By SHELIA BLAND
To the other,
The mother says only,
“Yes, sir.”
The mother and Kiziah go to the allotted area,
Where the mother goes over the list of duties
and the order in which they must occur—
without passing on to Kiziah,
the mother’s anxiety.
The mother inspects Kiziah’s dress
To see that everything is perfect
Before she leaves this
house of the others
to head home.
The next day,
the mother sets out for work.
–What do you mean “the next day…”?
What happened at the event?
How did Kiziah do?
What is to be the fate
Of the mother and daughter?
I cannot say.
I was not there, you see.
No one was.
We are not guilty.
The mother was not there.
She is not guilty.
She is responsible—
We all are.
You see, the mother assumed
The event ran late
And Kiziah was required
To stay the night.
It’s a valid assumption.
We have no control over the others.
We are merely required to obey them.
Kiziah would have had to do as she was told.
That would be following the rules.
When the mother arrived
She was instructed to serve
The breakfast in the parlor,
Clean up after breakfast,
Then clean up from
Last night’s event.
Clean up from last night’s event??
Had not Kiziah completed this task?
She certainly would have known to do so.
The mother responded,
“Yes, sir.”
The mother returned home that night
In a quandary and a pickle.
–The mother?! Where is Kiziah?
How did she do last night?
Why didn’t she complete her duties?
All day, the mother had kept an eye out for Kiziah.
She listened ever so closely as
The others talked among themselves,
Trying to work out the answers to the
Very questions you ask.
And all day, there was no mention
Of Kiziah.
All day long, no one said a word—
Not even those like the mother—
Like us, who were of the zero per cent.
They all seemed too busy to talk—
Even averting their eyes
From the mother
When she tried to make
Eye contact.
The mother was frantic.
A 12-year-old girl,
Does not run away—?!
By the end of the week
Everyone knew
Kiziah was missing.
Not a single person
Asked about her.
The others at the big house,
Never mentioned her,
Never asked if she would come
to help with the work.
With the others, it was as if Kiziah,
The young girl barely 12 years old—
never existed.
It was like the others had never known
The mother had had a daughter
Who had worked in the big house
For nearly three years.
When the mother was home—
None of her kind
ever asked after Kiziah.
Never said, “Where is she?”
“When is she coming home?”—
Nothing….
Though every one of them
Knew that Kiziah had
Stayed at the big house,
Without her mother,
To work an event for the others.
No one asked after Kiziah—
Not a word.
The worst part of this—
The mother, herself,
Never mentioned Kiziah
To the others.
Never mouthed the words,
“Where is my daughter?
I left her in your keeping.
She was just a child.”
“What have you done
With my daughter?”
The mother continues to work each day
For these same others,
At the same big house
Where her child, Kiziah,
Has gone missing—
Where the mother
Is persecuted by silence.
Where she must continue
To follow the rules
She must continue
To get along
She must continue to
Act out
The role of concern, care, and affection
For these others
Who have knowledge
Of what happened to Kiziah,
Her precious child.
A wall of silence
Has sprung up around the mother
And her friends and community.
A silence around her loss
And her mourning
For her child,
Kiziah.
What can they say, after all?
To say something is to imply
They can do something…
We are silent because
We are the zero percent.
Our words, our deeds,
Have no impact
On the one percent
On the ninety-nine percent.
To speak the name of Kiziah, even
Is to break the pack
The agreement to
Follow the rules
To get along
To get ahead.
To break this pack
Subjects the zero percent to
Persecution—
To torture
To genocide.
The pact goes on today—
To follow the rules
To get along
To get ahead
To look the other way
To sacrifice the few
For the many
This is as it is
This is as it has always been
Yesterday,
Last year,
Last century.
—We are all responsible for Kiziah.
