Somalia breaks off relations in 1963
so hurried packing is the order of the day
and there she is in black and white
swishing down the years in a gauzy frock
past hat boxes and tea chests
while servants hammer down the lids.
Mosquito nets predict a breeze.
The camera leaks her fear and sweat.
My father won’t believe his eyes or ears.
‘And me?’ he roars, unable to account
for scenes in Mogadishu where my mother
is the star and he’s not even a prop
or a walk-on part, just a scrap of footage
casually dropped on history’s floor.
