Them.

Forcefully and sometimes deceitfully
Consuming all life,
ripping all sprouting from earth.

Consciously and mostly covertly
withholding air
Keeping all out, inhabitable.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Riding Bodas in 'outside countries'

Image
Riding Bodas in ‘outside countries’ Recently when a friend of mine learnt that I was spending a night in Juba waiting for my connecting flight, he said we cannot fail to meet, for it is unforgivable to not meet fellow Ugandans when one is in ‘outside countries’. I laughed so hard but somehow I actually knew exactly what he meant. There is something so special about meeting a human piece of home when one is away, even if it is as close by as south Sudan. This reminded me of a boy I met on that fateful journey. Angel and I had decided to just sit and watch people as we waited for the police to check our bus and it was taking longer than we had anticipated. Then we met him, and he told us his name was Robert Ndahura. He looked reserved, but when he greeted me and stood next to me, I thought he was rather interesting. Angel and I later sat next to him when we moved closer to the bus, hoping they would notice how impatient we had grown and finish whatever was delaying the set off...
Read more

When the dead help with fiction.

So most of March I was thinking about my grandmother Nyamwire, my dad's mom. Considering she's been dead for a long time, some of my uncles freaked out when I told them she was visiting me in my dreams. I was told to go and pray, blah, blah, blah. To which I replied that I'm trying to decolonise my mind and to stop listening to the demonising of everything traditionally African. Before colonialists arrived, I told them, our religion depended highly on contact with the dead. One of my uncles was so shocked by all this that he just changed the subject. But a cousin of mine was very intrigued and she told me to keep listening and see if maybe grandma had a message for us. A week later I went on a writing retreat in Lira and embarked on my first feature film. There is a character in the story who's the backbone of the protagonist and a symbol of love and protection. I was struggling so much with her back story because she's a Munyankore woman who lives in Buganda. I di...
Read more

Freezing in York

Dear homeless guy in York, How are you today? Has this Bright but heatless sun shone on you Or are you still sprawled by the street, in your Green sleeping bag? In a city where people apologize for walking too close And the little streets ferry countless feet Including mine, heading off to God knows where, who notices you? While the homeless guy in London Sat by himself on the corner As his colleagues lined up For a free meal on the white van, You stood out, in pretty York. While the homeless guy in Leeds sat with a hat before him And whispered gently 'can you spare some change' even though few Gave him attention, You sat there wordlessly being. While tourists paid loads for petty souvenirs and buzzed around The street you call home, while we Were busy taking pictures and making videos, you sat Quietly by the walls of the great minster, Mocking us, ably pointing out The ridiculousness of your government Who don't value you. You questioned the discus...
Read more