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17 The Internally Displaced They languished in camps like convicted felons For crimes they didn’t commit. Their world, Collapsed like dominoes at a finger’s touch. The forgotten victims of a country gone astray, Dehumanized without mercy, like creatures devoid of emotional feelings. Their today empty, like their yesterday; Their tomorrow, nothing to speak about, Just another harrowing experience of a lifetime. They languish in camps, Praying for Divine intervention While their leaders look on— Cruising in luxuriant cars Carousing in expensive liquor Placating their hunger on nyama choma As though they were the gods Up at the pinnacle of their game Nothing touches them Nothing affects them Not even the plight of the displaced Who suffer the indignity of forced prison life. Depravation is the mother of indignity, a wittier woman might have declared! Perhaps, a politician, pointing theatrically To all men, women, and displaced children Simply admits he, too, is a prisoner of prejudice, which obstructs his conscience’s admittance: Cruelty against man is immoral! So, he turns a deaf ear to their plight 18 Closing his mind’s eye to their suffering Let Lot’s lot rot in prison, he declares! What a sad year for the internally displaced. ...

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