Beneath a large tree are three long, meandering rows of white crosses. I imagine them being stabbing into the earth in succession, 1 to 147, perhaps 152? Each cross is a distinct colony of grief. Some have a flag wrapped around the necks, unlit candles at their feet or wax hardened in the pattern of teardrops on the head and sides. Others have personalized notes or cards attached, while still others prop up wilted bouquets of roses.

There is sorrow here, helplessness and impotent rage at a relentless Bogeyman. But there is also courage and love; two panels depicting a moon and a cross are linked by body and paint in a brotherly embrace, prayers, words of comfort and solidarity are thumbtacked on a noticeboard. The pages of three condolence books are filled, a fourth is halfway through.

Silence will no longer be our national language. We will name them one by one. #147notjustanumber

— Ory Okolloh Mwangi (@kenyanpundit) April 5, 2015

And so we have. A man silently moved down the line of symbolic graves with a marker pen and a printed sheet of names.