Shift form; tuck in stomach. Oh you temptress of the night. Waist beads. Fire doing the ritual dance. A lick of heat at the navel.

blue flame.

red coal.

molten wax.

dragon fly losing sting. Pleasure dissolves into ashes; impurely white.

Let the exhale of your breath unravel the inches of skin contoured with stretch marks.

Wrap them within folds of Ankara. Flee from the rhetoric in his eyes. Find home in the pomposity of the catwalk of the slim and hues of coloured lips.

Kum ba ya. Kum ba ya. Kum ba ya.

Wake mercy from within.

If your folded and pleated body uncovers a fiery escape.

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PS: It has been a while. So, here I am… partially(anti duty calls) enjoying the one week holiday and part of the fun is creating poems and re-assuming my online hobby;scavenger online hunt for all things literature.

THE NAMES.

Her name stands in a vineyard in Stellenbosch. Infant vine with the promise of youth. Old vine with the accentuation of wisdom. Look at how it is being taken to the refinery. A name should not be refined, only glorified. Her name now lies in a glass bottle. Confined. Watered, to give pleasure to the lips of men. Her name is something no longer tangible. It lies forgotten in the pits of stomachs. It is being churned into something unrecognisable-into something crude. Into something we shall pretend to not know. Into shit.

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His name is sited on a stool in a craft shop next to the River Nile. It is being admired by the lady with a kitenge headscarf. She buys it and hangs it up in her house. It is her trophy. A mere object, to be looked at and discarded when she tires of it. To be replaced by the television and the mobile phone. To find its way back where it started, on the ground. Only this time as something that has outlived its usefulness, not as bark nor wood.

 

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Their names lie on the skins of the men of the Asante Empire. These names are warriors. Resilient. See how resilience is turned into something forbidden. The letters R-E stay and the rest morph into B-E-L-L-I-O-N. Resilience is now Rebellion. The names are captured, chained and bundled onto a boat. These names traverse the Atlantic. Look at how some jump ship and drown. Look at how Mother Nature conspires against the rest of them- the winds fail to carry these names back to their motherland.

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LITERARY CRUSH 2: NICK MAKOHA.

So, I think the best decision I have made in a while was to deactivate some of my Social Media accounts. At this rate, the surviving ones may follow suit.

WHY? People, I have been able to write 4 poems in a week. HOW? Reading a lot of poetry. I honestly feel like I am just getting started. *does a Simba and Mustapha roar*. Obviously, some need work but I tell ya, I’m feeling invincible right now. *also slides in a ka request to Mother Mary and St. Jude for …. well, they know what*.

But anyway, when I posted last, I was gushing about ‘Five Stations for Various.’ Today, my literary crush is…. *cues drumroll but realises it is already revealed from my title, up there… then stops the music*… Nick Makoha. My gash. My gash. You have to seriously see for your selves. I have honestly not read interviews that inspire as much thought as his  did>http://fathersuperhero.com/ . If you love literature, You’re welcome. Also, you can check more of what he’s up to here. And last but not least, here’s a poem of his that I love.

Well, I am not done. This is only the beginning.

Yours,

Self-appointed Sherlock Holmes in Literature

#UgBlogWeek Day 3: LIGHTHOUSE.

 

 No pi-ki-cha

Of a lighthouse

That stands on a lone island,

In a forgotten country.

Thunder and lightning

Drowning out…

A thousand voices carried by the winds.

 

PS: Today, I am getting  personal, call it a tell-tale . Lately, I have been feeling like my poetry is static. Like it’s not growing. I feel that an artist regardless of the specialty, needs growth to develop skill.

Over the years, reading has helped me when I felt like this. There are times months and months pass by before I can write again. Lately, I am trying to write every week and read when I can.

On one of those days when I was uncovering every surface on the internet for poetry, I landed on a poem by Richard Ali: Five Stations for Various. You can find it here http://expoundmagazine.com/five-stations-various-richard-ali/.

People, these are goals. One day, I shall write like this. I have come a long way but clearly, I still have a long way to go.

One day, I shall write a poem like ‘Five Stations for Various.’ No, scratch that, I shall write poems like this. This is currently my go to poem when I want to unravel creativity.

Oh and he is a lawyer. Isn’t this another sign? 😉

FFE.

Gwe.

Nze.

Ensi nga bweri.

Ensi nga bwe twandiyagadde okuba.

Kiki ekisingayo amanyi?

 

You.

I.

The world as it is.

The world as we would like it to be.

What could be greater?

Riyaleh... Look at these two.... #TheObamas.

 

PS: In all honesty, I wanted to write something to accentuate these pictures I curated of The Obamas.

KAMPALAN-BUKINABE…

Silence is no safety, y’know

it’s where fear seeks refuge

instead let’s start a revolution, mukwano

and put Che Guevara to shame

with this ardent fire…

Gifting more love to the universe- our very own socialism, not « sosolism »*

Anxious Bukinabe feet matching in Ouagadougou,

declaring Coup d’état over your heart, mine… ours.

 

and if that fails,

let’s rewrite the story of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes

erase… pause… highlight.. erase…write…

a scene where we meet at a quaint ‘Kampalan’ gathering

Your eyes seeking my eyes, my eyes seeking anything but.

everything translating to words and sentences and stanzas and paragraphs and stories and… novels,

and possibly happily-ever-forever..

 

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PS: It doesn’t get easier writing love poems. Not because I’m not in love. Wait, am I? 😉 Anyway I shall pat myself on the back and one day return to it, to polish it up, doing something to lengthen it. And bagyenzi, something needed to be done on this blog.

*sosolism- term coined by poet from okusosola; meaning to segregate.

 

 

 

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN WE RECOGNISE THE ONES WE LOVE NO LONGER?

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN WE RECOGNISE THE ONES WE LOVE NO LONGER?

What happens when we recognise the ones we love no longer?

When from the crevices of their skin is a monster raging,

Reveling in the fear spewing forth from our pores.

 

What happens when we recognise the ones we love no longer?

Their pupils mirroring our silhouettes

Their voices echoed by our actions

To birth strokes of fraternal deeds.

 

What happens when we recognise the ones we love no longer?

Whose feats give rise to our stark devils

Our spirits rebellious,

Our mouths screaming and wailing

Our hands firmly tearing and ripping

Our finger and toe nails scratching

So that we lose sight of who we once were

So that we too, can recognise ourselves no longer.

 

 

« Our strategy should be not only to confront empire but to lay siege to it. To deprive it of oxygen. To shame it. To mock it. With our art, our music, our literature, our stubbornness, our joy, our brilliance, our sheer relentlessness- and our ability to tell our own stories. Stories that are different from the ones we’re being brainwashed to believe.”

Arundhati Roy.

 

NB: I guess you could say that this poem is inspired by the current election frenzy. This is what jail must feel like. A certain ‘big brother’ looking at your every move from a camera which you can see but is too high for you to reach and dismantle. Note to self: do your best to keep away from prison.

Reading that quote by Arundhati, I’d like to think that an empire is symbolic of so many things. It is symbolic of politics of course, intelligence, education, friendship, feminism, manhood, love. The list goes on and on.

It is symbolic of so many things that we believe should be linearly defined with grandeur. Not for us to  feel but for others to see.

Such that an idea of one thing is in complete turmoil with a different idea of the same thing.