The answer is 42

The answer is 42
But I don’t know what the question is
I have asked the the ones flirting with insanity
And the ones far from the border line crazy
I have asked the young and the old
And the one’s whose stories aren’t told

The answer is 42
But I have no idea what the question is…
I have searched the new york times
And the readers digest
I have asked politicians
And men and women of religion
I have asked clergymen and searched the prayer books
I have looked through the CIA files and the KGB files
I have asked the powerful and the powerless
But still I search…

The answer is 42
But I don’t know what the question is
I have a million keys
But can’t find doors
Leaders have hearts
But cant find love
I have so much stories
But no one to tell it to
I know what the answer is
But even my deep thought fails me
In finding the question.

The answer is 42
And I still don’t know what the question is
But I am aware it resides in the morning dew
And in the rays of the scorching sun
And in the silence of cold nights
And in the thoughts of my neighbours
And of my friends
And of my wife
And of my family
And in Nigeria
And in Gaza
And in Paris
And in Garissa
And in the xenophobic south
And in the racist north
And in the war torn west
And in the corrupt center
And in piracy infested east
And in the heart of the brick catcher
Who was ordered to throw the answer back at life
In the hope of it asking a question instead.

The answer is 42
But I don’t know what the question is
And except this poem is written in base 13
Then could my question be “what is 6 into 9?”
I mean 6 times, I was stabbed in the back
But 9 times I survived
I mean 6 times i called onto Allah
But 9 times he responded
I mean 6 times I was born
But I’m in my 9th life
I mean 6 times I failed
But 9 times she loved me more
I mean 6 times i died
But 9 times he gave me life…

The answer is 42
But I don’t know what the question is
And except this poem is written with tears
Then could the question be “Why our mothers die while giving life?”
Or why our girls are harvested before being ripe?

The answer is 42
But I don’t know what the question is
If this poem was written with half of my brain
Maybe the question is “What happened to all the empty spaces?”

The answer is 42
And I don’t know what the question is
Except this poem is written in the AUC?
Then the question is what is A and what is U and what is C?
Or Why are there 54 versions of normal
When all we seek is just one?
The answer is 42
But I still don’t know what the question is
And except this poem was written in a refugee camp?
Maybe the question could be “Why am I refugee?”
And why do I need to seek refuge?

The questions are infinite
The answers are not
The answer may be 42
But the questions that will lead me to the answer
I am yet to find
This poem will not end
Until I feed
At the restaurant
In the end of the universe.