Wednesday, October 29, 2008

and this is supposed to make you feel bad..

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 feel the acne on their faces. They think the music you love is cool and the way you talk is hip, they like you so they drop you comments like ‘FINE UPLOAD...ELEGANTLY TOLD...YOU NEVER GET IT WRONG,BROTHER and THE WAY YOU WROTE IT TOUCHES MY CORE,BIG UP!’

The comments you get define the talk you ought to have with friends and family but your family is inside the great network they call the INTERNET and you love how people think you’re cool so you forget about real friends and go like, ‘YOU’RE SO DUMB! FACE BOOK WAS FIREWORKS TODAY, WHERE WAS YOUR DUMB BUTT?! Nextime you see your bestfriend.he thinks it’s cool to hang at FACEBOOK so he joins in and you quietly assure him it’s all free! And soon enough another one of your type is born…

It’s all ironical that I write this on my bed for the many who hit this blog...

Helpless.

from kampala with love..

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 ME OF ALL WATERS

SO I MAY THIRST FOR YOUR LOVE

LET I TO THE BRIM FILL OF IMPURITY

SO IN THEE I MAY FIND PURITY

LET ME BE IT

SO IT MAY BE


HELPLESS:

I AM SMALL AND LITTLE

UNDER HER PALMS OF VIGOR

I AM SLOW AND WEAK

UNDER HER HOT CRUEL WINDS AND I STRUGGLE IN MY

HAUNTED HOUSE

AS IT IS A YELLOW DESERT OF FATE

I AM CRANED OUT OF THY SAND BED OF REST

AND BLINDED IN THE BLUE SEA OF CLOUD

I AM OUT OF HER NET THAT TEARS DO WET

A WISH TO A BLOUSING STORM

IS ALL I CAN MAKE FOR I AM ONLY AN ACHE

IN HER BACK OF HATE

AS I AM NOT A MATE

BUT ONLY A WEEVIL

IN MY WATCHING NEST.

dying man's wish..

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.

4 whys

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?

messed up bad..


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 blunts somewhere
They’ll blot out these issues

But I’m running away
Like the coward me
Always does
Running away in a circle

My soul’s eyes twitch and blink
Then they get misty...
You truly fucked up
Like you have never done.

‘Now grow up and be a man!’
He shouts
‘Sniff away those things
Hold down your own shit!!’

Sunday, October 26, 2008

GO THE VIDEO BAR QUICK ,FAST AND IN A HURRY...

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,

Saturday, October 25, 2008

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.
Despite the beauty the African women are endowed with, it is strange but uncommon how the natives of Africa, especially the men who live in exotic lands, have alienated many things African and embellish themselves in exotic tastes. Muhwezi, in Prom Night, passes for one of such alienated blokes. He is a Ugandan born, Canadian bred chap who does not appreciate his Ugandan born Canadian girlfriend Aisha. Despite her breathtaking beauty, which is a wish for many men, Muhwezi does not appreciate such African beauty.
Aisha is authentically beautiful. She however, puts on make-up and uses lots of beauty enhancing elements to appease Muhwezi. The chap does not still appreciate. In his drunken stupor, he abuses her instead.
She writes of deep love and affection in Nakimera's Love. Nakimera and Rwomushana, both from Uganda but live abroad, meet in an online chatting site. Though, they live continent apart, they fall deep in love such that Nakimera does not object to his suggestion of going to England to stay with him. Nakimera's Love is a tender love story of the African love, which brings together Nakimera and Rwomushana. Through Nakimera, Rwomushana appreciates how beautiful women from his home country are.
Modernity has brought with it myriad make-ups, which most women use to appear 'beautiful'. The Face presents such a scenario. Katrice an African woman, though beautiful in her natural way, uses a lot of make up to fake artificial beauty, which unfortunately, she cannot attain. She had the body and features, which though she disliked, presented her as more beautiful than one would ever think. After adorning the make-ups, she appears quite ugly and is abandoned by her boyfriend.
However, her second boyfriend dissuades her, just like her mother did sometime back, to stop using make-ups as they exaggerate her looks and make her appear ugly. Once, when she decides to rid herself of all make-ups, her authentic African beauty stuns her boyfriend. He vows to keep by her side forever.
Jane Musoke-Nteyefas is potently feministic, championing the rights and place of women in the modern society. In her simplicity, she writes strongly and passionately of the beauty of African women, love and relationships. The themes run through the plays, poems and short stories, with a touch of biblical allusion, thrown in some stories. She writes to heal he distorted stereotypes and misconceptions attached to African beauty. It is powerfully written, passionately moving, truly sensitive and ecstatically moving.

PEACE FILM FESTIVAL..


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.

Friday31st

3:00 ‘what about us’
The beyond juba project launches its documentary on urban IDPs and their exclusion from IDP policy, to be followed by a discussion with the IDPs themselves

3:30 ‘panel discussion’
On the return of IDPs and the challenges faced by their urban counterparts with APPOLO KAZUNGU office of the prime minister, a representative of UNHCR among others

4:15 ‘we didn’t know’
The process of truth telling is unraveled in this insightful documentary on the TRUTH AND RECONCILIATION COMMICSSION OF SOUTH AFRICA.

4:40 ‘panel discussion’
On justice truth and reconciliation in Uganda with OFWONO OPONDO, NRM deputy spokesman and MOSES ADRIKO, former president, Uganda law society, a representative of the South African high commission among others

5:40 ‘red dust’
An award winning drama exposing the complexities of truth telling at south Africa’s TRC through the disparate lives of its witnesses.

Friday, October 24, 2008

THE MAURICE KIRYA EXPERIENCE..


CLUB ROUGE

28th OCTOBER 2008

be there!

8:00 p.m

(check out poster)

-cleansed-

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.

POETIC FOOTPRINTS by DICKSON WASAKE

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 only 36 ages and the finest poems by personal opinion would have to be A BATTLE WHERE LIMBS MEET and A LETTER TO MANJERI ON THE MOUNTAIN.Wasake draws his inspitration from W.B YEATS,MAYA ANGELOU,TIMOTHY WANGUSA and MATSUO BASHO.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

my best song,ever...

"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 to remain
Humbled on a mountain by his presence
Washing my intentions with his name
Sealing off the floodgates of his passions
Saving all his liquid for his own
Moisturizing me to satisfaction
In my imagination? No no!
He's pouring out his soul to me for hours and hours
Drawing out my nature with his hands
Yearning I'm so thirsty for his power
Burning to be worthy of his land

[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

[Ad Libs Remainder]
Cleaning me
He's purging me
And moving me around
He's bathing me
And he's claiming me
And moving me around
Around and around and around
And around
Watching me, claiming me
Moving me around
He's purging me
He's been cleaning me
And moving me around
And around

Monday, October 20, 2008

make me wholly yours..

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 into my core
That yours is an unfaltering love
And all that you want for me
Is but the best

Inspire me, strengthen me
Hold up my crippled being
Respond to my distress
But above all
Make me wholly yours

short term memory loss.

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

my cold sweats.

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

her remedy..

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.

go on...

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.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

homeward bound...

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.

tripping...

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

silent voices

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

plentily scarce..

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 wicked dogs...
Rich Mugaga made us wait in hunger
Yet Kiwavu fed us whole heartedly
We still don’t know who is rich and who is not.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

WARNING:THIS IS NOT A POEM.

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...

my prick...

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)

silent voices:

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.

4th WAPI KAMPALA;WAPI MY RIGHTS?

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 paintings, jewelley and sculptures never fail to impress. I’ll get myself one of those soon. The show had not begun but the in house DJ played some fine reggae that I liked...

I spotted a group of FREESTYLISTS and headed their way like a dog that had smelled a bone. One MATEO PONSI (who’s white) drums so well as the rappers get into the circle to bust rhymes, all these was coordinated by one UGLY who threw out anyone that fell off beat, the B-BOYS also helped to warm it up nice. I’m the last and the only one that slows it down with poetry, the mad props I get surely got me psyched up but it wasn’t long before the artists were called to their tent. Big up to MATEO PONSI and BEN BEIZ for that fine rap session, the artists also killed it.

WAPI oozes creativity and is the only forum where you can have a singer, comedian, a fashion designer, a graffiti artist, a poet, a rapper and a professional photographer share one audience.

The acts began at about 3:39 and the artists could be visibly seen backstage biting nails and changing into performance gear. I however spotted no ladies but a later on few were in attendance.

Fashion was aptly represented by CLEAR FASHIONS and STELLA CREATIONS who displayed fab’ ladies clothes. I didn’t happen to spot any more fashion up until I left at about 8:26.

Dancing was world class, I must admit. Dance was represented by the superfine MAISHA, who displayed moves that got everyone off their seats, the fellaz and chicks in this crew are the best in the city and their WAPI show showed how good they truly were. But MAISHA were given a run for their money and talent by the BREAKDANCE PROJECT, whose teenage boys and girls did moves that impressed all. They were personally my best performers for the night. Big up to all.

Hip hop was big that Saturday and LIL K, LKP, JT MC IVAN and MARROW, 24/7, DOSA (who’s only 13) and the hardcore TAFASH lady MCs all did the audience proud. I believe with time LUGAFLOW will take out BONGOFLAVA, trust me, the revolution has began.

Comedy was best done by one brother who tore up the stage and audience. I didn’t quite get his name, neither did RACHAEL K, one of the MCs, but we all loved his comedy; it got our ribs aching all the time he was at it.

Only one poet perfomed, RONALD did some good pieces in Luganda and heavily accented English. His poetry however sounded like a speech or a skit but it was all good. Big up to him.

DJ mixes by two THOMASES, both DJs are called THOMAS, did good work. The old skool, scratches and mad mixes got us all bobbing our heads. They also caused a pandemonium when they started throwing free CDs of their mixes.

MAD ICE, yes, the only one, got on stage much, much later and boy is his Luganda not fine? He however didn’t take the heckling too well and had his full attitude on display, aptly assuring the amateurs that he was good and they had a long way to go before they could stand up to the likes of him. I personally think his beef was uncalled for and for a singer of his caliber and stature; ignoring the haters irks them to silence.

The only beef I still carry with WAPI K’LA is that the graffiti king and queens need a real wall not boards. Plus MCs who mime don’t do us proud.

That’s what went down. See you at the next WAPI.
HOLLA!

Friday, October 10, 2008

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

AFRIKA...

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 except petroleum jelly.
Ladies with eyes that make grown men fools;
With bodies that do more than impress
And with voices that make a tourist want to settle here.
Beside the ladies, men stand
Strong and bare chested with shiny backs.
Men who know how best to use their hands
For work, for fighting and for passion.
Men who call and make this their home…

I still know of places in the sweet paradise
Where grandmothers are now mothers
Decades after their breasts went dry
Where able men spend days is parks
And like nocturnal hunters they play and rob in the night.
Here where we all ask,
5 decades after, where did we go wrong?
Where taps eject sewerage,
Electricity is a luxury and not a necessity
And where only faith gets us through the day.
I know waters that run red
Graves that hold hundreds of thousands
And men who slit others’ throats without as much as a wink.

I know a place;
They call it the black continent.
Best defined by AIDS, malaria, child mortality
Rigged elections, genocides, massacres
And degrading poverty.
A place they call AFRICA
Me and a million upon million others simply call it HOME

A.W.O.L

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.

FOR THE LOVERS..AGAIN.

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 heart,
Her eternal heel trod me down.
But have no compassion with me:
Her breast resembles the finest gold
When she opens her heart-
The Savior image-
And Jerusalem herself a sacred city
Shout ‘Holy! Holy!’

PIECES BY THE LAKE II

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 all over me,

I cannot do without him
When he’s away I feel so empty
And the life around me never flows right
His name is loneliness.




Poisoned well;

She walks past me slow ad easy
With grace that puts the ostrich to sham
She’s the type that has always been beautiful.
Always been wanted by everyone
And she adores the attention she attracts

She’s always got want she wanted
Plus so much more...
She’s the life of the party
The one every dude wishes was hers
The lady we all pray for

Now she is next to me
And she is talking and acting right.
But she’s the poisoned well you quench your dying thirst on
I know she could be the one
But heartache is an ache I know could kill me.
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 robe was now in two, two unequals.
The top black covered her full breast and one shoulder
Leaving a pale flawless and virgin shoulder bare.
The bottom white tied tight around the wasp waist.

The bushes were seldom used
The people just waded through the stream.
Today mama didn’t run, she waded slowly and lightly
Her grace and faith never left her.
She saw her and they began flowing.
She was always her rock, her fortress
Her anchor in the turbulent waters.

A few paces before her, mama fell to her knees
The fall hurt but again it didn’t.
She did not get of the rock
Neither did she look at her.
And her face showed no expression
But mama knew all it meant
She let her tears kiss the waters and then went to her.
At the rock she sat on her feet
And paced her head on her lap.
She then hummed her tears as the wet her.
Mother put her palm on mama’s bear shoulder,
She then began rhythmically patting it
The touch drilled all the tears from mama’s soul
Each tear carrying away a little bit of pain.

The mother didn’t ask mama anything
Neither did she tell her, ‘I told you....’
She was always of very few words.
Mama knew this but today she wanted something
Instead her tears were rocked away gently.

Rocks held back the wind and waters silently
And this one was her rock and her fortress.


Jiwe la nguvu
Jumba la stawi
My rock, my fortress.
I am home.

Neema Ntalel.

the drumming:

I’m having trouble sleeping
A painless throb is drumming in my mind.
Like all the world’s worst drummers
Have been paid to make sure I suffer.

They keep drumming...
Drumming out her name
In a rhythm only I can comprehend
As it’s only I they drum for

If only she could hear this
And tell the drummers to stop
To stop making me suffer so
If only she could stop them.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

democracy from an afro perspective...

This piece of conscious poetry is for Kenya and Zimbabwe, whose definition of democracy is not different as they claim; just African.

-HOT AIR BALOON-

I'd like you to walk this line with me
Think about this flawless being we call democracy…

Consider it first as a big balloon
Filled with gas or better still,
A tonne of hot air.
Then it's sent up to the hazy yet beautiful eyes.
So that we'll be kept busy looking at it
While a bunch of other fellows relentlessly pick our pockets,
Funny.
Funny that you might crack a smile yet there's nothing funny.

So our impregnated-with-hot-air balloon won't always be aloft;
It comes down to earth every 5 years or so
And you and I are invited to get into its passenger basket.
But there's a catch to this invitation though...
That’s if you can throw out one of the people who sit tightly in it,
So tightly that one feels they're nailed to the basket.

But because you and I can afford neither the time nor the finances
And there's 28 million of us and hardly enough room for about 100 in the basket;
The balloon goes up again with much the same lot in it
And leaves us where we were before…Gazing to the sky hopelessly as our pockets are picked helplessly