Adama Weeps

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Adama sits, her face wet with tears; 

calls, but who will listen? 

Her cry rises upon the wind, 

only to fall against closed ears. 

Once she wore forests as a crown, 

Eminazi whispering through the branches, 

roots reaching deep into the memory of the land, 

water singing beneath her skin. 

Children walked gently upon her body, 

reading the language of birds and seasons, 

trusting the rhythm of rain and soil, 

held within the quiet promise of life. 

Now her hills stand bare, 

her rivers grow silent, 

her veins run dry. 

The springs remember, yet they no longer flow. 

Still, Adama waits. 

She waits for hands that remember, 

for hearts that return, 

for communities willing to walk gently once more. 

She waits for those who will hear her weeping 

not as the end of the story, 

but as a summons: 

to remember, to lament, to restore. 

For hope begins in remembrance, 

and healing begins when memory 

becomes responsibility. 

Then forests shall rise again, 

water shall find its ancient paths, 

and the songs of birds will return to the hills. 

Adama waits for that day— 

the day when memory becomes care, 

care becomes justice, 

and justice becomes life renewed. 

(Brighton Katabaro, 2025

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