I don’t think it’s ever our Lord’s will.

No! Makers don’t break apart, no! They don’t take it

back they don’t undo their will, do they? Sili was a

good child; soulful eyes, 18 years. Only a sigh, not

even half a song yet . Once, her laughing, giggling,

shouting, joyful, voice cracking ringing through

these rooms and now the ringing is gone. Now our

house is quiet. No footsteps waiting to follow. Let’s

lumber back to her room and live. Who else is

present here? What do you mean she’s broken apart

too? By who? Leave us be, we want to stay in her

room. All her earlier siblings left us at sunrise, but

she stayed. Hold it right there. Let me rewind. No, I

didn’t say she was 12 years; Silizitsani was 9 and a

boy. Okay, know this my friend, get your rough

palms like life itself away from mine. Remove your

hot breath and sorrowful whisper from my ear. You

think I know not my fruits’ face and everything

else? Rot or lot, awake or stilled, Sili was 9 years old.

My love, let us move to his room and live.