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A UGANDAN CLASSIC by TIMOTHY WANGUSA.

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This classic piece is one that you read and go like; ’enough said’ no word ought to be ejected or added to this masterpiece. I hope you enjoy it. Psalms 23 part II The state is my shepherd, I shall not want; it makes me to Lie down in a subsidized house It leads me to political tranquility; it restores my faith in a lucrative future. It leads me into paths of loans and pensions, For its international reputation’s sake. Yea, even though the valley of the shadow Of Kivvulu I will fear no Kondos; For the state is with me, its tanks and guns comfort me. It preserves for me a bank account, in the presence of devaluation; It fills my pockets with allowances, my salary overflows. Surely increments and promotion follow me all the days of my life; And I shall dwell in senior staff quarters forever.
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letter from a contract worker - Antonio Jacinto

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Few poems have been written as raw and truthfully as this,well according to me,but this here is an African masterpiece.. I wanted to write you a letter my love, a letter that would tell of this desire to see you of this fear of losing you of this more than benevolence that i feel of this indefiable ill that pursues me of this yearning to which i live in total surrender I wanted to write you a letter my love, a letter of intimate secrets a letter of memories of you of you of your lips as red as henna of your hair as black as mud of your eyes as sweet as honey of your breasts as hard as wild orange of your lynx* gait and of your caresses such that i can find no better here I wanted to write you a letter my love, that would recall the days in our haunts our nights lost in the long grass that would recall the shade falling on us from the plum trees the moon filtering the endless palm trees that would recall the madness of our passion and the bitterness of our separation... I wanted to writ...
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My Father’s Head. Okwiri Oduor

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I had meant to summon my father only long enough to see what his head looked like, but now he was here and I did not know how to send him back. It all started the Thursday that Father Ignatius came from Immaculate Conception in Kitgum. The old women wore their Sunday frocks, and the old men plucked garlands of bougainvillea from the fence and stuck them in their breast pockets. One old man would not leave the dormitory because he could not find his shikwarusi, and when I coaxed and badgered, he patted his hair and said, “My God, do you want the priest from Uganda to think that I look like this every day?” I arranged chairs beneath the avocado tree in the front yard, and the old people sat down and practiced their smiles. A few people who did not live at the home came too, like the woman who hawked candy in the Stagecoach bus to Mathari North, and the man whose oneroomed house was a kindergarten in the daytime and a brothel in the evening, and the woman whose illicit brew had blinded fi...
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