A response to a poem by Patricia Schonstein Pinnock, “The unknown child”. Luanda, Angola, 1995.

Did no one cover your nakedness,
small boy, small fallen angel,
bent beneath the heavy wings of war?

when the rain of bombs fell
our hearts jumped. Then the stampede.
We scattered like bees
from a troubled hive

How did she die, your mother?
Was she the one who fell by the roadside,
when the many were fleeing the attack on Huambo?

Was she the one who stood on a landmine in the field,
blown apart and unto the winds,
away from you?

Was she the one the soldiers took away in the night
or did you just lose her in the crush,
when the armies opened fire across Kuito?

my mother died a pig’s death
a beetroot crushed
she moaned, she groaned
lost her breath

my bowels churned
my frail legs failed
I tried to cling to the disfigured thing
to bathe her with my tears

Did no one lift you, hold you up,
unknown boy,
in the rain, in the traffic, in Luanda?

they pulled me, we dodged
we ran like mad dogs
no looking back
amid the frenzied shootings

we ran miles and miles
my feet felt sore
an unseen hand led me
to unknown destinations

left at the mercy of hunger
cholera, malaria, measles and bronchitis
a decade and more later
I’m still on the run

Did no one notice this holy moment
of hunger, of cold,
of the human heart longing for love?

Did no one realise that the mission bells were silent
and that all you wanted
was the smallest of things?

Where are you now, unknown child?
Did you find somewhere to go?