Kampala sunset falls on
peasants, exhausted, spent.
Simple meals from things
grown, to feed themselves
and their children.

Kayendeke clutches her
ragdoll while her small
body slides onto her cot.
A time for dreams of
sunsets in a better place.

Does she think about me
as I do her?
Thousands of miles away,
living in a mud and grass hut,
yet she is my daughter.
My child who I will care for.

I send pictures and stickers
in hopes of entertaining her.
Maybe she will go to school now.
Maybe the small donation will
change her life.

Kayendeke. I repeat her name
until it sounds like the beating
of a drum. A sound of hope.
A cadence of “follow me, follow me.”

Beautiful Black daughter with
eyes readying themselves for
encouraging sights, with the
African sunrise.