Muraho, new neighbour! ("Muraho” means “Hello” in Kinyarwanda)

 
As she pours out the tea, her hands shake with the strain,
Dreams of her parents, her head filled with pain
A half-smile on her face as we eat and we drink,
But she never sleeps well and she struggles to think
Pills from the doctor, who treats her for shock
Perhaps, “best to keep secrets and never to talk”
I ask, “What happened?” And, “What was it like?”
“I went to the films, had a job, rode a bike.”
Once again I ask, and she sighs in distress,
Asks me, “Are you from the Police or maybe the Press?”
The Council sofa is smelly and rotten with mould
Like the tales in her head that will never get told
“We are friends”, she says, but remains so afraid,
 “If you never trust anyone, then you can’t be betrayed”
Yet her faith is strong, and over the fireplace, day and night,
Stands the Virgin Mary, who travelled in her bag on the flight
In a tea caddy, some string, buttons, and a lace
She hoards things, just in case….

Once, out in the street, she had a drink poured over her head,
By a thug who called her a “Paki”, and wished that she were dead
But most people like her company and her food
Few are the fools who turn away or are rude
To keep Rwandan culture alive, her Club sing, talk, and weep,
Some memories are worth trying to keep
“The high hills, colourful clothes, banana beer,
The music, the songs, nights filled with cheer.”
Chatting to her friend over more cups of tea,
Forgetting herself, she almost smiles at me
She remembers her lover, the first steps of her child,
The cry of a Gorilla, coming out of the wild
She is a survivor and she will survive
Her son needs her beside him, warm and alive