They buried him facing East—
not so he may greet Christ,
the way, the truth, and the life,
when he returns—
but because his ancestor Deng-Aguet and his gods
rest in the East,
and they were ashamed
to look him in the eye.
The best-selling newspapers said nothing,
and slowly, but as life must,
life moved on.
The lies the morning radio sang
thinned by bits,
yet the whispers never stopped gathering.
Even louder, someone would ask,
"Did you hear about the boy who refused to be silent?"
And someone else would nod,
as if silence itself had begun to tremble.
Time passed,
and his words became ours.
They found refuge in throats
that had long forgotten how to tell the truth.
Teachers quoted him without naming him.
Preachers called his defiance faith.
Even some of the men in blue began to hesitate,
for his life haunted the barrel
they were meant to silence.
His mother, now older,
sits by the Nile sometimes,
watching the water they claimed took his life—
a story she does not believe.
Water loved him;
it was the first to hold him
when hers broke to bring him forth,
and the last to sail him farewell,
in honor,
to places he had never lived.
She does not cry anymore.
She only listens—
to the murmurs of a generation
learning to live right,
not long.
And his tombstone does not read John—
for it is too foreign
to define the life he lived.
Instead, a small sign reads:
Here lies no one.
Because truth,
they say,
never
truly
dies.