Wednesday, 30 January 2019

Kyozi Poetry Collection

Kyozi Poetry Collection

Download Book From Lulu

or Read online below for free:


In the memory of my parents,

Mr. Kwatotyo kareireho EDWARD (rip), and

Ms. Tumwiine kwatotyo MARIADOVIKA (rip).






WORD COUNT: 14000 +
A story is set in the late 70’s, about a young boy called KAGUSHA MATTHEW, from a village in western Uganda, who was brought to the city to study, he narrates his story through school and compares his village to the city, and he describes the beauty of his village and his strong attachment to his culture. He centres his story on a cow called “KYOZI”, from which he shows the suffering and stigma an AIDS patient goes (went) through. Himself being HIV positive, he also tells us his personal struggles, all in relation to Kyozi.

The story is written in such a way to attract the youth to read it, though full of sorrowful moments, especially when he narrates his love for a girl at high school called “JOY  ACAYE
© 2012

I wrote this story assuming that the youth and the community at large know about the existence of HIV/AIDS, know how it is spread and probably know how to protect themselves against it. So the story is such, to create awareness about AIDS and the problems associated with it.

Special thanks to my aunt, Late MS Ssemambo Kemirembe Angela, and The Indian Women Association, Uganda, for the job well done of educating me. 







“My roots routine,

a village well painted”







                                                       Well grown

I was born in a sorghum garden,
the day Kyozi was born,
 I was named Kagusha[1] by merit,
meaning sorghum,
I was born in the bush,
cleansed by fresh herbs[2] of my land,
the blessings for life.
born to live,
to see the day after.
I was named Kareireho[3]
in the dark evening,
When the day set.
the spirits united Nte’Nkulu[4]
but the wine did it best
all the hills sang the same song,
except Bishuba,
where my grandfather”Werefred[5]” lived
Nte’Nkulu had no boundary but had hills like;
Bagusogola[6], where I was born,
Buholo[7], where my grandfather Okuku lived,
Bishobire[8], where market was set on Friday.
Bishobire meaning confused,
because it united people of all kind.





                                        Hornless bold thing

The day I was born,
A black cow was born,
A dark-black furred calf,
Darker than the night, in the dark night,
The darkest of it was,
She was named Kyozi[9]
Which means a pumpkin
like the black-skinned pumpkin
that grew in the banana gardens
She grew as I also grew
She aged to her galloping stage,
but bore no horns,
cows of my land were long- horned,
she had black shoot like eyes,
when had her first calf,
Her milk was thicker,


white not black.
It made the best, the sweetest of batter,
and ghee.
It sold like grief on grave,
The Ashabwe[10] was even better;
Ashabwe, the sauce from milk.
The irresistible taste its seeds,
When roasted or grown,
The roasted pumpkin seeds,
Browned by the fire, to test the tongue’s taste.
 Kyozi made us proud,
 even in grazing grounds,
when the cows all hills met,
to graze and battle the cattle,
….to crush their horns to break,
But Kyozi had a stone to offer,
Nkungu,[11] they called her,
Meaning a hill of a head.
She won all the challenges,
She was invincible;
On salt dishes or grass,
She was known beyond hills, as a bull in cows

 Down the valleys of Nte-Nkulu
grown a cow of its nature,
full of vigour and zeal,
one never milked
never tamed
milked by brave men
by great herds men
Its milk, that grown me,




                                   The tree beside the lane

beside the lane,
stood a tall-gigantic tree,
It lived for many generations,
It lived not to leave,
but to stay

Its twisted stem shown its strength,
and survival over the time,
each twist is its enemy,
old leaves dried and
the twigs emerged
as new stems grew
It became even stronger
through its vexed struggle
It still stands
although now in wood
with dry sap

It was once a seed, a black seed
It was planted by a black bird
It’s the margin of Nte’Nkulu
and the world, an adventure to explore
a symbol of unity
still like before; still standing, steel in wood
the natives found it
I also found it wet
wet with leaves too
many died and left it
Its leaves healed all
all diseases
all the sick, strangers or not
but only the obedient
the white birds also sheltered on it
Its big buttress roots
like walls that separate a room from another,
equally divided as the clans of Nte’Nkulu,
before the white birds; it was a honoured god.

Oh, its bark,
The cure of all diseases,
Maybe a cure my own.
Its wood harder than any metal
For if it had eyes,
It would tell the tale of what it saw,
its wisdom would surpass man’s
It stands,
 a symbol of hardships,
and survivals,
But it’s known for stories, it still stands useless,
Still in wood
Oh, the great”Muusha[12]
The still medicine man,
Master of their wisdom,
Melt sap and heal my own,
All I could touch was cracks
Its peeling bark with dry sap,
its rough stem with no sound.



                   Traditional Africa

A place where air is filled with natural music,
From the bills of birds,
Beaks brightly coloured,
With colours of the rainbow,
To deliver fine melodies,
Where tradition still collide with modernity,
Where magic rules,
God and gods still have their respect.
All that the people knew was to smelt spears,
Split blood and become warriors.
Parents had the third eye for their children,
They knew what was best,
Where all men and women lived (live) for the king
Non an enemy of the king,
Life belongs to the gods,
All that man does is to please them,
Elders live long to defend their societies,
A man’s riches were known at his death.
The only crime a warrior had was to kill,
Great hunters were remembered by their successful traps.

                                    At sun down, at dusk    
All praise to the strong skins of the cows,
our wooden instruments
crafted by our hands
to sound it perfect,
our wooden drums shaped fine,
like the hips of the ladies.
Hill to another,
the busy musicians,
of the days
taut strings, tight crowds and follows
Booze at their disposal old and new.
bitter or burning down
Born to it, gifted to impress
busy to journeys
known beyond hills
renowned for their best
known by their voices
blessed with their talent
of sounding it calm, playing it blissfully
suit for all occasions
from church, then to share spirits
grave at grief to parties in round huts
great warriors they are
bruise healers,
not blood spillers
with no arrows
but their voices
to make peace
and excite the day.









                                    The evening dance

Back in the village,
the land of hills and valleys,
all the youths in their teens,
are united by a single sound,
the evening fine-skinned drum.
Only the fine girls go,
they dance under the moonlight,
their bodies are lit by vigour,
in their fine figures to impress,
also attired to impress.
Only the young men go,
Those with small huts,
ready hearts to love,
Thatched with sharp straw
They watch in splendor,
As the girls shake…whine it all,
Side to side, blissfully, with the beat,
Like the evening breeze from trees,
They are innocent,
With sharp –pointed hills
between the cleavage, and
nipples out to remember.
Each song has its dance,
Even the men participate in their hunt,
They wrestle for show,
As the ladies applause in sweet voices,
though winners don’t always get the fine girls.
The elders also watch,
Sit aside and be amused,
They watch each step,
In their steps; as they did and used to,
As draw on to their youthful moments,
As they touch their lines,
running down their faces,

and say,

“I was once beautiful,
I had a chest like his”.
Even not at the dance,
their beauty, (the girls of my land)
can be seen beyond the glass,
at their chores,
carrying a pot of water,
upstream, or collecting firewood,
one is sure to get a fine wife for life,
to blow happiness in his compound, and
hut and heart.

                                    Evening drum
Smooth skin, fed well
grown on milk, and ghee
their voices with the best drummers
to sound it irresistible
to vibe the skin with skill
on target for a reason
even their beauty stunning
delivering a serenade to offset
the cold dusk
whining their figures
like whistles in the night
the one star to show, to marry the sky,
the outstanding amongst all,
but all bright
making men,
spare their time
for thee moment

They’re beautiful,
the chores, they also know
at the “Olubengo[13]” of sorghum
and millet,
they grind it best
ground it to taste
as the love they offer
the learn it early,
that’s all they learn
to impress their husbands
but for a wife, i needed
more than that

                                    An elder’s evening

My grandfather’s evening journeys,
To Bagusogola.
Where spirits are praised.
Clear or dirty,
But he prefers dirty,
The local brew of his youth,
The aged one,
The beer of his age and beard, bitter to taste
He ties his guward[i] on around his shoulders,
In his papyrus bag,
It is never done,
it’s never empty,
He claims it’s sweeter in there;
Not in glass, he adds
“a glass has no life, the emphasizes.
Unlike his fine grown guward.
Modeled for his thirst,
Well grown to its size.
When he is done,
…. the nattering at the tables and stools,
He waves back home,
His fit firm, pata pata…
the sound of his wooden sandals,
He staggers back in a wavy swing,
Through a straight close,
On and off, and back on, like the liquor in his tammy and tin.
The tree beside the lane; is there to tell,
He crosses the valley, over Bushera
like as if sober,
He knows every route,
Like patches on his clothes
He walks on loose bridges with stamina
He shakes like the lessful liquor mixture,
In both his vessels, under the skin and on top.
Half-full and trembling in its position,
Shaking from side to side,
By each step he takes,
He is not old for nothing,
His wisdom is worth it,
He has taken this lane;
For many of his years,
Sober or not, a swim is not heard of,
There he crosses,
With smoke coming from his pot,
Leaving a scent of his by his way,
…. a spit of his behind,
Before he arrives home,
He chews all the tobacco,
In his dirty-brown coated court pockets,
Even all the coffee, in the banana fibres
His wife never sleeps until he is back.    





                                    The bottle

Like he was born with it,
He never leaves it aside,
It’s always beside him,
even in holy-places
it is his daily routine,
his joy is in it.

His snuggled-teeth,
Are dirty-white,
He is the talk of evening meetings
He is a shame to his family
He is not welcome in public
For he brings poverty; upon his family.

His wealth is liquor in the bottle,
It’s never empty.
Liquor is like fuel to engine.
He is a dipsomaniac,
Take it be his enemy.

He never forgets his route home,
In his staggering motion,
and stammering -speech.
For all the falls and bruises,
he never gives up,
for him and the bottle,
are never detached,
…the typical man of my village.

                                    They make it sweet
They grind the sorghum roast,
one in many roles of women
the women of Nte-Nkulu
they provide the ingredients
a gust in a calm night
sliding down the thatch,
warring the night
with its chaos.
“the voice of the drunkard”.
you get your husband out
like clothes from sun, before they fade
before the booze float to their head
you take out your own
or else, it revenges to them
they prepare it, it ends on them
it ends up to revenge
their drunkards “their husbands”
their husband wrath spares none
the beast beating of the evening
is the love they prepare it with
and in turn what they get.
                                   LOVE ME IN AFRICA
My mother’s song,
Every woman’s song,
The bold and brave also cry,
But who can cry sweetest,
Who can cry flower petals
The fools cry for nothing,
 but stupidity,
the lonely cry for love,
they fore get, that
the sweetest of fruits has black seeds, that
looks do lie, they change from within,

the heart of an African woman, is strong,
the beautiful also will get wrinkled
but the heart that loves;
will never have doubts.
To love a typical African man,
Is to see a flowered desert plant,
An African man…Nte’Nkulu men,
Whose weight is in the bottle,
An African woman saves no eyes;
To cry for him.
Her husband says;
“I shall hunt for you
All the bush meat,
But I won’t fight for you
When the king claims you,
You will be my beloved,
Of my wives,
Know that your co-wives give me pride,
But it’s you that I love,
Your hut shall also be mine
and your heart, if you wish,
your children will give me joy.”
She is bold, she is never bothered;
How many co-wives has,
But tells her husband;
 to fish only the fit fish
and not to bring younger girls;
 that will make her older.
Flowers cry love,
All women pray, to deits,
To get one steady;
 at his work, brew, women.
Stones and hoes in friction,
and confliction,
hoes sounding noise of stones,
the business of sewing
the business of a peasant












                                     Village journey

A simple life it is,
Working and helping each other,
Friendship for communism,
Farming as the source of income,
A day’s work is tale,
You never know when you finish,
Each hoe in the soil tells a story.
Even the lazy till until,
Until the day breaks,
Until they have heard a story,
It’s a simple life to live.
We holiday-makers eat for surprise,
There is no pretense, you
chew what you can, you
eat like a bird
right from the tree,
…. the freshness of everything.
Fresh air; with no engine pollutes.
Trees sway calmly,
In to cool breezes, as that at the beach
An experience it is and it was for me,
through the valleys of Nte’Nkulu…a village of hills,
between mountains,
with white flowers on top…like coffee blossom
through ‘Ekitehe[14]’, of bitter red fruits in the valley,
…so thick to harbour snakes,
Amid such wild sweetness.
I was a visitor at home,
A stranger to my village ways
…a town boy I had I had turned,
Turned away from on my own ways,
I watched with amusement,
As everything happened;
As the boys play “Entanga[15]
The wild round-like melon…for a ball
With their bare feet.




 As hopeful as people who dwell between hills,
For they are blinded.
By the summits in front
They hope to see the world,
To its utmost,
But discouraged by the detours
Up and down the hills,
And round the valleys,
As the sky seems to draw nearer
And the heavens closer
Behind the hills,
But little do they know
What awaits them there,
The young learn early to climb life;
The hills are there to crawl on.
As they aim for the white flowers on top,
That flow down,
Melting to colourless liquid,
Sounding the stones,
By its way,
On its flow down
Making the night soundly,
And calm,
The winds blow across the slopes,
As “Mukazi Anyala[16]” flows down,
And feeds Bushera below it,
On its way round the hills in the valley.










                                    My village

The first man to wear shoes,
My grandfather Wereferd,
He was the first to see the white rain,
To fly in the big eagle;
To tie a tie in my clan,
He was the first convert,
The first teacher of the land,
At Bishuba[17] hill,
near Muusha,
by the entrance,
he setup his school in the mission chambers,
he thought Christianity; with a mimicked tongue,
…as he was thought.

He wore a large silver cross,
On his chest;
He walked with firm and glory,
In black and white courts,
Coated with wisdom from his speech,
With a large book…the Bible.
In his right,
Speaking words of the white man,
Not his own.
Embarrassing elders at any opportunity,
With western wisdom.
He turned against his gods,
Many elders disliked him,
But some followed him;
Just like Jesus Himself,
He brought light and confusion,
And segregation,
A few sent their children at first,
He was benevolent to all.
On Sunday early morning,
A drum was sounded;
It sounded like;
“Paulo Zakushoma” …meaning Paul go to church
“Mukafirewe” …you the unreligious,
It was the church bells,
It was mockery to some,
It was mocking some,
Some went, some never bothered
Among those who went,
Left sacrifices under trees,
Some came back through,
Booze stores,
…via the burning throat,
To chat with friends and share their spirits as well,
By the time I was young Werefred[18] had already retired.
Already eaten up by age,
His son Kamanzi[19] was in charge,
He was an educated man,
He had married a foreign wife,
Who lived in the with the children
 He took me to the city,
To complete my secondary education,
The city was always rooming with noise, and no silence, but moving cars,
And people on their chat…a confusion of voices.
 I was free only during the holiday
The city was always rooming with noise, and no silence,
but moving cars,
and people on their chat…a confusion of voices.
 I was free only during the holidays of December.
I missed my home, the sweet valleys of Nte’Nkulu.














I usually visited Bishuba, upon my return,
Was my grandfather Werefred lived
He was a man of insight and wisdom,
He spoke in the past, Present and future.
He spoke firmly with hope,
He well came me with a sweet drink,
Made from germinated millet flour.
We prayed and set for the talk,
He was a good listener and preacher,
He had a lot to tell,
When he started with the Bible,
It was like he predicted the future
He read the Bible with anointing
So different and vividly
He spoke of heaven so real and sure,
He said hell burns like tilling under the sun;
With each yield consumed by pests,
Had given me Bible, Written in my language,
With a highlighted verse;
Which was his favourite.      


Bishobire was a market place,
A trading centre for the fact,
Market was set every Friday in the last week of the month
Everyone was always eager,
And had saved enough,
Women rendered labour to get money to attend.
Children helped eagerly their parents to please them,
So as they bring something for them,
On their return, in return,
Everything was sold there,
Clothes to foodstuffs,
Iron to clay utensils
There I visited my uncle Kwatotyo[20], the shop-bar keeper,
He lived a neutral life, he sold brew and went to church every Sunday,
Maybe to please his father.
He high ked prices to make profits,
He was a brother to my father, Kigufa Mutete[21],
 and my uncle Kamanzi, sons of Werefred,
He taught me business tricks,
And love as well; he was a renowned polygamist,
He alternated the subjects equally,
He always told me to marry as my heart wishes,
…as that was the ego of men.












The home of Okuku, my grandfather,
Okuku Ntungwerisho[22], brother of Werefred.
And Nuuma The great hunter.
Okuku had stack to tradition,
Unlike his brother Werefred,
Just like his name Ntungwerisho.
Meaning “my eyes are my wealth”

Buholo was the master of the brew,
The home of the spirits,
Made down the valley,
Sold up hill,
The valley between Bagusogola, where I was born, and Buholo,
Copper wires running through Bushera[23],
Carrying dirty vapours,
To be cooled to colourless,
As Bushera runs down the valley,
To where they Baptize, I was baptized Matayo[24].

Okuku the master of the brew,
A good friend to my father,

He told me stories and proverbs about Nte’Nkulu,
From his youth, to the legend of Muusha
As he drunk from his guward,
Coated with dirt,
Spitting on the sides,
And chewing his tobacco,
And his smoking pot in his pockets for a latter diet,
His unkempt beard and hair,
Full of nits.
Her wife always gave me milk, with a scented grass,
In a cup coated with dirt and age.
I took it in one peace, with academic fears,
…germs to say,
I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent,
And it went down,
Okuku counseled me; not to marry a foreign wife,
Not to fall for their charms,
Not to be caught with bait like fish,
He promised me a stool at the table at that time.

                                    My grandfather’s tricks                        
To grow what’s sweet
the sweets in the gardens
that a grandchild can’t resist,
the sugarcane, the guavas,
and all of kind,
to bring children
to make children happy
to make a grandfather one loved,
by their wisdom,
surely never lonely,
never abandoned, to grey’s alone.
always in company of happiness
his compound ever bright
clean and kempt
kept busy with games
chants of the little



                                   Simplicity of civilization

When my grandfather would ask me any question;
I would say that I shall check on the internet,
One day Okuku, asked me what I meant by “i-ne-t”
I started collecting words to use
He was a fine illiterate, of a century ago
…Ignorant of the dot-com world
Where messages are delivered without cracks and faster
So, I started;
That, internet was a ghost of the white man,
…by this he would lose his curiosity.
It could not be seen
It’s the angel of news;
…good or bad,
…sense or no sense,
…history or present,
A source of excitement,
Knowledge and solutions,
And predictions like the weather,
It comes in very small or very large boxes
At times it is found in buildings called cafes,
Just like shrines of gods and churches for God
You put in money to please it,
In order for it to give you time,
When the money is done,
It goes,
Just like offering sacrifices to gods,

With it you can use it to speak to anyone,
 anywhere in the world
If not dead,
most people in the city spend most of their time;
worshiping it,
it has no day of worship
Its rules are simple;
not like those of other gods
Its only curse is addiction,
It blesses if used well unless otherwise,
It is for the holy and evil; it unites them,
It doesn’t judge nor give punishments like our gods do.

                                    The village that grown me
The natives that natured me,
like their own
never neglected me
never beared to see me to waste
they framed my character
for the right future/cause
I owe my triumph to them,
those who taught me all,
all that I never knew,
for the lure & love
they gave me
from their wisdom,
I shaped my own
a vivid vision grown in me
from when I was shameless,
to now in black suits
my success is their work

He then said
let me dress my corpse,
for my burial, son
let me design my coffin
for my eternal comfort
am no more, no strong man.

Who can teach a baby to cry?
it’s the thing they know best
what they’re not taught.                                                             











                                    gods of Nte’nkulu

 Gods of my village,
have lived with us for long,
in solid and spirit,
in rocks and waters,
in solid and spirit,
in rocks and waters
they tell our origins roots,
which place on earth has no roots?
or a legend of its own,
or stories to tell the young ones,

In Africa, tribes have fought wars,
With defeats and defeats,
for nothing but shedding blood;
to feed their pride
in my land,
protected our great warriors,
he was never blamed for their death;
all deaths were blamed to………….
the one who guards the gates of darkness,
darkness to your eyes,
when it came to harvests,
good yields were thanks to…………
he was the god of labourers
a deer to feast on;
 was thanks to…………….
all hunters had his talent,
all chiefs and leaders had the roots of………….
They had his blood
A god above others was Ruhanga.
The supreme and divine.
He who gives life,
He who brings light to darkness
He never changes,
He never changed
 even when Christianity came to the lands
God was simply called Ruhanga
Only the day worship changed,
People called unto him;
In churches, and
In shrines,
Happy or mourning
Feasting or regretting
Thanking or asking, When it came to Jesus,
Christ, the missionaries faced trouble,
Even my grandfather was lucky not to be crucified;
“…He rose from the dead,
     He is God, but the son,
     He was born by a virgin
    He was poor
     He was crucified by mortal man
     He died for your sins, for we are all sinners
     Accept Jesus Christ;   and be saved from eternal condemnation….”
Those words were not just words of a preacher
But mockery to some Africans
Who never understood their simplicity?
It was hard to convince them, That we were sinners!
That a God was killed by mortal men
However, some people converted,
Some who were eager to write their name on a leaf,
Some people like Okuku chose for gods,
And gods they still worship,
And observe all cultural norms
As it was in the past.
                                    The gospel & missionaries
Like the church candles
that never go off
that light for all
a light of love and peace
made of thick wax
the wax that melts for a reason
a reason worth all reasons
lighting with tenderness
silent gestures like whispers
in silence,
like whistles in the wild woods
but a message well delivered
like Jesus Christ himself
a message of many meanings
“the light to see”
the light that brighten the altar
the light of forgiveness & reconciliation
a light that calms the waves
a light lit by the holy
shaken by no wind
but driven by the spirit
seen by the blind
ignored by the fools
a gift to all
a food for the soul.
















                                   Ways of the gods

No man can fight a god,
No man can weigh to a god,
 gods have no feelings
once they decide, it’s final,
however much one beseeches for mercy
but they only curse those with curved minds
no one can escape their wrath
when happy they are indeed,
they bless abundantly,
but also curse in advance
they are elders above elders
they are elders above elders
they are a lesson to learn
and rules to keep
they have the spear and whip,
to spare or sweep,
they have sucks of sweat and
gold to give, accordingly.

                                    Unwanted chiefs,                 

      early evils;

There once lived men,
 Men with power over others
They were chosen by destiny
They decide who lives and who dies,
They were the judges of the living
They could sentence one to slavery,
By their wish,
They traded their brothers’ lives for Gold,
Their brothers’ blood and freedom,
To the known lands,
Full of suffering as they were taken,
never to come back home,
they were chained,
necks, legs, a hands, hard to resist
. Strength never saved any,
They queued, -chained
They walked long distances,
Starved for a long time,
Under the hot equator sun,
An infernal it was for them,
The obstinate were tied on trees,
Left to die to dry bones
They were flogged to the bone,
Packed in ships, pilled on their tops.
They were worth metal
Worth a few pieces of Gold.
Paid to the chiefs
The chiefs became richer,
Their huts dirty as their hearts
Stained with human blood,
Blood of innocent brothers
The more the Gold covered with guilt
They married to maximum,
Only gods would judge them,
The many gods we had disappointed us,
They watch on,
The gods did nothing,
They let us down,
Down to slavery
Of suffering and misery;
As my grandfather Werefred laments.

                                    Harvested unripe

Son of the future,
You have not seen what I saw,
Neither do I understand your world,
The autonomy you have.
Sometime in my life,
In your past,
So cruel,
A man’s destiny was in another man’s
Someone rejoiced for one’s birth,
To own them as their property,
As their pets,
They were the masters,
They could kill as flog,
Love or hate
Favour or curse,
Our brothers sweat blood out,
As the lords counted their dirty-pennies for business,
Our brothers were worth metal,
Worth the Gold from our own land,
We had what they wanted,
We lacked what they had,
…they were strange and witty,
…we were strong and ignorant,
Ignorant of our potentials and pride,
Ignorant of our rights,
May be we had no rights,
For they made them anyway,
We were their property,
Our sons, and daughters too,
We were born chained,
And we died chained.
We were miss-fated,
Our fate was stained with misfortune
We were exploited,
The muscle and the bone,
We stretched and broke,
For nothing, but flogging.





They we made by our fore fathers,
Our parents worshiped them,
They were made from the strongest wood,
From iron and stone,
They hold a story to be told,
And meant to live forever, for us, to guide us,
They speak without a mouth,
And drive peoples’ spirits,
They are in all figures,
With their sharp breasts,
Well curved cleavage,
Well-made hair,
And unique necklaces
They are models to young men,
A guide to the right one,
We need our goddess to worship them,
And preservation of our heritage,
They epitomize the future we hope for,
With such vigour,
With all the cracks they have,
They are still beautiful.
                                    My luggage & baggage           
The departure”
My luggage
my leather bag
zipped and sealed
in it, love
everything given out of love
from my grandparents,
parents to my fellow teens,
everything, fruits to bear words
Not forgetting the white milk & shiny ghee
really I have a lot to miss.
Then, left for the city
I did my best to remember
all the caution
the only rule they bleached was to
“marring out”
otherwise, academic wise, I did my best.

                                    Tears of a peasant
Below the sun
with a hoe, with each till
whipping the sweat off their faces
the dirty bitter sweat
unclear unclean like uncertainty
like the weather and their yields
the tears of a typical Nte-Nkulu woman
a typical African Village woman,
no to surrender,
no other alternative,
their forever routine
toiling and tiling
it’s all they know
and all they live to do
season to season
the struggle of a peasant
tilling on stones uphill
up the steep slopes
the monotonous business of my village
the city for the opposite.








School life

“Letters to Joy”







                                     School days

A place where air is filled with noise,
Of strange voices,
Gestures of adolescence
A place where minds meet
Great ones and amateurs,
Where stories are heard and told,
A gathering of characters,
Brains and attitudes of all sorts,
Where people converge with a similar motive,
But with different problems,
The ball is one,
The target is one
For all the players
Curiosity rules the game
Respect is the referee,
Obedience is the guide

It is the beginning of earthly wisdom,
And literacy,
As well as spiritual enlightenment,
Logical thinking, up-right independent thinking,
It’s where knowledge is enhanced,
And skills are built,

The fit and witty rule,
The giants…up-stairs,
The dose given awakes the heart,
Mind and reality,
Religion and civilization
“prove it” is the law
Understanding is compulsory,
Assertiveness is the order.
Responsibility begins there
Kindness, ethics, character,
And of the same criteria,
A smart mind and body is, and
should be the upshot of all the grooming,
without a broom but a whip and chalk,
 but for some,
it’s a place to grow up,
add age to time
whereas, others make friends for life

                                    Magic flowers   

When I fell in love,
Flowers were not there,
Your words stood for importance,
It was my first crush,
My first happy heart-beat,
…of my life,
It was high school love,
…teens’ love,
Of letters full of sweet-nothings,
…the childish promises you know,
Two years at St Paul’s secondary;
Were strictly academics,
I was young and shy,
 …and a trying villager
I had come from St Peters primary, my grandfather’s school,
I never nattered with girls,
If so, not for too long,

One of the days, so peculiar,
It had rained heavily,
It was mud all over,
The compound was logged,
With stumps of steps of slides,
The ground was mud and slippery,
I skid in to the dirty log,
It was not only awful, but also shameful,
It called for a gather,
Of all who gathered,
To watch in giggle and pity,
Only one said sorry,
…It was her,
At least her sympathy was not plastic,
…I felt better when she did,
Got the courage to stand,
In shame, mudded-brown,
Held up by my wittiness,
In front of witnesses
Like a man,
And took off to clean up,
It was the story, for the next day,
And for a some days,
Among the students,
I could stand it, but not seeing her,
I felt stupid in the compound,
But never the less,
She walked to me,
And asked me if I was alright,
I stuttered and stumbled the, “fine”,
From my lips, to reply
My heart was pumping strongly,
I could not believe,
I was conversing with her,
At that instant,
I started thinking of the abstract,
I margined the river Bushera,
It’s calm flow down the valley,
And Mukazi anyara down the slopes,
The smoothly curved valleys of Nte’Nkulu,
The gentle sloping cleavage; on her bosom,
From that day,
Whenever she saw me, she smiled at me
And with time, I realized her beauty,
Something to add to the list
She was like Miss St Paul,
She was high-hills,
Though not in high heels,
…she of a level not mine,
Blessed with utmost beauty,
She walked, to cruise,
In a company of divas,
Divas in uniform,
Uniformly beautiful,
With all the good qualities I can’t say,
They chilled and chatted with boys of upper classes,
They were known to make them cry,
Not tears but hunger,
Boys were always ready to let go to thy beauties,
They fed on their pockets,
Like a bug in bushy hair,
The boys never complained
I was way down to match them,

Just to think of her,
She walked gracefully,
Slowly with tenderness,
With a singing voice, well-toned,
Everyone could notice her presence,
It was impossible not to admire,
She was impossible.
I was such blind,
Not to realize her that first,
…as though I had had a chance,
Everyone talked about her,
from students to teachers.
And her diva “gang”,
Within my confused thoughts,
I realized I was moving in love,
…emotionary messed up, disturbed,
I consoled myself,
Convinced myself that it wasn’t it,
It was in my final year,
My fourth year, to finish ordinary level,
It was first team,
When all this happened,
At the commence of second team,
I called her up,
Determined to speak my mind,
But on her arrival,
…Without her disappointing me,
I lost my tongue,
Each word I tried to let out,
Stack in my teeth,
I let her walk away,
As I watched on,
I rested the issue for a week,
And lighted the match stick,
I requested for a talk,
Brief minutes of her time,
I started to stammer, word after another,
Until she was late,
I remember saying to her,
“you know what I mean, don’t you?”, and
Her saying, “i don’t” with a tone,
She opted to walk away,
She was a girl of character,
Bold in nature, impossible
I held her hand as she was moving,
And gave her a piece of paper,
On it was words;
“…I love you, what do you say?
If you are not sure say nothing…”
clear enough for a boy’s hand writing,
she looked at me and smiled,
her friends were also calling on her to go,
…I was actually risking suspension from school,
If the administration got to know,
I at list knew that,
No such beautiful girl had ever heard such.

One day,
In the second month of the team,
When I had written enough to jostle (push) forth a win,
And my speech organized,
I approached her,
She was with her friends as usual,
And the usual ones
…They often called me “shy boy”
But this time, I was possessed
I knelt in front of her,
Her friends were also watching,
In surprise and amusement,
I held her soft fingers,
And I said on to her,
“…I love you,
     I love you J.A,
     Will you be my girlfriend...?”
…. God knows that I had waited for long,
…. I had persisted for long,
She told me to get up,
And gave me the hag of my first love,
The first of a kind,
…but the greeting of my land.
She whispered to me,
“I love you, too”
And I replied,
“you mean my alone”
Silent enough for her friends to hear,
In a whisper of silence,
But they soon noticed
And applauded on,
With a smile on my face,
I was the happiest man,
…a boy, to say.
I had tamed a buffalo, or
a one of a kind.
Much bolder than Kyozi herself,

In a few days,
I set a meeting with her, there,
We converse about our life,
Subject to another,
We planned how to go about this,
And our studies at the hub,
She was also in form four,
We had to read had for our coming national examinations,
We agreed to put most of our attention on education,
Help out each other,
From then,
Her problems became mine,
And mine hers too’,
No secrets as such.

It was not too late,
Than the papers knocked on,
Drew closer,
Everybody was busy in books,
Busy sowing their last seeds,
My first success card came from her,
 It was her smile,
on a white paper
her teeth white like milk
promising the best
good luck was the message.
a success card well delivered
with joy
the words written in green ink,
signed with a kiss.
Within a month’s time,
we had finished the exams,
A long vacation awaited us, for three months,
I decided to spend the first month in the city,
To permit time with J.A,
There after move to the village.


                                    We had to meet

Write it down, That we met
A date and day unknown,
We had to meet in life
Among the many people
Put me in your life,
Read me like a book, With endless pages
Full of catching scenes,
Let fate determine the rest,
As we build our nest,
Let me be the switch to your happiness,
And a killer to your heart aches,
Be certain like your figure in the mirror
With no ripples and pimples,
But dimples on your face, When you smile,
Your love at a splendor,
Fate had it intended, When I see you,
My blood flows, slow,
With no reason to rush,
The queen of my heart,
Came to reality.
K. Matthew.


I would write your name on a rock,
Give you my heart with no regrets,
Like the only little leaf on a stem,
You are valuable.
I would draw the dagger, to fight for you,
Defend you above all,
I would,
 …fit or not.
You deserve it all,
All the best,
Your beauty is rare,
And irresistible,
Hear me lament my love for you,
I stand firm to say,
That you are the one,
The one that makes my heart beat,
With hope live and love,
You and only you,
I can’t hold my heart beat,
It beats however much I try to resist,
This electric sensation is unavoidable,
It’s not lust but love,
Meant to last, to grow,
Grow to bear fruits,
Fruits of good seed and purpose,
Built on trust, joy and hope,
As the day gets even,
In the evening,
Our compound shall be filled with love,
Children dancing to the drum of fine skin and rhythms
With hope, K. Matthew.










                                    Court you right  

Set a day,
One so special for your glory
I want to tell you all the sweet words,
Sharer you with my poetry,
As check my voice,
to get a nice song with your name,
you are sweet like a cooked sugarcane,
like roasted Kyozi seeds,
you are like a wet painting,
bright and fragile,
like a little blue rose,
alone in a large vase,
let me grow beside you
and you with me.
Like a press on the grand piano,
That delivers fine vibes,
My lovely joy, my lady,
with a lisp
with a fine combination,
a cute smooth skin
with a small slit in her teeth
and a fine dimple
further making her beautiful.

Your fine toned skin,
 well modeled and fully formed from,
With no doubt I can resist you,
Your also fine character and determination,
Softens my heart,
Am not addicted,
but simply, deeply, blindly in love with you,
Yours loving, K. Matthew.

                                   Like the shed of a night rose tree
In the bright night,
Lit by the full-moon
such a night, vivid, calm
and of pleasant scents,
a perfect moment to lay down
the shed,
feel the breeze by each swing,
a time, to whisper love to her ears,
to court the right way
to court her in the old way,
“my fathers’ old way”
the romantic way.
the cows watching across the fence,
as perfect as you’re,
so lovely,
the one I love
the joy of my dreams

                                    Queen perfect

Sweet dreams,
shadows of the pretty are bright, to admirers,
the dark side is bright, the bright side brighter,
all eyes on her sexy for sure, queen of the castle,
Mistress of good music
Sweet-talker, highly respected, and loved by all people,
admired by fellow women,
Miss patience, she smiles to remember,
her smile brings blessings
she walks to take my attention,
like an angel dancing on my heart,
so sweet, like a two-skinned sugarcane,
like the black skinned pumpkin,
With a figure of a daffodil
well-formed and bright
like a little petal floating on Bushera
daintily like aged­­­­­-dirty wine, in a bristle calabash.

you are my joy,
you are my Joy.
The one, K. Matthew.

                                    Joy Acaye       

The joy I sought,
The Joy I found,
If am to spell your name, I spell you,
Spelt well like the joy you bring,
The joy you brought in to my life,
My Joy with a character, The beautiful loving Joy,
Joy is indeed the best, The pearl of a gift.
Joy was singer at the church I attended,
For that I never missed,
…the other reason to raise my faith,
She was above the Hymns,
Her voice seemed louder,
And sweeter over others,
All her strokes and moves,
Stroke my amusement,
She was a devoted Christian,
My aunt liked her, but I loved her,
But I had not told my aunt,
I looked forth to marry such a lady,
Or never to marry.

                                   Weed flower

Am the seed of weeds,
Am the scent of wild flowers,
I bear thorns for my protection,
Am a tough rose,
Am a parasite to my enemies,
Am a weed you won’t forget,
My roots never rot or dry,
I always find my way up,
I even grow on stone,
Am humble to those who seek for me,
Am short by all tongues,
I strike like a wave,
I have a sharp scent,
That makes people; of all sort search for me,
My petals are a bee sting,
And a bee-thing,
…love pains, love is sweet.
Am an orchard of good fortune,
Am wild and untamed,
I chose the heart to harbour,
The weakest part of man,
I grow on all soils,
Barren or fertile,
Beauty taste, class and sense I don’t mind,
I don’t grow tall,
But am known by many,
I take my sweetness by my mouth,
Am forever,
The one, K. Matthew.

                                   Petals of many colours
Like the love for a bold woman
with a scent of a hard worker
beautiful above all
caring to all
a gift I have
a floribunda of surprises
a true definition of happiness
a blessing in rain
miracle under the sunshine
surely mine at last
my hope, and happiness
and love everlasting
her sacrifice to love me.
Sweet like a wild passion fruit
hard to crack but sweet with in
sweet like no other
the sweetness in a rock-in a stone
spreading its tendrils far
to the twigs.
Their death was predate my happiness


The waves are gentle,
Only the gents can handle,
The sea is calm for the muscle,
It calms to the shores,
The shingles glittering,
With the coming of the divas,
The singles are searching;
For a dweller partner,
To take for a swim; for that moment,
A swim in honey;
With no other honeys,
The idyllic are there,
The mirrors don’t lie,
Just like their faces in the water
Only the age they lie,
The wave calls for great men,
And the gentlemen,
Not pretenders, but strong men to carry their own.


                                    Water lines        

With a rough unsteady surface,
But with a straight horizon,
It is a vast mass,
In it, people of all size, age and gender;
Coupled, or lonely or sole.
People fighting the waves,
For excitement, and pleasure
Water swashing against the margins,
Scattering the sand and shells
And the shingles,
…the many grains to grow castles,
The young and old sing the same song,
The amateurs take courage in their hands,
And enter the cold mass,
It’s breezy, though sunny,
It’s wavy at the waters,
Calming to land.
At the beach, you don’t pretend
Don’t worry, or be sorry,
Problems are abandoned for once,
For thee only day,
Your foe for once is harmless,
But not a friend, to end,
Photos flash to remember joy,
Me with Joy herself
It’s meant to unite family,
It’s meant for fan,
Allow you a chance to crack the rock,
The one question held for years,
With sounds vibrating the air,
In fine suit vibes,
As the “babies”, cat-walk about,
Displaying their potentials,
Their hips, and their other extremes
In their half-nude costumes
Taking men’s eyes to watch,
With no dignity to lose
Since it’s not sold there
Decency is optional, say,
The evening also,
You carry your own,
We are all united by the sea and love,
The same breeze,
And probably the same purpose,
“Enjoy responsibly is the first rule.
Me and Joy forever.















                                    Shingle star

As the days go by
The young grow with glowing,
And nourishing form and figure
Wavy and well curved,
As the night yield,
I lay down my mat;
On which I lay,
Looking up in the sky
Gazing up to see; which glitters brightest?
…which is mine?
Shouting stars are passing angels
They carry good fortune to the believers
No one knows where they shout to,
They are seen by one eye,
 and denied by the other,
the fireflies wander around my face,
penetrating through the calm air,
in whispers
with their gentle gestures,
like butterflies,
not to mention moths that spoils the display,
also the crickets that spoil the song
not to mention the owls (the foes, to hamper our love)
that make the night mournful and sorrowful,
as all defined in love,
the heart that loves shall never have doubts,
shall always be there.
From your love, K. Matthew.













                                    Falling flowers

 A flash in my dreams
Lightning and thunder stroke,
Woke me up from my dreams
Before I could say that I love you,
With no hopes of turning back,
I was pulled out,
I recollect your figure, your eyes wicking at me,
And my heart happy for the moment,
We were on a wooden canoe,
Cruising down Bushera,
On the waves under the vivid moon,
Only us, me and you,
Nattering and promising you the virtual future,
after the approval of Okuku, impossible as it was a dream
with Joy in tranquil,
on the calm waves alone,
me taking advantage of the moment,
painful to know it was a dream,
I hope this shall never end,
But flourish for the better.
yours loving, K. Matthew

                                    Love on candle

Candle light is lighter,
Brighter to the heart,
It lights up the mystery of love,
Love on candle is the best,
The best one’s heart can offer
A calm and tender blow and glow,
The lights up the heart,
The candle excites the heart,
With blue roses in between in a vase
Under a tree,
Birds watching silently in their nests,
With their unhatched shells under,
A suit of music for the moment playing,
Candles surrounding us in a shape of the heart,
Lighting up our love,
With joy, and Joy,
Everything blue (calm),
A night lit up by the moon,
Full of stars, to impress,
Green-lights proposing the abstract
A right moment to break the shells
With fireflies as the witnesses
To our love,
…our nest in the making,
…our love so strong,
Forever and endless.















                                    When the sky makes love

 A cloud forms,
On a calm evening
A cloud with wings of a rainbow,
As the sun sets
Beyond the mountains
In the fire bright sky,
Surrounded by a blue space.
A cloud shaped like a lamb
Arted like my heart,
Full of grace; as it deforms
As it spreads its colours,
To the near stars
In the near night…at sundown
When the evening dance calls
The sounds are uniform,
From all hills,
but am here for you.

                                      Sky watcher

Stars glittering; to many colours,
Lighting up the sky,
Glowing bright to amuse the gazer,
Such a starry night
So wonderful to impress,
One’s happiness
Numerous and vast to see
With the moon in among, the smolder,
The finely shaped flat blue sky,
All sheds off my sorrow
so calm, as the future I hope for,
A lady like my mother,
At chores and all
So beautiful and hardworking like my mother
I hope it’s you
I have no doubts.

                                     When bachelors hunt

                                     “my grandfather’s experience”

Like I fell in a gold pit,
Unblended by a sweet dream,
By a woman I love,
It’s my fear to own you
Your beauty is over whelming,
Like I discovered a goddess
I fear what is beyond the rainbow
Behind the bright eyes,
The fine toned skin of yours
You would make my heaven
But I fear to be heartbroken,
My heart is empty
Am longing and looking
Whom the gods have defined for me
I have seen all
But you are a bold definition
A denial would kill me,
A denial worries me
Don’t deny me your love,
Tell me also your beautiful name,
Am looking for a queen,
The one who can cook on two stones
The one with two stones
A woman with lure and love,
To hunt for her,
Only fine meat I hunt,
I collect the sweetest of honey
You have broken my journey,
I have found my hope,
Let me you home,
The cows I have, the land I have
The hut I have, and heart to love
Our elders could celebrate latter
I have chosen you.
Accept this wild blossom
Though wilt for the long search
From over the hills
You are special,
Especially when you smile,
And bosom
I leave you with my herding stick
To show you my young; that I can stand on two legs
And wrestle
I shall come back with a party
Tomorrow by nightfall
Where you direct me,
To the house of your father
Let me chew off my coffee
Till we meet again.
…follow me to the beer flood.











                                    Beer flood

The first brick to my hut,
The first straw to my roof
A sip at the curved brim,
The first green cloud to marry the heavens
Sure to get the full moon
My lands are young and fertile
No stones but deep soils and waters
Ready for tilling
Me ready to dust the mirror
For the perfect figure
To beat the morning dew,
Through the evening winds
Fit in my tyre sandals
My feet in sandals for business
My hut mud with dung, and
Brown soil
Decorations to capture and kill
Decorated with skill
Still pictures on walls
Well-trimmed roof,
Thatched to leak no drop,
A hut that won’t make you wet
A heart that won’t make you cry,

It’s a time to shed no blood
To make amends
To serve no dirty wine,
But new wine to happy people
With exchange of pearls and moons
…the chatting round the table
Round the same pot for more hot water,
And more dirty wine
With straws of all age what amuses the grey haired,
Only what floods the beer; with laughter
It’s the evening engagement a unity of the hills

All the thoughts as I remembered the lecture of Okuku,
Not to marry a foreign woman
Not to be caught by their bait,
But the mess I was in to

The ripe flowers
raising petals
red and green ones
the blossomed “Muko tree”
raising flowers
amid the hills
throwing out love
for the lovely season
a time to love and
spread the colours
colours of joy
agree to the same music
listen to each other’s hearts, beat
sharpen the voices to summon the birds
out of their nests,
under the green sky
united, happy people
spears spared for tranquility
fine moments, the right time
to speak words of reconciliation
share the same spirit
with brothers in spirit
for all that unites ends in straws
the solid tree,
the solid love
a tree that blossoms, and
ripe sweet fruits,
sweet-silver skinned fruits
with golden seeds
with a vine taste
the taste of old wine,
a tree with finely curved branches
to gather attention
to get elders chatting
a tree smoothly barked
brownly baked, blackly toned
with no thorns
but keep young men hooked.
grown to taste right 
the hot sauce in the pot
blessed by the hands that create

                                    God the creator
Like the pots of clay,
well baked
by the sharp flames
modelled by gifted hands
the stoney pots of the age
of great importance
of many sorts
strong to last-in
like the aim of the potters
sized to fir our diet
brides well made,
the women of the time
I mean

                                   When I marry her
The sky blue
the rain bow in the drizzle
all to impress the day,
a princess for sure
dressed, fit for the function
a happy loving bride
with a smile also,
meant, but not pretense             
promising a rosy fruitful future
and full of “happiness”
fire and cute, beautiful
to marry her indeed my dream
Who else not joy?
her and no other
the joy of my life
Also, beyond the curves,
her character too,
care and kindness,
well learnt chores
all for a perfect wife
                                    Humble Beginnings
A man’s hut
is his heart
simple, from simply reed & straw
mud, to let in no cold,
a young man’s heart,
 The corner-less hut of my youth
“Ekiteteya” they called it
skillfully mud with dung
beautified to tell a story
of a bachelor
designed to gather attention
Ekiteteya a circular hut of a bachelor
a young man’s hut
void of cry & happiness
a hut with fresh straws
sharpened to split blood
to cut deep open (searching for a virgin)
wide entries but narrow windows,
to let in more dark.
When a boy uproots his beard
he then leaves for his roof
he sets his rib aside
he builds his own by his father’s
small or large
he becomes a man.





“At limits”




                                    My last holiday;

The heartless killer;

On my way, home
The bus seemed slower
We beat through the road
Till I got off at Nte’Nkulu close
All hills were silent
All people held fists by their cheeks
They greeted me before I could do so
Smart like a bean weevil
as I arrived home
Elders had gathered
but not on their usual routine
…. I wondered
What had Werefred and Okuku
I was confused
Before I could say something
I noticed trouble
On entering the half rotten door
 A black and white bird
Of my totem,
by the window.
death had dug through the walls
death had stolen what’s mine
death had robbed my home
a home no more, but loneliness
sorrow and anguish
even success no good,
without parents to witness
to see what a man.

He was my father; on the struggle
At the bridge, on the bed
His bed with loose stands
A bridge temping to collapse
In to the sea.
I held his hand
No more but bones on top
A low toned voice whispered
“be strong son, be strong”
His lips no more
They were split-parallel
And white
My eyes turned red
But held back my tears
But in a while,
They disappointed me
And dropped,
Like crystals, breaking like glass on the floor
Even Muusha had dried,
Its sap had dried and vanished
I remembered one person
The last hope for my father’s betterment
I took a red cock,
And set off for the journey
To visit my legendary grandmother
the legendary medicine man; among women
the witch of the lineage
who lived in the east
eight hills and seven valleys,
through the thick forest of Kakinga
I arrived by two night falls
When the sun was down
Behind my back in the west
I was also arriving
She called my name,
Before I could introduce myself
Though we had never met
No sooner had I seen her,
 than my cock turned white
she started to whimper
to cry helplessly
…I had never seen a witch do so
It was too late,
Though wasn’t late
My father had already died
I didn’t wait for dawn
I left that very evening
Disappointed as I could be
The next day was a market day,
But rather a sad and tense one






                                    My father’s last;

                                    dying father;

My dear wife, don’t tell my son about my shortcomings
say only the good things about me
speak of my good deeds
let him feel proud to be my blood
defend me of my wrongs
as a man I also had weaknesses
tell him to learn from my mistakes
when he is of age,
tell him my taste,
help him chose right
when you hug him,
let the first kiss be mine
let him feel the roar of my chest
In your bosom
The beloved among my sons

                                     The streeters[25] too

My father Kigufa Mutete
While in the city fell for the streeters
The charms of the cheap-sellers
…their cheap altogether
You needn’t pay bride price
But they fry you to your grave
You score and move on
And wave on.
They do it for pleasure
Some for a dollar, or less nothing
But they are witches
They killed my parents
They killed my own
They took advantage of his
They brought fog to his eyes
They gave him a strong disease
Foreign to our herbs
Even the strongest of herbs
…Aids Aids it’s, it was that kill my own
The gods did nothing
Even the medicine men looked on
Looked on as my father became slimmer;
For his clothes
Too weak to move on.
his skin melting off the body,
the body no more but bones

Like a flower
grown direct from ground,
with no leaves
but bright petals,
with no life, no dignity
with no purpose, no aim
but to harm.
To spread their pollen poison
on the innocent, their smiles like
broken sharp glass by the streets
with a gleam to be seen
but a cruel blade
to kill, “the bare footed”
to kill all that lives
heartlessly, pitilessly.

The valley that is never flashed
the swamp ever logged
wet and cold
bushy to hour bar snakes, the poison to kill
to caution none, not the careless.

                                    My mother’s worry         

Reality makes dreams
Worries make nightmares,
The way she loved me
Oh her love, and cure
Was unconditional,
Such a good mother I had
The only son of hers
She died many times
Before her real death
In her dreams
She saw heaven and hell in advance
But still scared to leave me;
Leave me in this world alone
To leave me with no shoulders,
She dreamt of a narrow path,
And the shaking bridge
She had to cross
With people on the other side;
 singing and praising in might and white
with joy and glory
but bellow the bridge
Deep-dark and deep-red hot
people crying
crying without stopping
for ever with no ceasing
their voices echoing back to them,
In mockery
abandoned like sin, they sinned,
burning deep the skin,
deep in the bloody steaming well
not well; but suffering in there
before she could take the first step
she always woke up
dead in spirit;
but the body living;
living it’s last to leave
she woke up sweating and weakens for worries
she chewed off her forever bitter medicine
…she was used to it,
I watched her in silence,
With a crying heart
This was my sorriest holiday
My last in peace less
Her mouth had split-white
I always sat by her bed,
She blessed me every day she made alive
But it was obvious
Time was narrowing to days
She passed away so soon
She lived not to see her grandchildren;
Her daughter in law
Oh Kakwanzi, My mother left us
She was buried near her husband,
My father Kigufa
In silence not to mention her death cause
I become an orphan,
The left me motherless,
They left me fatherless
Hopeless and lonely


                                    They journeyed together

My mother died a few days after my father
Their ashes mixed in the compound
They left us,
The whole village missed them
It was a loss, hard to replace
It was like they had planned to travel together
They left us orphaned,
And alone
Everything was bitter,
even Kyozi’s milk
with her bones on top,
temping to come out
It’s colour going brown
fading to coffeeish
In the same circle of time
she died too
skinny, bony and aged
age stricken and vulnerable to death
her prominence and glory;
lasted as far as age could reach
age broke its strength
once black like a spotless white rose,
dark all together,
grown to age
tight skin like a hound
bones tempting to hook through
out the hide
bellowing to brawling
a shout of vigour, to a cry of age

old age ate away its meat
like the dread disease of my own
she was left to stand and watch
chew off the grass for her last grace
when she died, I lost a friend
A queen of the cattle had passed away.




                                    Sweet innocent memories

 Slow deforming clouds
Still waters
In slow motion
Resisting the flow
Clinging on to the rocks bellow
The still flower on the wall
fading each day
like my sorrow
growing each day
lonely with no choice
a part of me no more
tears worth nothing
no comfort but alone
in a hut round a lone
walls narrowing in silence
such days when I lost my own
I grow up, from then,
not a child of no one
no one to call my mother
my father
but strong to survive
such the struggles of a young orphan
taught hard to live.
Like when I remember the innocent me
The sweet child-hood memories
When, my mother went to weed,
I would leap through the weeds
To grab the white butterflies,
Flying above,
Beautifying the weeds
 for nothing but my amusement,
I would inspire her;
To dig further
To till more, and with joy
I took away her sorrow
Dried up her sweat,
So sweet
So innocent
are the memories I still hold of her
Memories of that age and time


                                    In the memory

The one wander of my land,
Maybe it’s milk
Or the sweet water in my grandmother’
Pot, the aroma sweeter than milk
In milk you can’t trade poison,
In water you can’t hide poison
The most refreshing, down my throat.
From the valley grazing games
In her bosom I surrender
Sweat and wet after the play
ready to sip down my throat
ready to feast my thirst.

I was loved,
I always looked forward with happiness
I lost my grandmother Bwera
To old age,
I lost my mother,
All the moments I miss
 Being with her
I yearn for her love and care.

I considered a blood check,
After falling sick, for a week
After a month of bad memories
Only to find out more terror
Like a thief in the night,
opening your eyes to terror
beyond shock, to silence,
but flashes and masks,
helpless, defenseless,
a thief in the night
like a virus in my blood
all the same
the tormentor I never chose.



                                    My nightmares     

I was neither safe,
My mother’s and father’s blood was in my veins
My blood was also stained
I was also HIV positive
Many people at first considered it a curse
…maybe it was so
An incurable disease,
A disease of diseases,
A chain of other diseases
A chain of suffering
I felt abandoned,
In a deep dark ditch
Like I had fell in the deepest depression,
Depressed as I could be
All alone, so helpless
I couldn’t believe it
Or accept it for that reason
Like I had a choice,
Innocent people deserved no such cruelty
Such a cruel death,
Fall of suffering;
That I knew
As I remembered how my father died, and
Latter my mother
…without seeing their grandchildren,
Or even; meeting the joy of my life.
I knew its ways,
I knew its stigma,
I knew it all,
I knew how it squeezed one’s life
To the end
Helpless and hopeless
Like beer through a straw,
How it ate away a person’s meat
Slimming to bones
Slowly and slower; but with a mission.

                                     Trapped in their making,
                                     and the innocent
Bones of spiders
hanging in its web,
in the cold corners
no one to blame but
their selves.
On the other corner,
the same, but
the blameless
a suffering of the same,
not chosen but found
a suffering
one that even punishes the bones.

                                    missing heart

Hopeless but thoughtful
Just as I fear to lose her
It wasn’t her decision to make
All the truth, I loved her
Miserably, I had lost her,
my mother Kakwanzi
life became dull and dark
a day without her is with no joy
even Joy too far, to comfort me
a morning without her,
even the birds miss to sing
signed by silence from their bills

Amidst all,
Rosy memories came behind my worries
My Joy,
I still had joy to go to,
I had lost much,
But also had a lot to look forward for

                                    Never less trip

Windows cracking with speed,
As I sat in a bus seat
I looked out the window,
Everything was moving fast,
But moving backwards
I thought of my future,
 I envisioned cracks on the glass,
My temperature was peaking to boil water,
A child stunningly started crying;
Beside me
…for their usual reason,
I had cried my own
My tears had dried
The dirty parallel lines
He reminds me of my own
Too obvious to fake a smile
My tears coated with fear,
I could handle that,
Than the slow tunes from the bus-radio
Nothing smelt pleasant
Not even the drinks and snacks sold.
Time was still, slow
The journey was still long
The bus was at its speed,
My heart was beating twice as normal
I had no fear,
Because my fear was in me,
I simply couldn’t believe it,
…the whole twist in life
Unabated, the wheels rolled well,
To the final destination,
The city, some were in Africa










                                    scratched back

At the centre of my worry,
There was light,
My Joy
My longtime girlfriend
Whom I love and loved so dearly
Who took of my time to court
I was the only one unmarried of my mates
I was tied to education,
More so I was to Joy
Whom I have met at St Paul

The fact of her being of a different tribe
Spoke difficult,
I even don’t know how I go her,
 It was destiny I guess
She was full of vigour
Like once Kyozi, was
But no more,
My plans wouldn’t align without her
I was deeply in love was her
And sure she does love me to.
For the moment,
I felt my hopes were down a slope
Inclined on slippery ground
I felt losing her
After knowing my status,
I came to the city to set,
My doubts straight
On my arrival I set off to Joy’s house,
To face her with the truth, and her family too,
“love, no secrets” was the bond
It was a harsh test,
She could back out,
She could pretend it was just friendship
It was a choice she had to make
Not her alone but also her family
No parent would wish, a sick man for a husband
A future of assured unhappiness
Even my tribe stroke reason,
Another reason to my disapproval.

She took the issue with great concern,
She ask for time to think about it
The air froze in her face
I could tell her shock, with reason
But her parents were defined for no
The following day she called me up
And told me about her decision
She turned to me
And said
“I shall not dessert you,
Not for no reason” she added
“…I love you”
…one could say,
She was committing herself to death itself
Sacrificing her beauty to dust,
I was relying on her pity
The only option was to ran a way
The support I got, and we had,
From brothers of foreign blood
brothers beyond others
friends that care
and encourage
surely not alone
the solid support I got
the school mates
hat become my support.

Start a family together with love as the witness
Which we did











                                    The best option

We began a life together
She went to college and became a teacher
I also became a mechanic
We had children, a strong family we made
Such a compound filled with love
We lived happy, though we had less time
With my stained blood
I was loved
So strong was our love
Not the cure, but was there.

                                    WHAT WILL, WILL BE
I lived my life a lone
I ask myself,
Do I deserve to live?
Who says I should be
Or what I become
Could I have been different?
I realize my struggles are mine alone
From the day I was born
My tears too
But my joy-laughter, i have to share,
As I walk slowly in rain
Insanity not insane
Wondering about everything,
The clouds tight in the heavens
Rain falling down through me
On my head with a cold
I stand and say
Who am i
Why is everything running in its routine
why somepoeple struggle,
others sit at leisure,
some get it dirty
some get it clean
I say light is the paint
Knowing is the painter,
The talent is with the almighty
Life is like a painting
A screen of images in motion
Every step- everyday, a design that can’t be erased
Or else, the whole piece distorts
Destiny is not in anyone’s hands
But opportunities are.
They are always there,
And are created by people
Though some choices seem light
But usually bust before you know
Every part of ones being is an asset
For the right cause
For even dreams are not a mistake;
You only dream what you know.
Your hands are there to seize opportunities
But destiny is not any one’s slave
Even kings never choose to be,
Nor do the poppers.
As I took a step backwards
Thought of how many days I had to live
Only three days were available,
Yesterday, today and tomorrow
I took another step backwards,
And thought of all wonderful things,
A baby holding on to the mother’s breast
A mother with all the love to tell
So happy than you can imagine
I thought of all people I had to meet
All in design
All my friends, all my foes
All like the cold drops on my head
 All my bets were on my life,
I live my life, with a brush and paint,
Only the size the paper I have to choose
Large or small I have to choose
No second paper, but the paint is in plenty
As the drizzles change direction,
Drops roll down my face,
Like a dice standing on its vertex
Like a future of my own, of many faces
Waiting for a jerk-a quake to settle
It lands for a lesson,
The chooses the choices
The lessons I learnt
Brief and vital
Respect, in all dimensions
Patience and determination.
Still in the rain, still standing
Still strong like the rain in the steel in machines,
But with no hearts,
I feel the cold, the wind over my skin



                                     Dry tears

Don’t look at me and cry,
Am not a grave, nor a flower
Shed no tear for me
At least before you do
Don’t entertain my disease
Don’t accommodate sin
Every step account to your depression,
My dreaded disease,
It eats bone and fresh
Melt metal and butter
…the wealthy and poor
Eats me up piece by piece
Has killed my own
Flows through my veins
I still have no redemption
I can’t be cleaned of this stain
Each day, I slim and narrow
…to my vanishing point,
I never wished to suffer,
Don’t chose to suffer
My sadness is your decision.






“A city well defined”



                                    Two peas

Both on the same soil,
In search for the same thing
They will fight by tendrils
They will lose leaves in the process
The weak will rot,
The weak will die forever,
As the greats spread their springs
And territories
The bigger prey; also hunt small prey
It’s a fight for survival
But the end is for all
Foes fight, the victors live
The foes and friends hunt in the same jungle
For the same meal, to eat



They pray not to fall prey for each other
Nothing can be under minded,
Even a plant is a predator
It can poison by its colourful petals
And well-formed branches
Like the women of Rome
From their bosom to their blossom
Some animals fall for them
In a game were the females are few
The game becomes bloody
Beyond meat to mate
When the racers meet
The meeting is not for discussion
The one who sustain the game,
To the end wins.










                                    city of greedy people

Greedy people, in the city,
They build tall concrete walls around their homes
 It’s like they don’t care,
With metallic thorns on top
They don’t need their neighbours
Everyone is of his business
No one peeps in an others gate
Everyone slashes their bush
They are divided by walls and avarice
Children also mind their play
They keep their toys to themselves
Unlike my village Nte’Nkulu,
Where children gather in the valley
To wrestle and play,
Life there is simple
But banal to excite a city boy
A boy already tamed by the city
When it’s time to slash
You slash your own home and the hood

But the city is big
But empty of love and care,
So careless and loveless
A void of such,
Full of people hearted as such,
May be it’s because they’re strangers to each other
They come from different corners
Of the same square
With a common name to their pride
They are strangers
By character and language
They’re there for the same course and cause
…the strides of modernity






                                     At brisk

This is Africa,
A city in Africa
My father used to say,
A city of all tribes,
Land of black and white fruits
With a culture trying to survive
The burning sun of the centaury
Kigufa Mutete, master of the bottle
Man of stories
He spent his youth to journeys,
And journeying,
He told me people there never greet,
They minded their own steps and paces
They counted their pennies without leak



                                    An empty mansion     

Inside is a secret
That you have to find
Inside those tall walls; with no cracks
But cold-froze
They stand up right with a dome
And wide doors
They say nothing but invitation,
Hospitality, otherwise
But they are liars
They’re solid liars and shameless
It’s a colourful mansion
With flowers and fountains by the entrance
The only mistake is to open its doors
Experience is not the best teacher
Ignorance is better after knowing
When you set your eyes on its inner emptiness.
it pulls you before you take the first step
When you take the first,
You need not take the second
Because it possesses you
Swallows you with no repulsion
That’s when you feel its cold wrath
You shiver and fever, with fear
You taste the sour apple, the bitterest beet
You get stranded in
In the spiders’ silk
Thick, no resistance
Its vast walls without life and peace
But bad fumes
It’s like putting on an itchy court
Expecting comfort
When you’re in,
You in, for the worst, and for good
Every scream you make             
Echoes back in a roar,
A roar of its walls
Even more louder to break your fear and fright
The only mistake is to make the first move.
It’s dark in there,
Those who come out know it better
Even the corners,
That could harbor you
Are darkest and the coldest
The further you move in
The darker it becomes
…the more you fall in love
…the more you fall for sponge
…the more your sight blinds
You can’t resist the horror
The terrifying images
…of the bony and skinny
The further you move in
The dustier it becomes
The more dirt you find
The more skeletons you find
Skeletons of many men
Brave or cowards,
Titles or rankles
Killed by their recklessness
Bones of rats and cats
Clinging on to walls
It spares neither friends nor foes
For no reason
Bones coated with dirt
…the many hearts broken before yours
This makes a haunted mansion
Beautiful as it may be on the glance
The fake first impressions
but stained with blood.
with stained blood.
It spares no man
It’s a bank of bones
Store of innocent blood
That turns dark black.
The doors are glued on your back
Every door you enter.
…when stained you wait for your death
Her charms are irresistible
The renowned prostitutes 





                                    Unwanted prostitutes

A thorny tree, with a calm shed
In the town park
Waiting for the troubled
To pile on their grief
The shed is black, as its shadow
A tree with red-sharp thorns
Dangerous to climb
Some of them scattered by its territories
You take shelter at your risk
…if you can
It shadow captures to kill
Shaking with the wind’s blow
…unsteady for a wife
It sways like a little stalked flower,
In the park.

Like holy temples with rusty doors
Beautiful structures,
But narrow entrances
…narrow hearts to be loved
They are like funnels, and fish nets
They seize all its way; in its reach

They’re like street lights,
On their posts
On akimbo posture
Exposing their ripe angles
They’re too bold to be innocent
Too beautiful to be handled
Too tattered (scraped) to be stitched
Their sweet mouth and rolling eyes
Coloured like butterflies ready to deliver caterpillars
There is no jealousy in the business
They do it for many reasons
May be it’s an addiction,
Or simply poverty in short skirts,
Demoralizing the society
On the out skirts of our city

They’re like hooks,
Planted in each dark corner of the city
Ready to hook and hang
…their poisoned hooks for fingers
…with smiling faces
The swamp, sharp blades to cut,
To spill blood,
the poisoned blades to kill

They provide quick cure and death,
Beside them are their idols,
Ready to take over
The amateurs to the game
But good for the market
They stand by and watch to learn
To learn the old wicked tricks







                                    Desperate streets;

In my dreams
Walking on an endless street
Down town,
A town with tall buildings
Surrounded by concrete walls
With large velanders spreading out,
Filled with scattered little children,
Some still on their mother’s breasts
Too young to put right their speech,
Laying out their arms
Abnormally formed deformed legs
With their fingers in air like mockers,
Saliva dropping out their mouth
With tattered clothes, for rags
Sagging on their small bodies
Clothes with patches on another
They ‘re like black flowers on street
They are not colourful
 They arise in me pity
Kindness just like a flower
They’re always there, even now
Their mothers in the corners, watching helplessly
In poverty
They stand on rubbish
With their broken toys
And missing teeth
Their deformed legs
…too young for that reason.
The toys broken by their users
Broken for them to use
From the rubbish they find their joy
The streets feed them
The streets cloth them
The street shelters them
They depend on it
It nurtures them for life
Hard or softly, they also grow
Heart or, robbed of one
They are a part of us,
Whoever they become, is not certain
An endless street with a lot to see
An approach with no end.
An African street, any street you can define,

The writer was born in Ibanda district, Western Uganda. To the late Kywatotyo Edward and the late Tumwiine Mary Dovika. He went to Kitante primary school, Mpererwe church of Uganda primary school (PLE), Wampewo Ntakke secondary school for his UCE and to Kitante Hill School for UACE. And is currently at Kyambogo University pursuing a Bachelor degree in Telecommunications Engineering.

[1] The word means sorghum, but is used to show an activity carried out by the community
[2]is a common ritual done on born babies, to give them blessings in life
[3] Means that something stayed overnight, and was not expected to survive
[4] The meaning of the word is, an old cow
[5] Were means God in eastern Uganda
[6] Is a process of making local alcohol
[7][7] Is a greeting in western Uganda
[8] Used to mean confused
[9] Kyozi means a black pumpkin or
Also can mean a black cow(animal) with no other spots,
However, Kyozi has been used to mean African people
[10] A sauce made from ghee
[11] Is a cow without horns
[12] Muusha is a tree from which medicine is got for many diseases
[13] Is a grinding stone
[14][14] A bush of bitter red wild fruits in swamps
[15] Are small round wild pumpkins that grow in the bush
[16] In actual sense it means, a woman defecating
But here it’s used to mean a river
[17][17] The word means lies/deception
[18][18] Werefred is a combination of “Were” which mean God in eastern Uganda,
And Fred which is an English name
[19] Means a hero
[20] Means that hold like that, probably a bottle of alcohol
[21] Kigufa means a bone, used to describe the physique of the person in reference
Mutete means the grass used to make alcohol, here it’s used to show the person likes alcohol
[22] Means that, am rich because of my eyes
[23] Bushera means porridge made from millet,
But here it’s used to mean a river in the valley
[24] Means Mathew in the local language
[25] Used to mean prostitutes

[i] this grows like a pumpkin, and is used like a vessel, for keeping brew, it’s like a pot

No comments:

Post a comment

The Soldier, I Am

A soldier is a strong Man, fearless, he has a gun, he is trained to kill,...the enemy, because, if it's not him, we are all doomed, you ...