I am here, sitting on the threshold of my poor home, hands clasped, gaze lost. In front of me, it’s there: that ravine, that silent monster that creeps forward, that consumes more every time it rains. It comes closer, it spreads, it opens like a great black mouth ready to swallow everything. And I watch, helpless, my heart crushed by fear, pain, and despair.
My house is going! It’s all I have. It’s where I raised my children, where I dreamed of spending time in my old age. Every brick was earned through years of deprivation and sacrifice. It’s not a big house, but it’s my vilas, a palace filled with love, memories, and life.
And today, that ravine threatens to take it all. The fence has already collapsed, carried away by the rainwater. A corner of the garden where I planted vegetables has already disappeared. Soon, it will be the kitchen, then the bedroom where my little ones sleep. Soon, it will be everything.
I cry out, but who hears me? I plead, but who reaches out a hand? The authorities speak of projects, of budgets, of promises... but I only have my tears to cry with, and my arms to try to save what can be saved with sacks and pieces of bamboo.
At night, there is no sleep. Every roll of thunder robs me of peace, of appetite, and makes me jump. Every rainfall is a disaster. And I pray, and I scream, and I cry, without help, I despair. I look at my children with no future and no inheritance. Is there someone, somewhere, who can hear my cry? Is there someone who can intervene before this reaches my church? I am tired. Tired of screaming! Tired, tired of filling sandbags! Tired, tired of planting bamboo! Tired of watching my children grow up under the shadow of a catastrophe stronger than them. Tired!
Ben Expedit Kumongo sscc
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04/30/2025