THE EASTAFRICANPOET

Sunday Salon - December 21 December 17, 2008 This month’s Sunday Salon will feature readings from Kwani? 05 Sunday Salon Nairobi A Prose Reading Series This month’s Sunday Salon will feature readings from Kwani? 05 by: Billy Kahora David Kaiza Zukiswa from Zimbabwe Music by June Gachui Four readers Four unique voices In a tranquil outdoor setting 7-9pm Sunday 21st Deecmber Kengeles, Lavington Green Entry Only KSh. 300 ABOUT THE FEATURED WRITERS Billy Kahora Billy Kahora is Kwani? and Special Projects Editor. He also writes fiction and has recently completed an MS.c in Creative Writing with distinction and as a Chevening Scholar at the University of Edinburgh. Billy studied and worked in South Africa for 8 years. After leaving South Africa Billy wrote ‘The True Story of David Munyakei’, an extended non-fiction piece with literary elements for Kwani? and joined the organization to spearhead a new kind of journalism: a journalism that can go beyond the dry official voices of the last 40 y

be there!

Written by Kwani · November 28, 2008 To serve our fast growing portfolio of international clients like KLM, Heineken, Microsoft, Nestlé and Nike Africa Interactive is urgently looking for Freelance African reporters to do paid assignments. We are looking for: * African journalists * African photographers * African cameramen/women in all African countries, who speak English or French or Portuguese If you like to sign up, please follow this link: If you want to see who are in our reporter database now, please follow this link: If you like to read more about becoming a reporter for Africa Interactive, please follow this link: If you still want more information, please send an e-mail to Peter Vlam: peter@africanews.com Written by Kwani Filed Under Announcements

Written by Kwani · November 25, 2008 End Of Year Open Mic Slam When: December 2nd 2008 Where: Club Soundd Time: From 7 PM Sharp The first 15 poets to register will get a chance to read / perform a 3 minute poetry piece.The audience will vote for the winner through an unriggable secret ballot FIRST PRIZE : Kshs 6000 Second and Third Prize: Books from Kwani? The audience is also a winner! A raffle will be drawn where you stand a chance to win Kwani 1, 2, or 3 DON’T MISS KWANI KRISMAS NEXT WEEK!

it's amazing how luck loves smiling upon my wretched self,I dropped by a friend's room and found this truly fab' book -IN THE WORDS OF NELSON MANDELA,complete with raw photos of the bigger than life MADIBA smiling in a way nobody could describe aptly.. Now I just can't seem to let go of this jewel of a book. But to be plain and simple,it's about MANDELA'S take on a whole lot of issues,actually all the issues that pertain to living;its amazing how normal talk can go on to be really revolutionary work that inspires so many people.. There is so much to say about this book but I wont tel it all;to the youth he says this; "Young people are capable,when aroused,of brining down towers of sppression and raisng banners of freedom" To be able to be lucky enough to be let into the mind of a man who towers over so many,is proving too much for me and my humble senses,each phrase I read hits me so hard that I have to pause and re-read it afresh in my mind. NELSON

You cupped my face And told me; If I ever felt lost I should only look And I’ll surely find you... You would be The soft breeze That gently ruffles my trousers And yet still The harsh wind That lashes at my face You said you’d be The morning rain That the grasses love And still the ghostly storm That tears down trees You told me You’d always be there As the sunlight on my skin And the darkness to my eyes You told me again and again that You’d always be here But now That the air stands still And the yellow sun Is chained behind clouds I realize how much of me you took with you

I POURED OUT TWO GLASSES OF TEA BUT DRANK BOTH. THIS SHELL OF A MAN CAN STILL TAKE SOME ICE. THE EARTH I'M WALKING IS SLOPPING GENTLY INTO A GRAVE.. THE JULY MIST THAT ELEGANTLY COVERS THE MOUNTAINS AHEAD; NOW BARRS MY VIEW. TONIGHT MIGHT JUST BE THE ONE, THE ONE ANTICIPATED NIGHT. THAI I FLOAT AWAY. BUT I'M FIGHTING HARD AND IN THIS FIGHT I'LL KEEP WISHING- WISHING THAT YOU COME BACK

Maurice Kirya 11-25-2008 20:00 at ROUGE KAMPALA ROAD, KAMPALA, +256 Cost: 10000 The Maurice Kirya Experience is a monthly showcase of live artistic talents which occurs on the last Tuesday of every month and features music, poetry and art. The Maurice Kirya Experience is a platform for new and established singers, musicians, poets and visual artists to showcase their talents in a warm supportive environment. We hope you will be able to come and Join The Artistry

Sunday Salon Nairobi A Prose Reading Series Featuring: Juliet Maruru Moraa Gitaa +2 Screen Writers from the Kenya Film Commission & Kwani Trust Screen Writing Workshop & Musician Maia Four readers Four unique voices In a tranquil outdoor setting 7-9pm Sunday 23rd November Kengeles, Lavington Green Entry Only KSh. 300 ABOUT THE FEATURED WRITERS & MUSICIAN Moraa Gitaa Moraa Gitaa was born, bred and raised in the port city of Mombasa. She has lived and worked in the coastal beach town all her life and only a year ago moved to Nairobi where she is a fulltime writer and is working on plans to initiate an organization that provides books for disadvantaged children residing in informal settlements and those challenged by dyslexia, a condition that had challenged her daughter. She attended the Aga Khan group of schools in Mombasa and studied Administration and IT at the Coast College of Commerce. ‘CRUCIBLE FOR SILVER AND FURNACE FOR GOLD’ is her debut novel published in Canada. She

I couldnt pick her calls because I was busy all day.. But the mere mention of the word 'BUSY' is always enough to drill out her diamond tears and lying was never the best of my virtues, I'll tell it as it is. 'Hey baby;how was your day?' 'Good.' Deafening silence after the curt reply It's not all good. 'Well,thats all I needed to know have a splendid night, hope I'll catch you tomorrow..' With that I hung up and toppled onto my bed. But after a minute the cell rings and the name 'luvliest' is on my screen 'Hey..I was trying to ease my achy body..' She gets straight to it and doesnt mince her words 'You don't love me anymore.' Then the deafening silence 'You don't do me anymore you don't see me anymore and you don't even talk anymore' 'I do,I always have I've just been...' Damn! 'Say it as plainly as you can; you've been busy!' Her voice is breaking they must be dropping b

guiltiness and shame don't walk these corridors anymore thre's no blame neither I feel the re-birth as a new being rises only righteousness lives here

HOW IT ALL WENT DOWN... A few words would aptly tell how the whole saga that is WAPI went down on the 8-11-08; "pathetic time management and disorganisation" I could go on and on about how great WAPI is but I will not,true WAPI discples will testify that WAPI is God-sent.. I got to view the WAPI FOCUS UGANDA poster in my campus and I tried googling it so I could set it on this blog but it was nowhere,I guess I should do it myself.. So its a Saturday and me and a pal have been running through a spoken word piece that we would like to perform and he has his lines on lock but mine are vapour in my head,all hazy and unclear... We got to the People's sapce at 11:07 and the stage hasn't even been set,boy were early..we head to the writer's tent and realise that nobody is showcasing their work as it has been in the last two WAPIs;there are no boards to exhibit our work so we improvise. At about 11:30 our poems are up on display and a couple of people drop by and criticis

You should see my Nakato Large eyes and soot black lashes Waving humbly to the skies. Fine full lips Darkened by the hot groundnut soup That she loves to insanity You should see her… How she scoffs And hides her face When I whisper into her ears in public. Why touch past my hijab When it’s supposed to keep me away You should see her When she wails And tears doodle on her face As I smile to my triumphant self… You ought to see my Nakato When she’s happy. And tells me not to hurry. Yet she knows I’ve never been a fast one You should see her Living beside me

I met her at city square, beside and below the taxis hooted and sped off gradually. The men who worked for bitano and bibiri thought I looked OK. You thought sneakers on shorts was crazy. I should go and change then we would meet later. At the beach my friends stole clubs as I swallowed full smirnoffs . You thought alcohol wasn’t good. I thought I should go swim. It is warmer in there than here. I left you dancing and swam in my boxers. Later on I realized my swimsuit was my underwear. I took you back home without undies beneath my Owino jeans. In the waters I flirted with a girl. She swam in her bra and thongs. She let me touch and held me fast and easy. I wanted it better; she thought rubbers don’t work under water. We skinny dipped and held tight. You didn’t see me. Your sister said it was too late and I ought to take you home. She was furious but I made her smile when I said that I still liked her beans; the ones that gave me acute constipation. I left the country the next day,

I remember how crazy you were over my brother And how crazy he went After he found out you and I were screwing. I remember cupping your full butt in the cold night. I told you I could have kissed you If my breath was right, Then I tried to justify it By telling you about my full day’s intoxicated sleep. You told me to hush. I said we could’ve gone to my room If it wasn’t so late. You began walking towards it. My auntie asked if I had eaten the next morning. I said plenty. You smiled when you had me say it...

The last time I saw you I was behind the library Sitting on the grass writing poetry. I saw you walking my way And thought that your belly was too fat lately. You wanted us to embrace but I didn’t. Then you wanted us to walk but again I thought different. You said I wasn’t the man you fell in love with. I thought you were bluffing You went away for 4 months internship. I called after a month And said I loved you but you kept silent. You wrote me a text And said it was only right for both of us to move on You broke my heart I failed to cry but wailed inside You said you’d try to love me again. I asked if you’d began missing me. You laughed loud and I felt good.

Vancouver rapper looks to his African roots When people think of Africa, they often think about poverty, hunger, and the HIV epidemic. But suffering is only half the story. What most people don't know about Africa is that there is a generation of youth coming up that's highly talented, creative, and motivated. All across the continent, this generation is channelling its energy and desire for change into hip-hop culture. It's not just a time of suffering in Africa, it's also a time of profound hope. Vancouver rapper Babaluku has witnessed this movement firsthand. Babaluku, aka Mr. Africa, was born in the city of Kampala, Uganda, and immigrated to Ontario when he was 12 years old. His rhymes speak to the experience of being caught between two different cultures””what it felt like to be a young African growing up in small-town Canada. As a show of solidarity with his homeland, Babaluku raps in his mother tongue, Luganda. He is one of the pioneers of Luga Flow Flavor, a mus

she gave it to me too easily, now I go down on her too easily. she tastes like Cinnamon and rosemary..

Poetry Open Mic, Tuesday November This month’s Kwani? Poetry Open Mic will feature ‘Smitta’.Tony ‘smitta’ Mochama is a poet and journalist who lives and works in Nairobi. A Law graduate, Tony is also a vodka connoisseur, gossip columnist extraordinaire, and has a collection of short stories coming out soon titled – ‘The ruins down in Africa’. He has also been called a ‘literary gangster’, from time to rhyme. His collection of poetry, ‘What if I am a literary gangster?’ was published by Brown Bear Insignia in 2007. And the event coming on Election Day in the US, he have Obama as his theme. The event is hosted by Cindy Ogana and held every first Tuesday of the month at Club Soundd. Poets (not singers please) who wish to take part in the Open Mic session should attend the sound check strictly between 5 & 6 pm on the day of the event. No late entries will be accepted. Please bring a printout of your work with you. The event starts promptly at 7pm on Tuesday 7th October, and entry is on

I’m getting raised in the MYSPACE, FACEBOOK and BLOGGING generation. Its called SOCIAL NETWORKING like we’re meeting at a fine spot in town and truly hanging out, not spending hours in front of a P.C. See I spend hours updating my blog,uploading content onto my MYSPACE page and trying to find out what my best buddies are up to in FACEBOOK.And we’re so many that we get sorted out into groups, scores of social geeks like me. Up here I tell about myself, I throw my best loves in the mix; like my best music and words then walk of the P.C all alone and go chill in my room; all alone. It’s even harder to talk about anything today, at least in the real world it is. I cannot even hold a conversation that is decent enough with anyone except the usual HI...But I can hang out at FACEBOOK for hours till my eyes hurt. Its called UTANDAWAZI in Swahili speak or GLOBALISATION in this language. You meet people as far as Japan, Australia an India who exist so close that you can virtually touch them and

THESE POEMS ARE COPYRIGHT PROTECTED AND ARE THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF B.GIDEON AND K.COSMAS FROM THEIR COLLECTION; BYSAIL, BY CUPID. ALL THESE HAVE BEEN PUBLISHED WITH PERMISSION FROM THE COPYRIGHT OWNERS. ENJOY... OPTIMISTIC: MAY SEEKER BE FINDERS MAY WISHERS BE ACHIEVERS AND FRIENDS BE LOVERS AND MAY WE END AS ONE IN A KISS TENDER NIGHT: YOU ARE THE PASTE THAT DAZZLES ME WHITE YOU ARE THE WATER THAT WASHES ME PURE AND THE BLANKET THAT KEEPS ME WARM YOU ARE THE SUN THAT SAYS GOOD MORNING YOU ARE THE MOON THAT KISSES THE GOOD NIGHT AND YOU ARE THE STARS THAT WISH ME SWEET DREAMS REASONS: YOUR PRESENCE IS WHY MY EYES SEE YOUR VOICE IS WHY MY EARS LISTEN YOUR BREATH IS WHY MY LUNGS RESPIRE YOUR BLOOD IS WHY MY HEART BEATS AND YOUR LOVE IS WHY I LOVE. AS FOR LOVE: LET ME BE OF GUILT IF INNOCENCE IS A FACTOR MAKE THEE RIPE SO THY GRAPES MAY DRIP OF VINE LET I BE PRISONER IF FREEDOM WILL NOT LET IT BE STARVE M

Ghost purge And bludgeon my soul They whip and lash me As they dance around me Getting an erotic high As they move me closer to hell I whine Amidst my bloody tears And wish I was subliminal in her arms.

Why should I walk my own road And be dubbed a rebel? Why do they call me wrong When I only do it different? Why is it referred to madness When it’s only what I truly am? And what’s wrong with being wrong?

Did you ever mess up your life so bad that you thought it would never be possible to redeem your lost self? Did you ever get into scum so deep that you believed getting out of the stench hole is a dream that you would never see come true? Well I’m in one of those now. I screwed up in my exams and my course is nothing close to what I thought it would be, my college also tells me that I cannot get a change of course as late as this; so until the next academic year, I’ll do what I do best; write till my head crumbles.. Check this one out The fuck up My brother is truly my keeper He tells me lead and rocks And it weighs me down, So bad ‘Fuck up And fuck up some more Then know and believe it That you’ll stand alone always’ His vibes bite And tear me apart I want to escape But he holds steady. ‘Shut the fuck up!’ I wail ‘No I won’t! I’m your brother.’ I won’t run away Not from this one Not like I did before Not like I want to so badly... I pick my back-pack And a match box, There’s two blun

BROADCASTING FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY,THE BEST POEM I EVER HEARD AND THATS FOR REAL!YOU'LL LIKE IT TOO JUST WITNESS. RIVES -DEF POETRY ENJOY,

There is an ugly word for what I'm doing now,it's the equivalent of stealing and where I come from they burn thieves,but this is the blogosphere and here anything goes,to whoever is offended by this;sorry...and I mean it too. Book: Butterflies of the Nile Author: Jane Musoke-Nteyafas Publisher: Cook Communications Reviewed by Joshua Masinde SHE writes poetry, short stories and plays. She is distinctly feminine, describing the African woman's beauty with a passion. Such is her description, "In the beginning, God populated the earth with black women and he made them a rich embellishing combination of all colours and shades. They were beautiful rainbow complexions of coffee, cocoa, ebony, chocolate…” she writes on and on, "and the Devil came along and created skin lighteners…" Butterflies of the Nile by Jane Musoke-Nteyafas, is drawn from a poem by the same title. The poem is an artistic praise of African beauty. To all African women, I dedicate the poem. Despi

BEYOND JUBA PROJECT PRESENTS PEACE FILM FESTIVAL ‘A festival of peace screenings and discussions on the subject of conflict, peace and reconciliation’ IMAGES OF PEACE, IMAGININGS OF PEACE 30-31st OCTOBER 2008 AT THE NATIONAL THEATRE 3:00 to 7:30 p.m FREE ENTRANCE Thursday 30th 3:00 ‘trapped in anguish’ An informed account of the war in northern Uganda, its humanitarian implications and the process of return and re-integration of former combatants. 3:30 ‘ekisis’ A graphic docu-drama on the culture and the values of the Karamajong and their struggle to find everlasting peace in the region. 4:20 ‘panel discussion’ On the conflict in Northern Uganda and the situation in Karamoja, with DAVID PULKOL, African leadership institute, NAOME A.MAO, filmmaker among others. 5:50 ‘Uganda rising’ Multiple award winning film featuring interviews with BETTY BIGOMBE, SAMANTHA POWER,PRESIDENT MUSEVENI and MAHMOUD MAMDANI amongst others, gives a ground breaking account of the 20 year war in northern Uganda

CLUB ROUGE 28th OCTOBER 2008 be there! 8:00 p.m (check out poster)

I can feel it in the air around me Like I’m locked in a windowless room And fumes are all over me Caressing my skin, Kissing my face And having their way into my chest I feel like she’s water A stream gushing easy torrents All over my naked self Bathing me, eroding my filth; Lashing me to a painless climax. She cleanses me… My feet got weary ages ago And I had myself closed off, Locked away to my own cages. Heavy iron bars defined my walls My walls that were my prison, One that I had let myself into My dungeons air chocked me easy And its filth layered on me gradually I was rotting away into decayed scum… But a tiny crack let in flower-like air And tiny drops streamed onto me Now I stand cleansed.

PRICED AT 16,400 UGX IN TOWN 4,920 UGX DOWNLOAD AVAILABLE AT lulu.com. Poetry in this pearl is no doubt looking up.The forums are getting stronger and less spaced out.The revolution is indeed getting televised. Poetic footprints is an anthology of critically acclaimed poems from DICKSON WASAKE who was born and raised in KAMPALA but now lives and works in LONDON.He has also lived in the BAHAMAS where he performed at the SIN QUA NON GALLERY in NASSAU,the BAHAMAS. What makes rthis book a spectarcular read is the cross-cultural phenomenon that the poet uses to bring out the true pictures of life. This is a journey in search of true identity and in this journey;love,anguish and joy mingle as easily as people in the streets.On one hand he talks about love had and lost,human injustice,cruelty and a community losing out on all these and on the other hand he talks about music,dance and celebration,his is a particularly careful balance between the negative and the positive. The collection is on

"Just Like Water" [Verse 1] Moving down the streams of my lifetime Pulls the fascination in my sleeve Cooling off the fire of my longing Boiling off my cold within his heat Melting down the walls of inhibition Evaporating all of my fears Baptizing me into complete submission Dissolving my condition with his tears [Chorus] He's just like the water I ain't felt this way in years He's just like the water I ain't felt this way in years [Verse 2] Coursing through my senses, he's prevailing Floating through the space of my design Drowning me to find my inside sailing Drinking in the mainstream of his mind Filling up the cup of my emotions Spilling over into all I do If I only I could get lost in his ocean Surviving on the thought of loving you [Chorus] He's just like the water I ain't felt this way in years He's just like the water, the water I ain't felt this way in years [Verse 3] Bathing in the fountain of his essence He causes my expression t

It’s really nice to get inspirational at times. The idea behind this poem was to inspire and not merely to inspire anyone but to inspire I, by that I mean me and nobody else but me. If it touches a soft spot in you simply know that these things we go through in our day to day living are nothing but occurrences in our spelled out paths. Paths that we have to race or trop through in our easy pilgrimage towards destiny... Make me wholly yours is about a tormented soul reaching out to the only relief it knows and the only one that can give that much needed relief from a life full of steep happenings. Make me wholly yours: Give me the firm belief The unshaking demeanor And rock hard devotion To you And to your grace Make me accept That this is just but A pre-defined path One that I have to tread upon As I approach my destiny Make me wholly yours Make even the tiniest bit of me Relentless in its pursuit To accept and acknowledge That you’re the all knowing one Instill it into me Deep and int

She attacked my tongue With such vigor That I felt fright kiss me Her hands ripped my jeans Like they were paper Unnecessary and unneeded paper I don’t remember much after that But it must have been a lot My back remains my sole witness

I know only cold sweats When I see her approaching Curvy and graceful With a real woman’s gentle swagger I only know cold sweats When she touches my scrawny chest When she stands so close and I sink into her eyes I only know cold sweats When she shares her flower with me When our waters touch and mingle And when I drown in her dew I only know cold sweats When the smells of real love hit me And I reel in untold ecstasy... I only know cold sweats when she’s is away

I asked how she was doing She said she was ill And I was her remedy Plus she wanted to get well soon So soon enough I was dispensing the dose As she drowned me In her woman-musk The rhythms and rhymes Of love rent the air As we stayed busy Sinking in devotion and emotion.

No problem fine lady, reject me The fine hairs on your head will fall, I swear! Baldness will be yours as it is to the vulture. These streets you walk so proudly Will no doubt refuse you as you do me. The men you smile so well for Will smile as soon as wrinkles hold you. And the women who vainly claim That no beauty surpasses yours Will laugh when age hugs you. Go on, refuse me; age will not.

Ghosts float in the air around me Leaving me in a mass of white footprints As they trample Upon my helpless self. They whirl and twirl around me Like Bushmen performing a dance for their rain god. I press shut my ears and eyes But I only hear and see them better And the torment they sink me into is now worse. I hold hard to anything around me But in my gropping, my hands are held hard. Finally they’ve had me... It’s dark and I try to kick and wail with all my might I know it’s a losing try but I still fight hard, Finally I give in and I’m lifted sky high I hear their triumphant laugh in an echo Then it sinks in, Hell is now my home.

There is this pain Deep in me, Underneath the scars Bleed so profusely. You shared me My life My mind My body… I was never the best Perfection isn’t human You understand that too Now I scream And wish someone Helped me cross Life’s roads... Please return My distress calls. Hold me As I trip

Silence creeps through my walls Percolating noisily into my four walls Howling like a hurricane as it drowns me But another beat fights the shouting silence It’s the song and voice of my heart Steady and relentless in its rhythm My eyelids stay down but I clearly see the figures floating around me Long eerie fingered shadows rise from the darkness And try to grab my ghostly soul. My heart beat lays the background for this song And as it surpasses its climax it slows down Then the shadows hold me down and I’m gone

We went to his home Mugaga's home, the great Mugaga We needed jobs; desperately And we figured out he had lots. We entered the great gates Through the beautiful orchards Then to the great and beautiful house. We had talked to his son He runs the whole farm, It’s amazing to have money It just works for you Mugaga was watering his flowers So he told us to wait at the gate For his son would soon join us. It was quite early so we waited At the gate outside the farm His son was late but we could wait. Soon the sun was over our heads It was noon but we still waited Later on the sun hit our backs, Our rumbling bellies made us leave. We passed by Kiwavu's farm His fraction of an acre needed tilling. And his wife was ill so we opted to help He welcomed us inside His toothless grin still impresses me He gave us tea and mandazis But he had no cow, poor Kiwavu We left only because it was dark We would check on rich Mugaga tomorrow But the thought of the sun hurt us Plus those healthy and w

Now listen all of you, this is not a poem, I repeat this is not a poem. It’s just some random thinking from a love-sick brother, a very love sick one I love love It’s the only thing that makes you feel really free Plus it takes you so high… So high that you ask yourself, Why have I been on that weed? Why had I not spotted her soon enough? And why don’t I look like that Brad Pitt fellow, See he’s got that fine, pouty-lipped lady on his arm... And he does it so easily; like breathing. If only I could be that fellow; If only...

I beg to be alowed to get silly..for once just allow me to, THIS SECRET ITCHES SO HARD INSIDE ME THAT I HAVE TO LET IT OUT. I have a secret to let out, Something quite personal. It’s about my prick; Right now he is slumbering in between my thighs Quiet and uncaring, Immediately he gets to know it’s him we’re talking about He gets all angry and puffed up. It’s then that he realizes that the fabrics I have on me Are just but a jail to him; So he fights hard to break out. But I never let him out without a proper reason... One reason actually; to drain him. Which I must admit, I love to. I love draining him when he is a puffy That draining takes me so high… (To be continued)

Silence creeps through my walls Percolating noisily into my four walls Howling like a hurricane as it drowns me But another beat fights the shouting silence It’s the song and voice of my heart Steady and relentless in its rhythm My eyelids stay down but I clearly see the figures floating around me Long eerie fingered shadows rise from the darkness And try to grab my ghostly soul. My heart beat lays the background for this song And as it surpasses its climax it slows down Then the shadows hold me down and I’m gone.

I personally believe that few forums in the underground elicit as much excitement and artistic psyche like WAPI, if any. This initiative for the underground arts is no doubt attaining its aim of showcasing how gifted the underground is. Solely propped up by THE BRITISH COUNCIL, WAPI is taking over in artistic hotspots all over Africa, the beautiful motherland. Kampala’s edition of WAPI is only in its 4th happening and is growing in leaps. Being the arts fanatic that I am, I would miss it for nothing...WAPI MY RIGHTS didn’t hit the spot this time round but a few big names were in attendance; I got to spot XENSON, the graffiti king who had an official’s tag. His graffiti is really good and I asked myself why he didn’t get into work-mode and show the canister amateurs how to do it right as the graffiti in the place was below par. I checked into THE PEOPLE’S PLACE at 2:52 and headed straight to the POETS/WRITERS tent where nobody showcased their work. Then to the ARTS tent where the painti

HUSH… Hush… And move closer We won’t talk Not today, Not tonight. Its Been Too Long... Too damn long. Snuggle up closer And let me show you How hard You’ve lived inside my mind

Just home: I know a place Where the green on the land As they say, has close to 50 shades. The blue on the waters And the golden yellow of the sun Mix as if by magic; The magic of the greatest painter there ever was… Places where the waters House vast amounts of pricey black gold. Where the savannah is home To the most beautiful beasts And In virgin forests Where men and animals Drink off one water hole. I know of cities in the black continent, Where animal reserves Stand side by side with the sky scrappers. Cities in the great motherland Where music rules And guitars and drums and dancers Know no such thing as sleep. A home where great food is as plenty as air And the best chefs don’t wear white head covers Or work in some fancy 6-star place, No, they mix their recipes over charcoal fires Beside the dusty roads And under the street lights. I know of ladies Who fit so well inside their dresses You’d think they were sewn on them. Ladies who own black flawless skin Devoid of anything exc

Need I say sorry? Should I apologize? Tell me... I left without a word, I just had to go. Yes, I had fun, I loved everyday of it. But there was never a day I didn’t think about you… There never was.

We all love, right? Right. So it’s only fair that we celebrate this great feeling. And for that I’ve searched the deepest of poetic places to come up with this. A love poem from Ethiopia, yes, Ethiopia, the land of the finest ladies. This is a translation from the original Amharic copy. I hope you get to enjoy it. The E.A .poet presents... Love song: You lime of the forest, honey among the rocks Lemon of the cloister, grape in the savannah A hip to be enclosed by one hand; A thigh round like a piston... Your back - a manuscript to read hymns from. Your eye - trigger happy shoots heroes. Your gown - cobweb tender And your skirts like soothing balm. Soap? Oh no, you wash in the finest Arabian scent. Your calf painted in silver lines I dare not touch you! Hardly dare to look back, You mistress of my body More precious to me than my hand and foot. Like the fruit of the valley, the water of paradise. Flower of the night, wrought by divine craftsmen. With muscular thigh she stepped on my hea

Another weekend is here and soon enough it will be gone, and for that I try to find the best way to race through mine; its only one life,remember?Today the driver’s clock reads 2:11 as we speed past NKUMBA UNIVERSITY. On our way to Entebbe. All my tired self truly needs is just a moment by the waters and some loud music to rid my mind of the weariness its suffering from. After a few windy moments I’m there and as fast as I came I head to one AERO BEACH, which would best be described as a scrap yard, what with all the plane scraps around...(Some with their engines intact)and a bunch of old seats which break off and are discarded conveniently by the lake. I feed on some bad fish then grab a beach-seatee by the waters; I’m even lucky to grab one with foam on it so my scrawny bones won’t ache so much… These are the pieces I tried to put together. My buddy: A friend of mine never lets me be.. But today his nagging feels wanted I think he knows how much I need him It’s clear by the way he’s

I love this poem, I just do..First because I got the inspiration to do it from one of the finest ladies gracing the east African music scene and secondly because I just love it. Pretty silly, eh? Inspired by Nakaaya’s MATATIZO.mellow, beautiful and freshly laid back.. Her rock, her fortress. The sides of the stream were too bushy Full of itchy leaves and thorns which hurt. But amazingly the stream had no green in it. Not even mold or moss on its rocks. It was divinely different and strongly beautiful. Yet the water in it was only ankle deep And so pure it looked like a mirror. She sat in the middle of the stream A rock in the middle looked like Solomon’s throne. So she sat on it. Part of her robe in the waters below. She was the queen mother, the divine one. Maybe today, mama would come Lately she had become weary And the wait was now too cumbersome. She sat and looked ahead, aside then down. Light skinned and beautiful, she still was, But ridges had long been formed, tear paths. Her r