When the Island Said Goodbye
The morning came quietly,
as though it too knew
we were leaving.
Even the sunrise
lacked the laughter of its brothers,
and our morning chores dragged
beneath the weight of goodbye.
Some sent their luggage ahead,
others left theirs behind,
hoping fate might grant us
one more day.
Even the atheists among us
prayed for Joshua's miracle—
just this once,
let the sun stand still.
But the bus came.
We crossed the island one last time,
gathering souvenirs,
kashata, mabuyu, coconuts—
small pieces of the coast
for those waiting at home.
That evening,
beneath the rising moon,
we gathered for our closing ceremony.
A goat was slaughtered.
A bonfire burned.
And for a moment,
we forgot that we had to leave.
Then came the call:
“Back to the bus.”
The villagers stood by the fence,
watching their friends depart.
We loaded our bags,
and suddenly,
the things we had carried with ease
felt heavier than ever.
Not because they had gained weight,
but because leaving had.
We boarded the bus
and waved through the windows
as darkness swallowed the village.
We left the island behind,
but not completely.
It stayed in the songs we remembered,
in the laughter around the fire,
in the roots of the mangroves
we planted with our own hands,
and in the silence
that followed
when a beautiful chapter
finally closed.
Copyright © Kelvin Wanyama | Year Posted 2026
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