THE EASTAFRICANPOET

Wamathai December, 3rd December @ The Michael Joseph Centre, Safaricom House

2011-11-30T22:49:00.000-08:00

Wamathai.com presents Wamathai Spoken Word December on Saturday 3rd December 2011 at The Michael Joseph Centre, Safaricom House on Waiyaki Way.

The event will be hosted by TV personality Anyiko Owoko & Blogger and Auditor Robert Kunga.

There will be Poetry Performances by: Wanjiku Mwaurah, Asali, Pearl, Jeremy Levinger, Lonesome Bounty, Mike Kwambo, Kennet B, Nuru Bahati,Kevin ‘Man Njoro’, M.K, Abu Sense, Claude Baus, Ngartia, Dave Ndirangu, Aisha Salim, Ami, Mugambi Nthiga, Vickie Zosi, Mark Anthony, PotentAsh and many more

Music by: Elani & Afrology

The event will feature an exhibition of poetographs from the Koroga II project, a collaboration between Kenyan poets and photographers.

Other Details

Time: 4pm – 7pm
Charges: Kshs. 300 in advance & Kshs. 400 at the gate

Advance tickets are available from WWW.TICKETSASA.COM & at the Michael Joseph Centre reception desk.

to all writers..

2011-11-29T01:07:00.000-08:00

Kwani? Open Mic Reloaded December 2011

2011-11-29T00:46:00.000-08:00

Poetry Slam

- Winner walks away with a cash prize of ksh10,000
- Runners Up walk away with a Kwani? Gift Pack

Featured Artist: Davis Ntare (TPF Winner 2010)

MC: Cindy Ogana.
Date: 6th December 2011.
Time: 7 -9 pm.
Venue: Club Soundd.
Entry: 200 Ksh.

DAVIS NTARE..

Davis is a multi-talented individual with an interest in music production and performance, abstract art, photography and song writing. He uses his art and Music to reach out to people in a positive way. He has a diverse musical background, including playing the trumpet in a brass band back home, doing background vocals for renown musicians and singing in the school and church choirs.

Davis Hillary Ntare’s journey to stardom started when he won the Tusker Project Fame top prize in 2010. He later produced yet another winner of the East African music talent show, his first single, Sheka Sheka, produced and arranged with Robert "rkay" Kamanzi.

Davis is a force to reckon with in the African music scene, and is accompanied by a performing band that will knock you off your feet and into the dance floor!!!!! Started in October 2011 the band has already made its debut in high profile events and performs every Sunday at Shebeen Bar & Restaurant in Upper Hill, Nairobi.

For updates on upcoming performances, please visit : www.facebook.com/davishillaryntare

Verdict:

Having lived in the lovely Pearl of Africa for a minute; I have to admit that this is a show I will not be missing for anything.

WAPI UPENDO KWOTE..

2011-11-26T03:28:00.000-08:00

WAPI Universal presents Kibera's On Top Octopizzo, Tanzania's Ibra da Hustler, Mombasa's Nguchi P, BLNRB's Alai K, Kalahari Crew, Rabbit, Dandora's DJ Supreme and Cuba's KUMAR

whispers arise

2011-03-04T03:39:00.000-08:00

the music is for the sad man
lying helpless with nothing but hope,
plain hope feeding lice
and gnats and flies and ulcers
and of course worms.

things come and hit hard
and overcoming becomes even harder
but he sings on
full of truth and kindness
and painful honesty;

all peculiar weaknesses
that never aided a man..

only sank him into distress
till he writhes out slow
Ha!
niceties that fed a man to grains.
but his whispers rise on..

P.S

Misfortunes are a real man's way of trudging through life.

agree

2011-03-04T03:14:00.000-08:00

hands hold
palms grease
fingers twirl
like its an agreement
beyond all fallacies and truths
hidden inside
religious undertones.
lets agree..

and agree we shall.

Kwani Trust At The 13th Nairobi International Book Fair

2010-09-23T04:04:00.000-07:00

Dates: 22nd to 26th September 2010

Venue : Sarit Center

Visit us at STAND No.50

Like

2010-07-16T20:38:00.001-07:00

Like a great dose of optimum greens after a long need... its the heaviness inside the mind that undoes chains. The untellable freedom that slows down time

Kwani? Open Mic - Tuesday 3rd November 2009..yaani kesho!

2009-11-02T00:02:00.000-08:00

Kwani Trust is inviting you to Kwani? Open Mic on Tuesday 3rd November 2009 7 pm at Club Soundd, Hamilton House Kaunda Street

Entry: Ksh 100/- only.

Featured Poet: Kennet B

MC: Our lovely Cindy Ogana

Born Odongo Kennedy Leakey at the shores of Lake Victoria,Kennet B wrote and recorded his first poetry piece in 2003 at Chuqua Records in Kisumu where he was also mentored to become a sound producer.
He also gained music arrangement skills and mostly worked in underground studios helping young artists musically grow up. He moved to Nairobi after hearing of Slam Africa Spoken Word Poetry competitions; he won on his first trial.

The win motivated him to produce a seven-track poetry album “Coming Of Age” of which he wrote the lyrics and was the chief sound producer. Each poem in the album is backed up with sound effects, which are skillfully placed to create the desired suspense to the listener. The authenticity of the album is supported by the fact that “Kitambi ya Sugar daddy” a poem dispelling girl child abuse by married men is receiving good airplay by various local radio stations.

Kennet B has gone an extra mile and produced the first Luo Poetry album,”Twak Galamoro Mokwongo”which has not been officially launched to the public, though a single from the album has been released to a Kisumu based radio station.

As a performing artist, he has been able to execute his delivery at Kwani? Poetry Nights,Wapi Hip Hop and Spoken Word Festvals,Lafesta in Kisumu, PEN international just to mention a few.

Currently, he is writing the scripts for the “Coming Of Age” album which he expects to be out by April next year.

Kennet B writes on social issues relating to Church and State. He believes that with the power of the word all is possible even when the pen has run out of ink.

Open Mic slots are open from 6pm all are welcome to register.

Also get copies of Kwani? 05 part 1 at bookstores and get the best of Kenyan Writing.

KARIBUNI!

NB: Reduced prices on your favorite books.

letter from a contract worker - Antonio Jacinto

2009-07-01T00:35:00.000-07:00

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 write you a letter
my love,
that you would read without sighing
that you would hide from papa Bombo
that you would withhold from mama Kieza
that you would reread without the coldness
of forgetting
a letter which in all Kilombo
no other would stand comparison...

I wanted to write you a letter
my love,
a letter that would be brought to you by the passing wind
a letter that the cashews and coffee trees
the hyenas and buffaloes
the alligators and grayling*
could understand
so that if the wind should lose it on the way
the beasts and plants
with pity of our sharp suffering
from song to song
lament to lament
gabble to gabble
would bring you pure and hot
the burning words
the sorrowful words of the letter i wanted to write you my love...

I wanted to write you a letter...

but oh my love, I cannot understand
why it is, why it is, why it is, my dear
that you cannot read
and I - oh the hopeleness! -cannot write!

MISS CAFFEINE ADDICT-ASANTE SANA!

Poetry Open Mic- Tuesday 7th July

2009-06-30T23:57:00.000-07:00

Kwani Trust is inviting you to Kwani? Open Mic on Tuesday 7th July 2009 7pm at Club Soundd, Hamilton House Kaunda Street Entry ksh 100/- only.

Featured Poet; Wanjiku Mwaurah

“Spontaneity is my middle name and being a dreamer is a strength I have.

I hail from central Kenya born was raised there!

Poetry…? I like thinking a lot… the special thing about my thinking is that I like thinking in short sentences. And the best way to put that down is through poetry. Poetry is a way of relaying a message through in short and precise and sometimes intense manner.

How did we get started…Poetry and I, go back a long way. As a kid, I would go for solo verses but there, I only experienced a prescribed form of the art, where I did as was asked and but not as I would have wanted. However, being on stage for poetry stopped for the four years I was in high school though I was composing poems, more of a way to express my self than for performance.

Premier show: It started as a favor for a friend who needed a poem for scrutiny and I performed for the people present and Wham!!! A Eureka kind of feeling engulfed me and I realized that I had to keep at it…. Or lose it (the talent) for life. Since then I normally have a poem for every occasion.

Inspiration: I get deep warm feeling that provokes me to write every time, from different things in life like an experience, a person I have met, a social vice or simply a good feeling from within. Also from neo-soul artists and other poets like Thea Monyee, Georgia me, among others who have contributed to an expansion in my poetic horizon. That also explains why I normally carry a note book with me… Coz I never know when the inspiration will strike.

Aspirations: I always dreamt of being an astronaut…There was something out of this world (literally and not literally) I felt, as I envisioned myself up on space. Now the dream has changed to an innate desire to express my self as eloquently as I can, through the spoken word! And that is just a comeback from my past which I am pursuing.

Achievements: There is an inner satisfaction that comes with being able to follow through with your dream and that is the first achievement I have. Others include sharing a platform with great poets like Pepe Haze, Wanjeri Gakuru, the Kenyan poet, and many more great poets, and doing the spoken word in motivational forums in the city.

Last word: There is so much simplicity in life if only we would learn to see it, revel in it and indulge in it!”

KARIBUNI!

Poetry Anthology Launch; Postponed, Date to be confirmed.

Get Kwani? 05 part one from all leading bookstores and Uchumi Supermarket.

kenyan music's day out...

2009-06-12T01:24:00.000-07:00

2009-06-12T01:15:00.000-07:00

There is a new Poetry Spot in town: the Discover Restaurant at the top of Kenol petrol station in Koinange Street

First event this Saturday at 5pm, featuring speCified, reigning Slam Africa Champion

Entry: 100ksh

check this out...

2009-06-12T01:09:00.000-07:00

ALMOST.

2009-04-27T01:56:00.002-07:00

I almost had her
almost had one to stick by me,
to lay low
and run mad with me..

I almost had one
to tell my issues,
to listen to her issues
and to share my issues..

I almost had her...

free-doom

2009-04-27T01:41:00.001-07:00

Mama didn't tell,
she never taught me,
she simply let me
run and fly free..

but mama didnt tell
she never taught me
that to run and fly free;
I must first know no peace

the injustice they do their hair..

2009-04-24T09:05:00.000-07:00

"They cook their hair
with hot iron
and pull it hard
So that it may grow long.

Then they rope the hair
on wooden pens
like a billy goat
brought for the sacrifice
struggling to free itself.

They fry their hair in
boiling oil as if it
were locusts and the
hair sizzles.

It cries aloud in sharp pain
as it is pulled and stretched
and the vigorous and healthy
hair, Curly, springy and thick
that glistens in the sunshine
Is left listless and dead."

"The Graceful Giraffe Cannot
Become a Monkey,"
Song of Lawino and Song of Ocol,
1988 Okot P 'Bitek,

music...

2009-04-05T03:01:00.000-07:00

She strums
Like her snaky fingers
were meant for no other
than her guitar,
While
she sucks in the air
In a way so divine
then lets it all go
In rhymes that
marry her wailing guitar
So faithfully and
So truly..

so truly that her tears flow;

tears that are her soul’s dew
thawing away
Washing,
cleansing
and bathing her..

Eroding away
the muck
that describes her life.

The beats
remain the only drug
that her troubled world
knows and understands

Music…

The Road To Eldoret - Tony Mochama

2009-03-03T09:04:00.000-08:00

The scene from his hotel room screen in Nakuru still fills his mind. Let’s call him M. He’s from Muranga, he still drives the Datsun 120 Y that he bought in 1972 when he was a twenty two year old boy, and he’s got a family in the outskirts of Eldoret where his wife runs the family farm (cows and wheat) that he bought in 1982 from a white man fleeing the coup that “never happened,” as he is fond of saying. “So I got the farm cheap.”

That was 1982. M was a sharp hustler from Muranga, now he’s grown into an old-ish respectable farmer, 57 years in age, a bit of a sage and a scrooge who in-spite of his Shs.3 million in cash in Equity Bank (savings, he takes no loans) still drives a Datsun 120 Y, and why, till last night, he had never stayed at a hotel! He did now, in the fiery first days of 2008, at a place called Midlands Hotel because he has heard that the land is no longer safe.

There was a television set in the hotel room with one of those fancy new satellites that one finds everywhere these days, even in tiny little bars in Muranga where the boys wear foolish ‘Manchester United’ and ‘Arsenal’ T-shirts like silly English blokes and speak with animation of ‘van Pussy Cats’ and ‘Lonaldo.’ In his days, this excitement was exclusively reserved for the girls – who was “digging Muthoni’s mo-go-do” or Njeri’s, that’s what got the lads hot in his hay-day, not weird African men with curly kits on their heads and Croat sounding names like Drogba.

M fell asleep drinking White Caps, which he has drunk from 1975, in his fancy little hotel room … and dreamt of the peaks of Mount Kenya.

When he woke up, that funny American station called Cable News Network (the only ‘cables’ M knows so far are the troublesome ones that disconnect the carburetor in his 120 Y) was showing a burnt church, with fifty dead, somewhere in Eldoret.

‘Elsewhere.’ That’s how M always envisions those pictures – burnt churches in Rwanda, skeletons on the hard, sandy faces of Darfur, long endless ant-like lines of refugees in the D.R.C., and those other unpleasant images from Inside Africa that Western media seems so very enamored of.

But the burnt church was in Kenya’s Rift Valley. The fifty or five dozen dead were Kenyans of a certain community, there were no ‘Interhamwes’ or ‘janjaweeds’ or other exotically named murderers in this mix, it was Kenyan jinns …

And M was on his feet, and out of the hotel, before one could say the words “balkanization” or “ethnic tension” – and now, with the sun just coming up over the horizon, M is on his way to Eldoret to get his family and take them back to the safety of his house in Muranga.

In the blur of the blue-purplish-golden light of dawn road ahead, M notices what he thinks is road-side bush and bracken. At first. Bushes do not grow on tar-macadam roads, bwana!

As he gets closer, he notices that the obstacles are actually stones – little rocks that prop up bushes, like ominous flowers in menacing vases. M does not stop to wonder why this is so, why anyone in their right mind would bother with this weird fauna-and-floral arrangement, in the middle of a road to nowhere.

Well, not ‘nowhere’ exactly – Eldoret!
Like the practical man, and farmer, that he is, Mr. M, 57, gets out of his old blue Datsun 120 Y, looks up to the sky, then gets to work – pulling at the bracken to clear the road.

And from behind the tall grass on either side of the road, columns of men emerge … somewhere between ten and twenty men. Some are tall, some are short, some are rugged, some wear Western T-shirts with improbable messages like “Rainnkonnen Rules,”– and “Vote for Al Gore, 2000” They look like refugees from a beer budget movie called Old Sierra Leone. And in their hands, Mr. M. notes, they carry elongated shadows.

No, not shadows! It is the silhouettes of machetes, and suddenly Mr. M’s insides turn to maji. Now he can see the faces of some of the men, hate-contorted contours that appraise him savagely.

“Haka hakana pesa,” one of the men, dark brown snaggle – toothed snarls, and the mob looks at his old blue Datsun 120 Y, and laughs. The laughs aren’t merry. They are blood-sodden, sanguinary, somewhat liquid and hungry “Niko na chapa,” Mr. M hears himself mutter in a strange voice. He has never spoken sheng before, but terror lends lips new tongues “Twende ATM ya Equity …” he hopes they are highway robbers.

“Hapana!” one of the men screams, raising his panga to the sun, “Chomoa ID!” with trembling fingers, Mr. M. ‘chomoas’ his I.D. It falls to the ground. Another man, in tattered red and white shirt, snatches it up, dirty nails scraping the grimy road to Eldoret. “Huyu mbuyu ni mmoja wao waliiba kura,” the man yells, and his companions close in on Mr. M., who realizes he has wet himself for the first time since 1955, when he was just five.

Elongated shadows rise and fall in the sun.
The road to Eldoret is no El Dorado! In the middle of the murderous commotion, no-one notices when the driver’s side of the door of the 120 Y is slammed shut in the movement of the mayhem, or the exact moment that Mr. M becomes 1950 – 2008, R.I.P. The short rains are over. January will be hot and dry. And the rivers, for once, will run red and riot.

This piece is an excerpt from a longer story, ‘The Brinkipiece of Genocide’

Poetry Open Mic -3rd March 2009

2009-03-03T09:02:00.000-08:00

Kwani Trust is inviting you to Kwani? Open Mic on 3rd March 2009 7pm at Club Soundd, Hamilton House Kaunda Street .
Entry ksh 100/- only.

Featured Poet will be Patroba a participant of Kwani? Krismas who came in 4th.

Patroba is a 22 year old Nairobi based poet and a college student. He has been writing poems for the past three years, but started poetry perfomce in 2007. He has performed at forums such as Nu metro Poets club at the Junction, Kwani Open Mic at Clubb Soundd, Amplified Tongues at Mai Loan, WaPI amongst other venues. He has also participated in the Kwani Krismas slam and the Slam Africa poetry competitions.

Open Mic slots are open from 6pm all are welcome to register.

Also look out for Kwani? 5 part 1 launch on 5th March 2009 6.30pm at Nu Metro Junction, Ngong Rd. Entry free

KARIBUNI

NB: Books to be won at Kwani? Open Mic

Kwani? 05,Part 1,Editorial

2009-03-03T09:01:00.000-08:00

Kwani? 05,Part 1,Editorial
Written by Kwani · March 1, 2009
An Apprenticeship in Ethnicity: A Time Beyond The Writer

Never let the facts get in the way of the truth. Old Creative Non-Fiction truism …

In the first week of November 2007, Kwani Trust held a series of creative non-fiction workshops - the purpose: to discuss and reinforce elements of storytelling in of reporting the Kenyan elections of 2007. A group of budding journalists and writers unpublished in Kwani were invited. Though excited with the premise of using ‘fictive’ and ‘literary’ elements in reportage, the journalists present were firmly held in the thrall of the 5 W’s and a H, ‘objective journalism’ school’s mantra. With minds tuned to: ‘Police are investigating reports of a man who was reported to have bitten a dog on Kimathi Street yesterday’; they were skeptical of the whole ‘literary’ premise. The workshop, if anything, for them was a vacation from police/City Council beat reality; at best, some hoped the workshop would make them better writers for the outlets they were working for. For Kwani?, it was an ambitious exercise that would produce, at least 8, creative non-fiction reports from each of the participants at the workshop. I even had a collective, if not pompous, name for the exercise – Dispatches From The Campaign Trail.

We have long been interested in politics rather than politicians; and as human affairs not demagoguery. We are in the business, hopefully, to tell the individual’s story as a citizen in the space called Kenya, their relationship with serikali or state or whatchamacallit, (in Pokot, Kenya is the Other) rather than build one-dimensional narratives from sound bites of Big Men. What is the relationship between Kenyans and government is a question we perpetually asked ourselves, especially in an elections year. The last elections were in 2002, Kwani? was still in its infancy. Another 5 years would be too long a wait. So, we waxed lyrical on the relationship between citizens and manifestations of power; how Kenyan men and women related to parliament, government and their MPs?

We asked ourselves how their incomes related to the state (were they in agriculture, tourism or were they shut out from the 6% growth economy) Excited about the 2007 elections, we did not know how sheltered we were in our little keyboard spaces, our computer screen world, even as we thought the elections would provide the most optimal moment for that answer. Elections, thus, became the catalyst for our controlled experiment; a lab in which we would judge how Kenyans come to grips with what stands for government, state, Kenya, be it the Benz convoy, the Big Man being taxed in various ways as he asked for votes. Government, we suspected, for many was the five year party where you tried to make good through myriads of ways. So, the story was all there, the right elements in place - Character, Plot and Conflict.

Arno Kopecky, Millicent Muthoni, Kingwa Kamengcu, Tim Queresenger, all working for mainstream media at the time, frequently interrupted the workshop with the most pertinent question of all: ‘How do you narrate reality with fictive elements – isn’t that problematic?’. ‘I’ve been taught at the Kenya Institute of Mass Communication that reality takes place within the 5 W’s and a H’ someone else asked. The workshop was also attended by Stephen Gazemba, a novelist; Samuel Munene, a poet who had been a runner-up in Kwani’s 2007 poetry competition; Mwas Mahugu, a member of Ukoo Flani who wrote in Sheng; Peter Chepkonga, a sportswriter who worked for a magazine that published in Kalenjin; Victor Oluoch, a KBC reporter. Guest lecturers included former E.A Standard Editor, Kwamchetsi Makokha and writer, Parselelo Kantai.

The journalist/literary artist binary turned out to be false. Luckily, all the writers, including two Canadians, present represented what I see as Kenya’s Generation X. Born between 1968 and ’82 and coming of age as Kenya went through its single party shenanigans in the late 80’s, and in the 90’s with all the politico-economical and socio-cultural upheavals of that time; this is a generation built of citizens who have had to struggle with their own identity, or had to embrace many identities and forced with a monumental preoccupation of all the problems the preceding generation have left them to fix. The need to survive a tough and changing Kenya has resulted in multi-identities, a schizophrenic or rather, contortionist bent, as a friend of mine would have it. Simply put, they were ready to dive into such a project.

The reasons for these are myriad. Most of the writers inherently understood that the complexity of the spaces they were delving into required all the tools that could get. Also, Gen X’s parents are, of course, responsible for Kenya’s baby boom in the early 80’s when Kenya led in the world’s population growth. These ‘boomers’ grew up in a ‘softer’ Kenya – like many of my generation I am very tired of hearing how good it was 30 years ago when all graduates got jobs and life was good. Kenyan Gen X has now been succeeded by Generation ‘Y’, individuals born in the late 80’s and 90s, also referred to in the West as the ‘Post-millenials’. In Kenya, this is the crowd that has been largely accused of the post elections slash and burn, and is also, generally referred by media, the church and all public forums as Yoouutths. Therefore, Generation X finds itself sandwiched between entitled dreamers comfortable with mono or dual identities (I am a Kikuyu, and a Businessman, period, I am Luo and a doctor); and ‘anarchists’ (I am a DJ, and I come from ‘Langa’ Nakuruu, Buru, and my shags is Coast, or Muranga. I’m also in Strath). X’s identity struggles waver between ‘my primo, my high school’ and ‘the estate, mtaa’; tribe is but a third concern. And inherently interested in explaining and learning of things Kenyan, all the workshop participants were willing to try and go out there and do what we asked of them. After all, they are, so far, an unsung generation, hardly recognized as a social force or even noticed much at all. They, unlike Kenya’s baby boomers did not have placid ‘missionary school’ childhoods and teens in the 1960s and ‘70s; they did not become Ministers and Permanent Secretaries in their twenties. They grew up in a time of drugs, economic strain, HIV/AIDS, rural-urban migration, matatus, fracturing family networks and urban class divides.

This was reflected in the stories the writers pitched: the urban tale of a street kid made good, now a civil society activist turned into a civic councillor wannabe; that of rural women in Chevakali, Western Kenya, who have an incredible knack for foretelling national political outcomes; the narrative of a generational electoral battle between a venerated banker and an alleged drug dealer seen by the youth as the local Robin Hood. Many stories reflected a generational clash. But that was then. These discussions reflected a far more innocent time.

One month later, Kenya did a neck-breaking cartwheel. The stories of the street kid turned councillor et al, became, in retrospect, prescriptive and normative discourses of that time in November. The commissioned stories had to be re-evaluated. The deadline of January 7, 2007 was not to be. Kwani had asked each writer to send an online diary entry of 300 words, every three days, between December 21st and New Year’s. A few days away from the elections, those already in the field were already talking of the ‘Fire, This Time’. Then, some of the writers reported that they could only work in ‘friendly zones’ based on their tribe. Their Gen X badges didn’t matter after all. In all their array of identity tags, ethnic origin came before writer, Kenyan citizen, Kangemi-an or Mathare-an. They were caught in the bloody mistakes of their fathers and grandfathers. Gazemba had to leave Kangemi for a few weeks where he had lived for all his working life. Our two Canadian writers, Kopecky and Queresenger, who had been in Kenya for just months could, however, roam the breadth of the land just like their forefathers had done at the turn of the last century. Munene had to watch where he trod in Mathare and Kariobangi.

While I was grappling with this ‘problem’, a writer friend of mine excitedly called me during the first week of 2008 and declared: ‘this is the time of the Kenyan writer. We can now move beyond ‘pretty’ stories about our relationships with our mothers, and write about ‘real’ things. We now have a chance to occupy the centre.’ When I asked him what he meant by real things, there was a silence over the line. ‘War and conflict are and have been the great contemporary African themes that we’ve been locked out of. We soon might be able to write about child soldiers. Imagine that.’

Ah. Child soldiers. Like many a Kenyan contemporary writer, part of me has always wanted to have a Soza Boy child soldier, Half-English warlord or a Jerry Manda Big-Man-in-exile type in my work. Like Brer Rabbit, Bigger Thomas, Ellison’s Invisible Man and a long gallery of other ‘authentic’ stereotypes, they never seem to tire the countless Western glad-handing who swarm around ‘conflict’ writers even after 40 years.

I called back to every one of the writers out in the field and sold this vision to every one of them. At long last, I explained, with the post-elections conflict to draw upon, the Kenyan writer need no longer watch from the sidelines – we had stepped off the high middle-road into darker territory, joined the machete and A-K canon. They all bought it. And that turned out to be a good thing because before we even enter the conflict-writers game, I realize we have to explain this recent past to ourselves. The Kshs 64,000 question is: what texts can we turn to for an explanation of the first few weeks of 2008? It is our instinct, as writers and readers, to seek out stories that help us understand what just happened to Kenya. What are our, or will be our defining texts in the light of what happened during those 100 days of 2008? Well, the writers in these pages have started writing them down.

Unfortunately, few reference points exist – we are without precedents. Having apprenticed at the knee of Ngugi and Marjorie Oludhe-McGoye (also appearing in these pages), whose lenses were focused at either an ethnic or regional level, the contemporary writer is now naked and new born – an offspring of recent events. And though there is always an argument for ‘regionalism’ in literature as a model for capturing the universal, this seems indulgent during a time when the volume of ethnicity has been turned to the max. Yes, our greats went a long way into illuminating particular ethnic spaces, and all we contemporary writers are indebted to them; but we are now at a point where we need to question whether those many lights can possibly make a collective vision.

Our literary cannon is a river that has run aground downstream. Its emphasis on the distinguishing characteristics of this or that ethnicity is perfect for cooler climes, upstream. We need to take up that early impetus. Today, without more contemporary defining texts of Kenya, in the absence of stories, narratives that count, demagoguery, the politician’s voice that claims that the crisis ‘was a small thing’, and that which claims that bands of criminals and killers were fighting for democracy has taken over. Our defining text, our national moments are the politician’s voice on the 9 o’clock news. We hope what is held in these pages goes some way in righting this frightening reality. Never let the facts get in the way of the truth, is a creative non-fiction dictum I hold in high regard. The fact that blood has been spilled, that politicians played a role in the latter, that, especially, ‘yoouottths’ took up arms against each other does not overcome the truth of a possible and real Kenya.

Kwani has collected enough essays and analyses, creative non-fiction, fiction, poetry photographs, cartoons and illustrations, sms’s and posters to this end, enough to literally fill two volumes: a double issue of Kwani 5 – Parts 1 and 2. In these pages the Kenyan writer, brings questions of Kenyan-ness to the fore, even as ethnic trajectories are explored.

BILLY KAHORA
Kwani Editor

Excerpts From Kwani? 5

2009-02-13T23:23:00.000-08:00

Truth does not set you free. Instead, truth sets loose. It risks what we hold dear. And there are no assurances.
Daring truth entails risking all we might want to preserve. It means daring to break with family and friends. It means disturbing the fragile peace we inhabit by having difficult conversations. It means telling our mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, lovers, and friends that their political choices are unpalatable.z

When I speak with truth it creates opportunity for everyone. -Excerpt from ‘Daring Truth’ by Jeremeiah Okongo.

I saw someone being killed in town at the matatu station called Kalenjin airport because the matatus there carry people heading into the North Rift. The IDPs who had been evicted from Eldoret were very bitter and were going around looking for Kalenjins to avenge their losses. They came to Kalenjin airport because they knew that’s where most of them board matatus to go home. Unfortunately, one man was caught by the group. They beat him up and stabbed him to death. I was not noticed because I look like a Kikuyu.- Kevin Koros, a 20-year-old actor from Lakeview, near Nakuru.

When my uncle saw some people approaching his home, he called the chief again who didn’t answer the call. When the Kalenjin youths reached my grandparents’ compound they said they were looking for my uncle to kill him. When they spotted him running away they tried to shoot him with arrows, but luckily none hit him. My uncle and grandparents moved to Nyahururu to start a new life. - Gladys Maina, currently living in Kikuyu, Central Province.

We spend most of our lives listening to every word of those politicians. That’s why we are suffering, especially the middle class and poor people. The rich from Westlands, Lavington, Runda are very safe. -Alvando Msamani, electronics salesman. Dandora.

I was born in Baringo. I’m a Kikuyu, but I learnt Kalenjin before my mother tongue. Most of my friends are Kalenjin. But today I don’t want to see any one of them. I really hate myself for saying that.

I cannot go back to Central Province. The language they speak there is totally different from the Kikuyu I speak here. When I speak my Kikuyu there, they start laughing at me. And when I go to Baringo, where I grew up, they look at me as a foreigner. If I don’t belong in the Rift Valley, where else can I fit? I am married to a Luhya! - Jesse Njoroge, Nakuru

bado nip nipo sana..

2009-02-13T08:33:00.000-08:00

I've been gone for a minute but I'm now very back...

Kwani ? 05 Full Editorial

2009-02-13T08:27:00.000-08:00

Kwani ? 05 Full Editorial

Written by Kwani · February 10, 2009

An Apprenticeship in Ethnicity: A Time Beyond The Writer

Never let the facts get in the way of the truth. Old Creative Non-Fiction truism …

In the first week of November 2007, Kwani Trust held a series of creative non-fiction workshops - the purpose: to discuss and reinforce elements of storytelling in of reporting the Kenyan elections of 2007. A group of budding journalists and writers unpublished in Kwani were invited. Though excited with the premise of using ‘fictive’ and ‘literary’ elements in reportage, the journalists present were firmly held in the thrall of the 5 W’s and a H, ‘objective journalism’ school’s mantra. With minds tuned to: ‘Police are investigating reports of a man who was reported to have bitten a dog on Kimathi Street yesterday’; they were skeptical of the whole ‘literary’ premise. The workshop, if anything, for them was a vacation from police/City Council beat reality; at best, some hoped the workshop would make them better writers for the outlets they were working for. For Kwani?, it was an ambitious exercise that would produce, at least 8, creative non-fiction reports from each of the participants at the workshop. I even had a collective, if not pompous, name for the exercise – Dispatches From The Campaign Trail.

We have long been interested in politics rather than politicians; and as human affairs not demagoguery. We are in the business, hopefully, to tell the individual’s story as a citizen in the space called Kenya, their relationship with serikali or state or whatchamacallit, (in Pokot, Kenya is the Other) rather than build one-dimensional narratives from sound bites of Big Men. What is the relationship between Kenyans and government is a question we perpetually asked ourselves, especially in an elections year. The last elections were in 2002, Kwani? was still in its infancy. Another 5 years would be too long a wait. So, we waxed lyrical on the relationship between citizens and manifestations of power; how Kenyan men and women related to parliament, government and their MPs?

We asked ourselves how their incomes related to the state (were they in agriculture, tourism or were they shut out from the 6% growth economy) Excited about the 2007 elections, we did not know how sheltered we were in our little keyboard spaces, our computer screen world, even as we thought the elections would provide the most optimal moment for that answer. Elections, thus, became the catalyst for our controlled experiment; a lab in which we would judge how Kenyans come to grips with what stands for government, state, Kenya, be it the Benz convoy, the Big Man being taxed in various ways as he asked for votes. Government, we suspected, for many was the five year party where you tried to make good through myriads of ways. So, the story was all there, the right elements in place - Character, Plot and Conflict.

Arno Kopecky, Millicent Muthoni, Kingwa Kamengcu, Tim Queresenger, all working for mainstream media at the time, frequently interrupted the workshop with the most pertinent question of all: ‘How do you narrate reality with fictive elements – isn’t that problematic?’. ‘I’ve been taught at the Kenya Institute of Mass Communication that reality takes place within the 5 W’s and a H’ someone else asked. The workshop was also attended by Stephen Gazemba, a novelist; Samuel Munene, a poet who had been a runner-up in Kwani’s 2007 poetry competition; Mwas Mahugu, a member of Ukoo Flani who wrote in Sheng; Peter Chepkonga, a sportswriter who worked for a magazine that published in Kalenjin; Victor Oluoch, a KBC reporter. Guest lecturers included former E.A Standard Editor, Kwamchetsi Makokha and writer, Parselelo Kantai.

The journalist/literary artist binary turned out to be false. Luckily, all the writers, including two Canadians, present represented what I see as Kenya’s Generation X. Born between 1968 and ’82 and coming of age as Kenya went through its single party shenanigans in the late 80’s, and in the 90’s with all the politico-economical and socio-cultural upheavals of that time; this is a generation built of citizens who have had to struggle with their own identity, or had to embrace many identities and forced with a monumental preoccupation of all the problems the preceding generation have left them to fix. The need to survive a tough and changing Kenya has resulted in multi-identities, a schizophrenic or rather, contortionist bent, as a friend of mine would have it. Simply put, they were ready to dive into such a project.

The reasons for these are myriad. Most of the writers inherently understood that the complexity of the spaces they were delving into required all the tools that could get. Also, Gen X’s parents are, of course, responsible for Kenya’s baby boom in the early 80’s when Kenya led in the world’s population growth. These ‘boomers’ grew up in a ‘softer’ Kenya – like many of my generation I am very tired of hearing how good it was 30 years ago when all graduates got jobs and life was good. Kenyan Gen X has now been succeeded by Generation ‘Y’, individuals born in the late 80’s and 90s, also referred to in the West as the ‘Post-millenials’. In Kenya, this is the crowd that has been largely accused of the post elections slash and burn, and is also, generally referred by media, the church and all public forums as Yoouutths. Therefore, Generation X finds itself sandwiched between entitled dreamers comfortable with mono or dual identities (I am a Kikuyu, and a Businessman, period, I am Luo and a doctor); and ‘anarchists’ (I am a DJ, and I come from ‘Langa’ Nakuruu, Buru, and my shags is Coast, or Muranga. I’m also in Strath). X’s identity struggles waver between ‘my primo, my high school’ and ‘the estate, mtaa’; tribe is but a third concern. And inherently interested in explaining and learning of things Kenyan, all the workshop participants were willing to try and go out there and do what we asked of them. After all, they are, so far, an unsung generation, hardly recognized as a social force or even noticed much at all. They, unlike Kenya’s baby boomers did not have placid ‘missionary school’ childhoods and teens in the 1960s and ‘70s; they did not become Ministers and Permanent Secretaries in their twenties. They grew up in a time of drugs, economic strain, HIV/AIDS, rural-urban migration, matatus, fracturing family networks and urban class divides.

This was reflected in the stories the writers pitched: the urban tale of a street kid made good, now a civil society activist turned into a civic councillor wannabe; that of rural women in Chevakali, Western Kenya, who have an incredible knack for foretelling national political outcomes; the narrative of a generational electoral battle between a venerated banker and an alleged drug dealer seen by the youth as the local Robin Hood. Many stories reflected a generational clash. But that was then. These discussions reflected a far more innocent time.

One month later, Kenya did a neck-breaking cartwheel. The stories of the street kid turned councillor et al, became, in retrospect, prescriptive and normative discourses of that time in November. The commissioned stories had to be re-evaluated. The deadline of January 7, 2007 was not to be. Kwani had asked each writer to send an online diary entry of 300 words, every three days, between December 21st and New Year’s. A few days away from the elections, those already in the field were already talking of the ‘Fire, This Time’. Then, some of the writers reported that they could only work in ‘friendly zones’ based on their tribe. Their Gen X badges didn’t matter after all. In all their array of identity tags, ethnic origin came before writer, Kenyan citizen, Kangemi-an or Mathare-an. They were caught in the bloody mistakes of their fathers and grandfathers. Gazemba had to leave Kangemi for a few weeks where he had lived for all his working life. Our two Canadian writers, Kopecky and Queresenger, who had been in Kenya for just months could, however, roam the breadth of the land just like their forefathers had done at the turn of the last century. Munene had to watch where he trod in Mathare and Kariobangi.

While I was grappling with this ‘problem’, a writer friend of mine excitedly called me during the first week of 2008 and declared: ‘this is the time of the Kenyan writer. We can now move beyond ‘pretty’ stories about our relationships with our mothers, and write about ‘real’ things. We now have a chance to occupy the centre.’ When I asked him what he meant by real things, there was a silence over the line. ‘War and conflict are and have been the great contemporary African themes that we’ve been locked out of. We soon might be able to write about child soldiers. Imagine that.’

Ah. Child soldiers. Like many a Kenyan contemporary writer, part of me has always wanted to have a Soza Boy child soldier, Half-English warlord or a Jerry Manda Big-Man-in-exile type in my work. Like Brer Rabbit, Bigger Thomas, Ellison’s Invisible Man and a long gallery of other ‘authentic’ stereotypes, they never seem to tire the countless Western glad-handing who swarm around ‘conflict’ writers even after 40 years.

I called back to every one of the writers out in the field and sold this vision to every one of them. At long last, I explained, with the post-elections conflict to draw upon, the Kenyan writer need no longer watch from the sidelines – we had stepped off the high middle-road into darker territory, joined the machete and A-K canon. They all bought it. And that turned out to be a good thing because before we even enter the conflict-writers game, I realize we have to explain this recent past to ourselves. The Kshs 64,000 question is: what texts can we turn to for an explanation of the first few weeks of 2008? It is our instinct, as writers and readers, to seek out stories that help us understand what just happened to Kenya. What are our, or will be our defining texts in the light of what happened during those 100 days of 2008? Well, the writers in these pages have started writing them down.

Unfortunately, few reference points exist – we are without precedents. Having apprenticed at the knee of Ngugi and Marjorie Oludhe-McGoye (also appearing in these pages), whose lenses were focused at either an ethnic or regional level, the contemporary writer is now naked and new born – an offspring of recent events. And though there is always an argument for ‘regionalism’ in literature as a model for capturing the universal, this seems indulgent during a time when the volume of ethnicity has been turned to the max. Yes, our greats went a long way into illuminating particular ethnic spaces, and all we contemporary writers are indebted to them; but we are now at a point where we need to question whether those many lights can possibly make a collective vision.

Our literary cannon is a river that has run aground downstream. Its emphasis on the distinguishing characteristics of this or that ethnicity is perfect for cooler climes, upstream. We need to take up that early impetus. Today, without more contemporary defining texts of Kenya, in the absence of stories, narratives that count, demagoguery, the politician’s voice that claims that the crisis ‘was a small thing’, and that which claims that bands of criminals and killers were fighting for democracy has taken over. Our defining text, our national moments are the politician’s voice on the 9 o’clock news. We hope what is held in these pages goes some way in righting this frightening reality. Never let the facts get in the way of the truth, is a creative non-fiction dictum I hold in high regard. The fact that blood has been spilled, that politicians played a role in the latter, that, especially, ‘yoouottths’ took up arms against each other does not overcome the truth of a possible and real Kenya.

Kwani has collected enough essays and analyses, creative non-fiction, fiction, poetry photographs, cartoons and illustrations, sms’s and posters to this end, enough to literally fill two volumes: a double issue of Kwani 5 – Parts 1 and 2. In these pages the Kenyan writer, brings questions of Kenyan-ness to the fore, even as ethnic trajectories are explored.

BILLY KAHORA
Kwani Editor

Sunday Salon - December 21

2008-12-19T07:21:00.000-08:00

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 years and open up the new socio-cultural and socio-political spaces that are emerging in the country by the use of literary elements.

He has been published in Vanity Fair, Cape Times, the Mail and Guardian and the East African Standard. He has also extensively covered the youth hip-hop scene in Nairobi for the British Council’s WAPI (Words and Pictures) landmark project. He was recently highly commended for his short story, ‘Treadmill Love’ by the 2007 Caine Prize judges. He is currently working on a novel based on his short story, ‘The Applications’ published in Kwani? 3 and is also collaborating on a non-fiction book on environmental corruption in Kenya

David Kaiza

Born in 1975 in the north Ugandan town of Aboke, Kaiza lived in Kampala for 21 years because of the war and attended Makerere University which he graduated from in 1999. He worked as a journalist for the regional newspaper, The EastAfrican for many years where he was also a literary-cultural critic. A fine artist as well, he also did some television work where he was a story teller as well as animator. He has some experience in craftsmanship, particularly brass which has a history – although forgotten – where he was born. His publication in the forthcoming Kwani? 05 is his first lengthy creative output.

wapi 6 - innovation katogo..

2008-12-05T23:08:00.000-08:00

be there!

Wanted: African Freelance Reporters

2008-12-05T23:06:00.000-08:00

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

End Of Year Open Mic Slam

2008-11-27T22:00:00.000-08:00

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!

in the words of Nelson Mandela.

2008-11-20T06:11:00.001-08:00

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 MANDELA is a man above the rest and an icon above the many we know;this is the finest that I grasped-

"ON WRITING:

Writing is a profession which puts one right into the centre of the world and,to remain on top,one has to work really hard,the aim being a good and original theme,simplicity in expression and the use of the irreplaceable word"

From a letter to his daughter Zindzi,4th Sept.'77

around me...

2008-11-20T06:02:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-20T05:01:00.000-08:00

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

the next Maurice Kirya experience...

2008-11-20T03:09:00.000-08:00

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 saloon-nov.23.08..nairobi

2008-11-20T02:39:00.000-08:00

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 has a finished crime fiction novella (INDECENT PROPOSAL) and an inspirational text (I DARED TO DREAM) that is due to be published by StoryMoja.

Until most recently she was the Kenya staff writer for G21 for 4 years and is currently a correspondent for the American publications Mshale and African Magazine. She has penned a couple of book reviews for the Sunday Nation. Moraa has several short stories published in various anthologies including G21’s Africa Fresh!–New voices from the first continent (2007) and Author-Me’s Author Africa–2008 Anthology,some of which were submitted for the Caine Prize for African writing.

In 2005-2006 with 11 other screen-writers they co-authored and created a concept in the form of a new TV crime detective series titled CID Nairobi but are yet to get funding for the 13 series shoot. She has refused to be the ‘SAFE’ under 35 year old writer that most traditional local publishers have been looking for! That is why some people refer to her as a rebel writer, unorthodox and unconventional!

She cites her greatest inspiration as her thirteen year-old daughter Tracy and the Kenyan-African woman who struggles daily to ensure she provides for her family.

Moraa has also submitted her second novel ‘THE DEVIL IS IN THE DETAIL’ to the Canadian publishing firm. She is working on her third novel provisionally titled ‘SHIFTING SANDS’, of which a chapter excerpt titled ‘From Shifting Sands to Deeper Dimensions’ won the NBDC(K) National Book Development Council of Kenya Literary Awards Book Week 1st Prize in the Adult Fiction Category at the 11th Nairobi International Book Fair September 2008.

Juliet Maruru

Juliet is a 20 something year old writer, a semi-trained kindergarten teacher, a writer and Editorial assistant at Storymoja. Her yet to be finished adventure novel for teens(looks like she has not given up on teens completely), might yet be published some time next year, but you can read her work on www.jmaruru.wordpress.com.

She loves to read, to write, to work with kids. Her motto adopted from a city then off a tolerant lawyer declares that ‘she floats..’ She needs to judging from the umber of times she finds herself in a deep end.

Juliet will be reading her short story, ‘There goes my Career’ which she describes as ‘one more story about surviving in the big wide world, drowning a little bit, then finding my stroke again, and loving it all’

MAIA VON LEKOW

Maia represents another amazing side to Kenya’s dynamic musical scene. Her voice
and style has an affinity with female jazz vocalists of the 1930s and soul and folk music
of the 1960s. In all her compositions, Maia is blazing new trails in Kenya; experimenting
with different styles, and creating a hybrid sound that is her very own.
Funk, groove, and soul…all this describes the music Maia creates. Music is not
something she merely enjoys; it defines who she is. Whether busking on street corners
while backpacking around the world, or jamming with friends at university in
Melbourne, Maia’s sound has developed from playing with musical talents from
around the world, injecting her own personality, background and culture into her
sound.
Her first single, Altered Light, was the result of collaboration with a funk bass player in
Melbourne. Since then, Maia traveled to Berlin and continued writing, singing and
collaborating before coming home to Kenya and continuing her work with artists,
friends and producers. Drift, Maia’s first album, is a culmination of her travels, her
meetings, her collaborations and her experiences; a global cross-pollinated vibe.Maia weaves her
adventures, stories and memories into this album producing jazzy riffs with folk licks to soulful percussive dub, a unique addition to Kenya’s music scene.In Kenya, Maia has performed for numerous awarenesscampaigns including the Korogocho Slum Campaign and a UN (youth) campaign on awareness in Mathare and Kibera slums, raising money for various schools in those areas. Maia has also composed jingles for various advertisements in Kenya and Berlin and music composition for a South African/Canadian theatre production, Crossroads, that raises awareness in Africa on issues of rape, gender-based violence and HIV/AIDS (www.cmfd.org). Her latest composition was featured in
the much-acclaimed Kenyan production, “From a Whisper”, depicting events of the 1998 bombing in Kenya.
In her creative forays around Kenya’s extremely rich cultural scene, Maia has been
able to find a highly motivated, talented and original individual. Together, this duo
has brought life to the imaginings and possibilities of Drift.

Kato Change

As the leading guitarist, Kato is one of Kenya’s most promising guitarists. Born into a
musical family, Kato has been musically prolific since the age of three, tapping on the
drums, experimenting with harmonicas, and ultimately teaching himself the guitar.
Kato’s style is reminiscent of George Benson and Paco de Lucia, with his own origin

too busy

2008-11-13T01:17:00.000-08:00

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 by now

'Too busy for the lady you call yours,
too busy to see me yet I've been ill,
too busy to know it was my birthday today,
too busy to care about tonight's dinner,
just plain too busy for me..'

Damn!
One look at my calendar echoes all that she says
and I'm too stunned to talk

'So you don't even find me worthy of your words
your time and your care...
maybe we should chill out a little bit...'

'What?!'

She cries and waits
but I'm lost for words.
This isn't happening
finally the beep goes flat
she's hang up.

That was four days ago
the last time I was sober.

VACANCY FILLED:

2008-11-13T00:53:00.001-08:00

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

5th WAPI KAMPALA:'FOCUS UGANDA'

2008-11-12T23:24:00.000-08:00

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 criticise,one reminds us that our pieces have no rhyme and I try to tell him that rhyme holds me down,it's not that I cannot rhyme but rhyme dictates a rigid path that I have to follow...my poetry isn't that ,its about freedon of expression.Someone else thinks one of the pieces shold begin with a diffrent line and I'm like "WHAT?.."; another cannot rate my poems because the music distracts him...

Big up to all those who showed us love,we appreciate it big!

Perfomances begun at about 2:08 and I must admit music was greatly represented..
BAXIMBA WAVES took forever to set up and an even longer time in perfomance but I have mad love for these geniuses and I would listen to their beats and words anyday.I also loved the fusion of BAXIMBA and GNL;it was out of this world.

GNL came in much later and tore up the podium as he always does,TOO EXTREME, my favourite WAPI underground kings did their thing and they too never fail to impress
"n*gga i'm the best
so you can f*ck the rest..."
Those lines are just stuck in my head and wont let go.

A few minutes past 8 RACHAEL K and LUFU decided to call it a day.

BIG UP BRITISH COUNCIL AND UGCS.

My Nakato..

2008-11-05T05:46:00.000-08:00

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

it was nice meeting you

2008-11-05T04:06:00.001-08:00

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 also left you.

I must admit though, it was nice meeting you.

antie,I had plenty...

2008-11-05T04:03:00.000-08:00

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...

longing for...

2008-11-05T03:57:00.000-08:00

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.

baba Luku

2008-11-04T08:35:00.000-08:00

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 musical blend of African rhythms, soul, and hip-hop.

After years of longing to return to his country, Babaluku went back to Uganda last summer with his business partner””documentary filmmaker Aaron Elton””to investigate the hip-hop scene. The five-month trip was life-changing for him.

“I got off the plane and the smell of Africa hit me,”� he recounts over coffee on Granville Street. “It was an emotional time. In that moment, I felt like I let so much go””stuff that I was holding on to. I was back home.

“My mission in Africa was to check out the state of hip-hop,”� he continues. “But when we got there, my vision got bigger.”�

Unlike in other countries such as Tanzania and Kenya, hip-hop culture was still in its infancy in Uganda. Babaluku found that few artists were reaching out to youth who were eager to learn more about the art form, so he and Elton started organizing free concerts in the slums. With the help of local hip-hop star Krazy Native and his organization, the Ugandan Hip-Hop Foundation, they were able to put on numerous shows all over the city.

“We did one concert in the hospital for the HIV kids,”� Babaluku remembers. “When they called us to perform, they told us they wanted songs that would not remind the kids of their condition. But the reality is that these kids knew they had HIV.”�

One of Babaluku's fellow rappers insisted on performing a track that he wrote about his mother, who died of AIDS.

“And while he was performing it,”� he recalls, “the organizers got mad. But the funny thing was that in the middle of them rebuking us, all these kids were getting up and pulling a thousand shillings out of their pockets and taking it to him. When I was watching that, I was like, 'Do you think you can hide the fact from this kid? Look at him. He is taking the thousand shillings he has to say thanks for singing about my condition.' ”�

Babaluku also hit the studio while he was in Kampala with his crew Bataka Squad””which includes Krazy Native and a female MC named Tshila. (Some tracks are streamed on Babaluku's MySpace page: www .myspace.com/coolbabs/.)

“Twakubye”�, an upbeat dance joint that features Tanzanian MC Rah P, is a standout. The cut addresses those who doubt the power of Ugandan hip-hop, and highlights Babaluku's smooth, double-time flow against a backdrop of percussive beats.

“We, Bataka Squad, have really ventured out,”� he says of the recordings. “To take the form of hip-hop and shape it for Uganda, so that our people will be able to relate to it.”�

Tshila, for instance, has been working on merging traditional tribal music with hip-hop. “She went around the villages scouting for local instrumentalists and she's blending that with hip-hop in her own language,”� Baba?luku explains. “At the same time, she's playing acoustic and singing soul. The blend is crazy. It's something that Uganda has never heard.”�

In both recording and performing, Babaluku's main goal has been to help Ugandan hip-hop find its own unique voice. “I used to write rhymes in English, but the day that I started to write in my own language, everything started turning around mentally,”� he offers. “Now I could reach that kid in the village. He could know what I was talking about.”�

“Every stage I hit in Uganda, I never used English,”� the rapper adds. “A lot of people went back from Sweden, from California, and they're all rhyming like Jay-Z, all speaking English. When I hit the stage, my spirit would not let me speak English because I'm in Africa. I was chanting Luganda.

“I wanted to help build these kids self-esteem, to let them know that you can do hip-hop in your own language. You can reach out to your people. You've got to get out of this whole New York state of mind.”�

From these experiences, the Bavu?buka Foundation was born (www .bavubuka.com/). Babaluku and Elton launched the nonprofit to create opportunities for young people in Africa to express themselves. They hope to build a community centre and a youth camp in Kampala. The pair plans to return to Uganda this fall, bringing members of the North American hip-hop community with them.

“For me, as an African that has grown up in Canada, I take what I have learned here and share it with those kids in Uganda,”� Babaluku says. “I'm starting to network with a lot of African youth on this side of the world. I'm like, 'Yo, what do you do? Academics? Music? Whatever your gift is could change someone's life back home.' ”�

promiscous

2008-11-04T06:41:00.000-08:00

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 Nov. 4 ...NAIROBI..

2008-11-04T03:38:00.000-08:00

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 only KSh100.

and this is supposed to make you feel bad..

2008-10-29T02:09:00.001-07:00

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..

2008-10-29T02:05:00.000-07:00

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..

2008-10-29T01:53:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-29T01:50:00.000-07:00

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..

2008-10-29T01:40:00.000-07:00

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!!’

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

2008-10-26T02:04:00.000-07:00

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,

2008-10-25T04:09:00.000-07:00

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..

2008-10-25T03:09:00.000-07:00

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.

THE MAURICE KIRYA EXPERIENCE..

2008-10-24T05:37:00.000-07:00

CLUB ROUGE

28th OCTOBER 2008

be there!

8:00 p.m

(check out poster)

-cleansed-

2008-10-24T03:59:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-24T03:59:00.000-07:00

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.

my best song,ever...

2008-10-23T02:16:00.000-07:00

"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

make me wholly yours..

2008-10-20T00:41:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-10-20T00:40:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-10-20T00:39:00.001-07:00

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..

2008-10-20T00:38:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-10-20T00:16:00.000-07:00

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.

homeward bound...

2008-10-19T23:22:00.001-07:00

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...

2008-10-19T23:21:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-19T23:20:00.001-07:00

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..

2008-10-19T23:16:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-10-14T06:29:00.000-07:00

WARNING:THIS IS NOT A POEM.

2008-10-14T06:05:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-10-14T03:37:00.001-07:00

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:

2008-10-14T03:22:00.000-07:00

4th WAPI KAMPALA;WAPI MY RIGHTS?

2008-10-14T03:17:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-10-10T04:29:00.001-07:00

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...

2008-10-10T04:28:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-10T04:27:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-10-10T04:26:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-10T04:23:00.005-07:00

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.

2008-10-10T04:23:00.001-07:00

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:

2008-10-10T04:20:00.000-07:00

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.

democracy from an afro perspective...

2008-10-07T00:51:00.000-07:00

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

the sinking of the titanic

2008-09-29T05:22:00.000-07:00

This classical black poetry piece is one of the foundations of SPOKEN WORD POETRY, the revolution that failed to be televised but was always bubbling under. This is a masterpiece with its origins in the south of the USA.
I hope ‘Shine’ touches a special part of you as he has done mine

It was 1912 when the awful news got around
That the great Titanic was sinking down.
Shine came running upon deck, told the captain, ‘Please,
The water in the boiler room is up to my knees.’

Captain said; ‘Take your black self on back down there!
I got a hundred and fifty pumps to keep the boiler room clear.’
Shine went back in the whole, started shoveling coal,
Singing, ‘Lord have mercy, Lord, on my soul!’
Just then half the ocean jumped across the boiler room deck.
Shine yelled to the captain, ‘The water’s around my neck!’
Captain said, ‘Go back! Neither fear nor doubt!
I got a hundred more pumps to keep the water out.’

‘Your words sound happy and your words sound true,
But this one time Cap, your words won’t do.
I don’t like chicken and I don’t like ham-
And I don’t believe your pump is worth a damn!’

The old Titanic was beginning to sink
Shine pulled of his clothes and jumped in the brink.
He said, ’Little fish, big fish, and shark fishes, too,
Get out of my way because I’m coming through.’

Captain on bridge hollered,’Shine, shine, save poor me,
And I’ll make you as rich as any man can be.’
Shine said, ‘There’s more gold on land than there is on sea
And he swimmed on.

A UGANDAN CLASSIC by TIMOTHY WANGUSA.

2008-09-29T04:18:00.000-07:00

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.

REJECTION..

2008-09-29T03:30:00.000-07:00

This sort of poetry is the type that just puts a smile on your face, its well written and so raw that you get addicted to it… read and see what really happens in a brother’s mind when he is rejected.This poem is from the THONGA tribe in the southern tip of our lovely continent of Africa.

1.very well girl:

All rights then, girl, refuse me.
The grains of maize from which you eat in your village
Are human eyes!
The tumblers from which you eat
Are human skulls!
The cassava roots you eat
Are human leg bones!
The sweet potatoes
Are human fingers!
Very well then girl, refuse me

open-mic night at the afriart gallery..

2008-09-29T03:00:00.000-07:00

Its a Friday and yours truly is on a bodaboda snaking through a traffic jam in the thick Kintante road.Im making my way to Lugogo showground where I think Afriart gallery is hosting an open-mic night which I was humbly told is going to ’happen’. .and happen it truly did, only at another venue.

I get to U M A showground and my Swahili is in; I ask the askari if there is anything happening at the gallery and he tells me nothing, and true to his word I can see the place isn’t lit up.

I insist on seeing for myself and at the front I meet a couple of other poetry lovers who have ‘bounced’ like me. A few phone calls later truly confirm that the event would not take place. ‘So what should we do?’ the ladies ask, and one says the rugby club is always jumping on Fridays; of course I know, my blood is saturated with that thing that we go hungrily there for..It’s just that I’m trying so badly to quit...

I had been pumping this little frame of mine with bitter since 4 pm and I thought I had had enough, enough forever... but that night promised me that I would never.

To cut the thoroughly long story short I had too much of pints and I don’t remember whoever I was with, plus I lost my priceless poetry album by Imani; whoever might have it...Pleeeeeeeeease...

To make it up to anyone who strictly believes that this is a poetry and arts blog and not someone’s memoir of teen-like drinking sprees ,I have prepared a collection of love pieces from as far as the 1700..and I screwed up on Friday, the apology chokes but I guess its audible enough..

TO THE LOVERS

I can’t imagine

I can’t imagine a day
Without your charming smile;
Nor can I justly convey
How much I love your style.

I can’t imagine a week
Without your warm embrace;
Nor the absence of your pleasing form
And lovely flawless face.

I can’t imagine a year
Without you near to share
The times that I do endear,
Or the moments of despair.

I can’t imagine a lifetime
Without you by my side;
For I want a love divine,
I need you as my guide.

I can’t imagine eternity
Without the love I’ve known.
My spirit would wander hopelessly
In agony-alone.

Feelings

Endlessly you inspire me
By what you say or do.
Thus, with great sincerity,
I’ll tell my feelings true.

You always use your eloquence
To raise my self esteem.
To help me boost my confidence
To realize a dream.

You comfort me in times of stress
You hold me tenderly
Your soothing words then do suppress
All of my anxiety.

You love me with a passionate grace
Which gives me ecstasy
And there within your warm embrace,
My spirit wonders free.

In mind and body, I do thrive
Within your loving sphere.
And easily do I survive
Each and every passing year

So now you know in words sincere,
My feelings pure and true,
They reaffirm what is clear
That I am so truthfully in love with you.

One of the most revered love letters of our times is this one from Napoleon Bonaparte to his then lover Josephine, it’s about how passionate a man thought to be obsessed with power and wars can be.
Read it; it will show you another part of the man.

Napoleon Bonaparte
To
Josephine de Beaueharnais
(Paris, December 1795)

I wake filled with thought of you. Your portrait and the intoxicating evening which we spent yesterday have left my senses in turmoil Sweet, incomparable Josephine, what a strange effect you have on my heart! Are you angry? Do I see you looking sad? Are you worried?...My soul aches with sorrow, and here can be no rest for your lover; but is there still more in store for me when, yielding to the profound feelings which overwhelm me, I draw from your lips, from your heart a love
Which consumes me with fire? Ah! It was last night that I fully realized how false an image of your portrait gives!

You are leaving at noon; I shall see you in three hours.
Until then, mio dolce amor, a thousand kisses; but give me none in return, for they set my blood on fire.

The course of love never did run smooth.
-Shakespeare

It’s difficult to know what moment love starts; it is less difficult to know that it has begun.
-Longfellow.

TIM MWAURA

2008-09-24T08:29:00.000-07:00

An eastafricanpoet’s go at him:

The first time I was lucky enough to witness this poetry addict performing was at his premier performance at the British council, I loved the piece he did on originality and an African having a definition even before the painting was repainted using white hues, if you know what I mean.
Mwaura’s poetry is strong; any witness will attest to this and his flow is so liquid, he drowns you into it without much fuss...
But on his debut performance at WAPI that Sep 2007,I think stage fright or just plain excitement got the best of him and he was like,’Damn;I’ve forgotten my lines…can I have the rough copy?’ well he did not fall back to the rough copy, he just dismissed the whole performance and left the podium with a 5 star applause all over the air around him.
The next time I see him, we are at a symposium run by Imani and in attendance are poetry geniuses like Njeri Wangare.but Mwaura looked so cool unlike the fine poetry maestro that he is...
Next time I hear about him; he’s just become the first KENYA SLAM CHAMPION after beating a host of celebrated names. But he isn’t basking in that glory, far from that; he is perfecting his poetry besides helping a host of needy people.
timmwaura@gmail.com

TO YOU ON THE SAFE HABOUR:

2008-09-24T08:21:00.000-07:00

This is to you on the safe harbor

I have set my sail high and up
And the wind has impregnated her already;
She is full and ready.
And we’re now in the middle of the murky blue sea,
All we see is a relentless blue.

My fellow seamen are weary
The captain has dozed by the wheel
And the rest have slumped on the deck
It’s tough
Made even tougher by the hopelessness

I’ve dropped this into the sea in a bottle
I hope the ebbing waves find you
And deliver this to your pretty fingers.
I’ll be there too
If the sea favors me...

I’d love to know how you fair
If it’s truly peaceful there
But it must be,
After the rough sea
The harbor is always peaceful

My ship will rest on the tide’s back
If it takes us bad, then worst it will be
If it takes good, then best it will be.
But I will arrive
Then kickback and rest; just rest…

This is from me out in the sea.

PIECES BY THE LAKE:

2008-09-24T08:13:00.000-07:00

It’s a lazy afternoon and I’m chilling at the Uganda-famous beach (lake shore) called Lido thinking hard about issues...I also catch up with the poetic-me and jot down a few poems.
These poems were inspired by the lake, the people and the music around me. I hope they get to please you.
Enjoy…

1.An afternoon by the lake:

I sit by the waters and watch
I can see misty hills in the horizon
And dark gray waters go as far my humble eyes

Closer by the shore
Big muscled boys show young girls
How to bodily navigate the waters

Around me hairy-legged men in shorts
Fidget with expensive mobile phones
As the ladies with them munch easy on chips and fresh lake fish

The afternoon wears lazily on
Amid windy sunshine, mirandas and R n B
I’m just another person by the lake in jeans and sneakers

A wrinkling sun burned pink man
Tags along two ladies having long horse hair
He needs a swim but they are not eager

Birds fly easy over placid waters
Picking fishes of the waters like fingers pick fries
Some shoot hard into the water then out as hard as they came.

A Marvin Gaye hit swarms the air
And I realize that I’m truly lonely...
Plus me and my lady no longer connect.

2. The someone else I don’t know:

I heard her ask in a mellow voice
What’s love but a second hand emotion
Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?
Maybe it’s true; nobody needs something that can get hurt.

But again living without a heart isn’t living…
It’s that heart beat that makes icy blood thaw in our veins.
It’s that beat that sings a favorite song to someone else.
The only someone else that can understand your heart’s conversation
That someone else that I don’t know...

3. Free souls:

Easy Lingala weaves through the air to my ears
And my head nods in rhythm with my heart
Madilu system, Franco.Papa wemba...
Mawazo feels so easy and deep.
Some Mbilia bell and Tshala mwana also do good.

Two girls stand in the knee high waters
With children sobbing in fear.
Lovers sit in the sand touching each others arms
And jealousy creeps into me.
The sun is now gone

People around me laugh, drink and smile
Photographers ask if I need a photo
But I’m here to run away
And that’s not a memory I want on a photo
‘No Ssebo, I’m okay; no photo today..’

Boys blaze up white cancer sticks
As they smile to their girlfriends.
The sun is now gone but more people get into the water
It must be better now
Better their free souls.

You can see that all those were from a fellow full of fish and issues, a deadly combination…

WHY?

2008-09-24T07:54:00.000-07:00

Why do you stare
And pretend it was only a glance?
Why do you come here
And pretend to be just passing by?
Why do you look into my eyes
When you know mine cannot do so?
Why do you offer me a smile
And yet you know I don’t want but need it?
Why do you kill me
Then let me go?
Why do you offer solutions
Yet you're the issue?
Why do I yearn and starve
When I've had so much?

I cannot help it:

2008-09-24T07:47:00.000-07:00

This misty collection is traditional Kikuyu in nature and heavily inspired by real life happenings. It’s about a lady that can only go down hills and cannot climb; how it all ends even I don’t have a clue.
Enjoy.

Kui I cannot help it:

My lady Kui
I sincerely don’t understand you,
Not anymore
Kindly tell me what is wrong.

You don’t even care to cut my nails anymore
You no longer let my leg lie on your thigh...
Or it is because my heels are now cracked?
And I can no longer afford muratina.

You told me you will always be with me
Is this truly forever?
See you cannot even look at me,
I’m I not worthy of your eyes?

You don’t even eat this food.
It’s ours not mine
Its not meat, your favorite
But it’s better than nothing.

Kui I cannot help it
When we went to Baba
You promised me and all my people
That it will be for better or for worse.

Kui I cannot help it.
Life isn’t like the flat Naivasha
It gets steep like Nyaga’s abode
But you seem not to understand

Poverty the wise old Guka says
Should be the sharpener of our digging sticks
The sharper they get, the better we can work
We are still strong Kui; the grays haven’t come yet…

I hope and pray
That what I said gets into your head
For I will not talk to you again.
I hope and pray.

Baba I cannot help it:

Baba I cannot help it
Yes Baba all is not well
That is why I came with my people
Plus we are unkempt so.

Baba and Mami we came here long ago
Maybe ten full waru seasons ago
Or twelve, today’s waru matures too fast
We also came dancing to the karing’aring’a

Baba didn’t we bring muratina?
And cows and lessos for Mami?
If I’m wrong Mami correct me.
But my people and yours plus Mwene Nyaga were witnesses.

Mami and Baba I tried
I gave birth to my father
And then my daughter that is you Mami,
So that you would be with us forever.

Baba I cannot help it
Since that foot and mouth curse took all our cows
We have met hills all along our way
But we have tried

Baba, Mami I cannot help it
That I am no longer rich
But I’m thankful that I am healthy
And there are many years ahead of me.

But ever since the meat on our table became mingi
And the tea is now ndubia
Your daughter is no longer Kui
She is someone I do not know

Kui, my mother I tell you, cannot even look at me
Baba she won’t even eat our food
But we have never slept on empty stomachs
My children remain my witnesses

Now Baba and Mami
You have seen that all is not well
I have brought my people
As my witnesses to strengthen my words

Baba you are old
And with that comes immense respect;
So I will give it to you as you deserve
Because refusing to give it you is wrong.

I came with only two solutions in my head
Which I prayed and asked the Great one for,
Plus I talked with my people
Until we decided what was right.

Baba and Mami, Kui it seems cannot climb
She can only go down hills
For that me and my people have decided
And we cannot help it that it has come to this.

Baba if you can please bring your people
To my home that I share with your daughter
And take her back with you
Because it might get worse now that it is bad

But on a second decision, Mami
Come to my home and stay some days
Use them to talk to Kui; teach her
Show Kui that a house is held up by two...

My people here bear with me witness
That I did not disrespect or do anything wrong.
Baba and Mami we have spoken
I pray and hope that you decide the best

Kui you cannot help it:

Kui my daughter, my loveliest of all
The last time I talked to you about a home
Was before your uthoni
It was a long time ago, a very long time ago.

When you got circumcised
They taught you all about pleasing him
But that all, wasn’t truly all
You always learn on the work

Kui my daughter I want you to listen
Me and your father have shared a bed for a long time,
More than half of our lives
But you still see the fire in him for me

It is not easy
Nothing is easy not even sleeping
And marriage binds you together
Until the bad one takes away one of you.

He was young and wealthy before
The dowry he brought us
Has never been seen before
Not even to this day

You have lived well my daughter
It’s only now that your skin has lost its texture
You were the loveliest and still are
Not only in the mind but in the head too

Character Kui is like a pregnancy
It cannot be hidden.
And yours is beautifully seen
As we raised you in the best way.

Now listen;
Who thought he could ever be poor?
But you lost all your cows in days
Yet you did not lose your hands and land

About character
Patience is a woman’s best part
It is like your breast that feed the world
And I know you have enough of both

Your husband wasn’t chosen for you,
It is the great one that gives us companions
And yours is one of the best
You also know and acknowledge it.

We will not take you back home
You are young but past marriage days.
Now I beg and want you to have patience
Have patience with your husband…

Wealth is not breath
Yet breath is life
You and your husband are young and healthy
You will still be wealthy…

Everything comes slowly
Even life itself is slow and humble
So you stay with your husband
And work hard for your children.

LAURYN HILL

2008-09-19T07:36:00.006-07:00

THE PHOTOS SPEAK FOR THEMSELVES,I ADORE THIS EXAMPLE AND VISION OF A LADY.THE BEST MUSIC IS THE FINEST MUSIC,SHE SAID..

upcoming OPEN-MIC night at the AFRI-ART GALLERY:

2008-09-19T07:36:00.004-07:00

Im sitting inside a lecture hall and my tutor is going on and on about managers and how management is about getting things done in collaboration with other people, and Im thinking management is towering over people with a mean face and getting things done. To tell it truly in black and white.

Out of my lecture and rewind to about three hours ago earlier in the day; I stepped into the AFRIART GALLERY inside U.M.A showground where I might a lovely lady who offers me all the help she can about the upcoming OPEN-MIC night. Apparently it happens every last Friday of the month and it was born only in June.

About performances and registration of the same, she tells me all I need is to give her my phone number and name, plus I get to drop a comment into their comment book (even though it was first time around).

About the gallery now; a couple of great art pieces caught my eye but the prices are sky high. The hand painted t-shirts look OK and the gallery is really spacious so I'm surprised when she tells me that the performances take place outside the place, around a fire the traditional story way which I thought was really cool.

'Any questions?' the tutor gets me out of my reverie but a student who conveniently answers and asks all the questions gets the tutor busy for another few minutes..

I learnt all I needed about the upcoming poets night and even got myself a poetry collection that is nothing but a collector's item.
Get to know more about it here.

PAINTED VOICES:a collage of art and poetry

2008-09-19T07:36:00.002-07:00

A word from the publishers

This collection of poems was put together with the intention that readers enjoy it immensely. The blend of poetry with art gives it a unique quality that will guide the readers' imagination into the everyday life of love, motherhood, relationships, politics, war, hope, religion and even death that each poem explores. This collection has assembled works of both established writes like OKOT P'BITEK, TIMOTHY WANGUSA and HENRY BARLOW and new interesting voices that will certainly inspire the readers. The artists who have worked on the poems have encased immense talent in the poems. Hurray to them! The combination of poetry and painting is aimed at promoting the unity of the arts and it should inspire a new trend of cooperation.

This project is an infant of the FEMRITE Readers Writers Club, a discussion group that meets at FEMRITE every Monday evening. In our call for poems, to be published in this unique anthology, emphasis was put on originality, clarity, creativity and specified length.About 40 poems were received from which 20 were finally selected. Hopefully this is the first of the many coming poetry anthologies of this unique nature.

PAINTED VOICES:a collage of art and poetry

2008-09-19T07:36:00.000-07:00

This is a collection unlike no other (that’s the best description for lack of a better one)…a blend of the new and the old inside the quite lukewarm poetry scene in Uganda. The small book-it’s a collection of only 20 fine poems-is a collaboration between FEMRITE and AFRIART GALLERY, how poetry and painting can marry almost to perfection makes this anthology a trendsetter in this field.

I noticed a number of established, East African poetry heavyweights like OKOT P'BITEK (remember him from song of lawino), TIMOTHY WANGUSA (writer of the satirical Psalms 23 II) and HENRY BARLOW (who writes about building the nation as a permanent secretary's driver)

New voices also come out strongly in this collection, most notably SOPHIE BAMWOYERAKI, whom I've witnessed performing a poem dedicated to her Papa which I found extremely touching. I however thought her poem in here FEAR, ended too abruptly.
Another great piece was from a lady who handles her business like they're (ladies) supposed to; the lovely ROSEY SEMBATYA.her poem IN CONTROL was simple but beautifully contemporary.

The men too did a commendable job and I think the panelists that finally chose the poems to be published also did an extraordinary job.
Feast your eyes and soul on this beautiful marriage of painters and poets; lethal, if you might ask me.
Enjoy.

AT THE NEXT WAPI NAIROBI..

2008-09-15T01:58:00.000-07:00

SATURDAY 28TH SEPTEMBER 2008

There will be the WAPI famous SKILL FACTORY.
One of the main events will be The craft in writing and performing poetry, with NEEMA NGWATILO.

This session is designed to heighten awareness in poets of the words and ideas they weave together with a view to increasing effectiveness on the page and in performance.
Close attention will be paid to particular texts, looking at the elements that make a piece effective and those which do not, and how to craft a performance or presentation.
E-mail pieces that you want workshopped to mmawiyo@gmail.com

Get to know more about NEEMA NGWATILO here.(CHECK THE SIDE BAR)

Article courtesy of THE WAPI TIMES.

THIRD WAPI KAMPALA

2008-09-15T01:39:00.000-07:00

RESPECT OR FEAR.

Wapi, wapi… wapi…what can really be said? The best thing after sliced bread or the best thing since East Africa attained independence. The K'LA WAPI runs from 2 pm to about 8:30 pm which is quite different from WAPI NAIROBI which ends at about 6 pm.True to K'LA parties the party races hard into the night through to 9 pm and its jumping even after I leave at about 9:15 pm.
This is how it went down…
Its 5 o'clock and my head is in a spin so ruthless that I feel like I could bite of the head of the inventor of the phenomenon called a traffic jam, but because patience is a virtue and I try to stay as virtuous as possible, I grit my teeth and watch other cars move slowly past...
After what seems like eternity, I get to town and catch a boda b' quick, fast and in a hurry then soon enough I get to the fabulous HOTEL AFRICANA to its part that's ideally called the PEOPLE'S SPACE. The party is already jumping and there's a Tanzanian crew busting Swahili rhymes on stage.
Later on a designer displays some very 'streety' clothes which I must admit is a nice change away from the usual fashion shows where you’ve got skinny girls that stand at 7 feet and where clothes that you can never get into in the streets of East Africa .
This is only the third edition of WAPI in Kampala but the crowd could put the Nairobi edition to test. I take a walk to the clearly marked tent that’s supposed to house the poets and to my surprise I found only one poet; a certain young man by the name of B.GIDEON, a high school brother who already has a published collection of wonderful, easy and fine poems. (Please read more of his poems in here, CHECK THE SIDE BAR.).
The collection that I get to purchase goes by the name of BY SAIL, BY CUPID co-written by B.GIDEON and K.COSMAS.
One Mr.Kasisi gets on stage clad in a Maasai shuka and is carrying a wooden cross, his poetry is also quite touching only that he gets booed off stage before he does his thing right.
I get a line from him amidst all the noise and it goes something like this, ' If wishes were fishes all men would be fishermen' and I thought that was really cool.

Voice of hope children's home performs some acrobatic stunts that get me holding my breath; the kids were so young. Their B-boying was also worth writing about. I get to know that they are street kids getting rehabilitated through art in acrobatics.
The rest of the evening wears on with lots of fashion and a lot of music, mostly of the radio-everyday type. One singer grabs my attention though, the brother who dropped rap music in his native Rutooro, not your everyday type of music...

The night is however made great by KLEAR KUT,this crew of NAVIO and LANGMAN THE MYTH showed the 'baby MCs' how real hip-hop is done, with THE MYTH reminding everyone who thought they owned LUGA-FLOW that he was its rightful king. These rappers are more than truly talented and they keep getting better with each passing year.

The artist of the night was the finest Luganda rapper in Uganda, none other than BABA LUKU, who had just jetted in. He reminded everyone that it was indeed a dream come true for him to finally see a working platform for the underground Luganda hip-hop scene. He drops more than enough rhymes and when his time to leave comes, he left all of us shouting, "ENCORE!"
The MCs call it a wrap right after he (Baba Luku) leaves but the DJ promises to play music for the rest of the crowd after the performances.
That’s what happened at WAPI K'LA
THE NEXT WAPI KAMPALA GOES DOWN ON THE 10TH OF OCTOBER.
SEE YOU THERE.

TWO WRONGS THAT MADE NO RIGHT

2008-09-09T05:14:00.000-07:00

She was just 5’ 2”
Her skin weighed heavy on the light side
And less in the dark side.
Second year MAKERERE UNIVERSITY BUSINESS SCHOOL, HRM
Straight A’s but she attended lectures in proxy

I was wrong from the moment I felt it
It was more inside my jeans
And less inside my chest.
But so wrong, so extremely and thoroughly wrong
That it seemed right.

She smiled so well, so easy and so naturally;
She was the type that never took a taxi
Her locomotion business was settled by BODA B’s and SPECIOS.
Plus she looked great in skinny jeans
And I thought any hairstyle looked ideal on her

But I was wrong and double wrongs never became right
She made me happy inside my jeans
Sad in my wallet
And infatuated inside my chest
But it was so wrong that it seemed right,

I sat down and thought
A dead year wouldn’t hurt so much
And I could always save or just inflate my fees,
She thought it was a fine idea
One that could apparently give us more time together

She loved the BEACH and the GREEN TUSKER;
A little bit of MUCHOMO and was addicted to new shoes..
I gave it all to her, plus more that she didn’t ask for.
But I was wrong, my roommates always said;
Now I can see it, I was wrong.

2008-09-05T08:08:00.000-07:00

CELEBRATING OKOT P'BITEK

2008-09-05T08:05:00.000-07:00

In celebration of one of east Africa’s greatest literary minds; yours truly the esatafricanpoet will run a series of poems or songs as he fondly referred to them from the great OKOT P’BITEK.
The best and most attractive aspect of a genuine P’BITEK classic is his raw simplicity and language so easy to understand that his ‘songs’ could be understood and enjoyed by virtually anyone who has love for poetry.
But simplicity is complexity in its own way and the simplest of poems are usually the most complex; any poetry lover will attest to this, yours truly included. a friend of mine tells me that ,‘the simplest and the most easily understood of concepts took the greatest effort to put together’
This piece is the first of the OKOT P’BITEK series. enjoy.

Song of lawino

We sang the faith of the messengers
Like parrots
I did not understand it all!
I thought about it
In my own head
But I could get nowhere,
And there was nobody to turn to
The padre and the nun are the same,
They only quarrel
They are angry with me
As if it was I
Who prevented them marrying.

To them the good children
Are those
Who ask no questions
Who accept everything
Like the tomb
Which does not reject
Even the dead leper!
Who accept everything
Like the rubbish pit,
Like the pit latrine
Which does not reject
Even dysentery
And those good children
Who ask no questions
Are liked
They are given oranges
And guavas and bananas
They take a ride
In the padres car
The nun pats them on their backs
And says my son you are good!

the morning after:

2008-09-05T07:57:00.000-07:00

I woke up to the rich smell of talcum powder
‘Johnson’s and Johnson’, I knew it too well,
I tried to revamp my memory
But all I could remember was the smoking
And the vodka that made me smile a lot.
I was double-stoned and eagle high.
Stoned from the smoke,
High from the bitter shots
And so thoroughly love stoned by those nails;
I always had a thing for exquisite manicures
And soft sensitive footsteps under a fragile gait.
Now I smelled of love but reeked of self-disgust.
What was her name? Her age? And how was she?
None of them mattered..
All I could recollect was that
I loved the flowers on the skirt
And the stringy straps on the blouse
Plus she smelled so good,
Something like a wild flower bush.
Plus her eyes bounced a lot
And her skin was almost baby like..
But I could not remember her
So I scratched my hair till the scalp itched
Still I could not find her.
She had smiled and drugged me with ease,
Now she was gone, it wasn’t her debut act.
But I knew she would be back
Maybe after 5 years like last night.

gentle poetry:

2008-09-05T07:51:00.001-07:00

One of the best poetry pieces ever told on east African soil, this is by Ralph Bitamazire.
Poetry cannot get gentler than this...

I love you my gentle one:

I love you my gentle one,
My love is the fresh milk in the rubindi
Which you drank on the wedding day;
My love is the butter we were smeared with
To seal fidelity in our hearts.
You are the cattle bird’s egg,
For those who saw you are wealthy.
You are the papyrus reed of the lake
That they pull with both hands
And I sing for you with tears
Because you posses my heart:
I love you my gentle one.

a poem that no name be-fits..

2008-09-05T07:48:00.000-07:00

I’m told a poem without a name is like a child who owns no name; it clearly shows that the parents do not care about him. Maybe I don’t care about this piece here, but all I know is that no name befits this here..

I heard them tell it raw
And without a flaw
That if he gorged your eye to the floor,
You ought to do so too, or even more.
But an eye for an eye
Left us asking why?
We couldn’t see again
We now groped around blind
And had to re-learn how to re-live
Re-live life afresh without eyes..
Someone told us about Sisimonda,
It wasn’t your every day African tale
It was different,
Beautifully and divinely different.
That she gave her own blood
To whoever was in a need so bad.
And a motherly love glowed of her skin,
But most of all she touched
Those who suckled of her breast
Those who fed of her experienced hands
Those who got soothed by her hugs and love
And those who got spoiled by her unselfishness.

But she was evil to someone else
One who didn’t see the beautiful soul
And who knew her tribe came before her,
One who painfully fast-forwarded her pilgrimage to heaven..
There’s a Sisimonda that we all lost
The one that made us lose it all
All except our own minds,
The faith, the pride, the sense of belonging;
The feeling of a soul at complete rest.
We all lost something
While they get ferried to 5-star hotels
For a press conference
To address the ‘underlying causes of the conflict.’
But there’s no underlying, or hidden or open thing;
It’s so plain true that it hurts..
Go on making one superior and another inferior
Then the clash occurs.
Take the pauper’s lone lamb
Then melt it into the rich man’s herd
And you’ve got yourself a bloody pasture.
Plain simple.

HOOK UP FOR POETRY LOVERS..

2008-09-04T09:14:00.001-07:00

POETRY NIGHT.
WEDNESDAY 24th September 2008

For all poetry lovers, the place to be is the AFRIART GALLERY located at the UMA (Uganda Manufacturers’ Association) showground located in LUGOGO.
Poetry readings will take place and they will be spruced up by wine.
From 6:00 pm to 8:00 pm.
Art paintings and different local fashion designs will be on sale. So carry some cash.
Entry is free.

CONTACTS:
DAUDI KARUNGI
Daudi@afriartgallery.com
+256-41-375455

THEATRE

2008-09-04T09:10:00.000-07:00

Let’s talk theatre, theatre and some more theatre;
I’m an arts fanatic and in a way I’m proud of it. Today with a little help from fellow fanatics I’ll tell all I can about the finest theatres in the lovely heart of the pearl of Africa.

1. THE NATIONAL THEATRE, DEWINTON ROAD.

This is the most reliable arts headquarters in Kampala, and has been that way for the last 50 or so years. We don’t call it the National theatre for lack of no concrete reason; this fine place boasts of lots of rehearsal space, dance studios, a recording studio, professional theatre lighting and of course the trump doors.
The place has something artistic happening almost every single day of the week, check this:
Mondays host THE JAM SESSION at MUSICIANS’ CLUB ’89 and entry is free of charge.
Tuesdays are best spent at the DANCE FLOOR where PERCUSSION DISCUSSION blesses the night. Entry is at sh.3,000
Thursday is all about hearty laughs; its COMEDY NIGHT and it all takes place in THE UPPER GARDENS and is run by THE THEATRE FACTORY. Entry is sh.5,000
There are drama productions on most weekends and entrance to the auditorium averages sh.10,000.
The auditorium sits about 330 people.

Besides art, the national theatre gardens are also popular with wedding receptions.

2. DIDI-I THETRE AND AUDITORIUM, KANSANGA

This by far the finest of the fine theatres in Kampala but the least talked about, maybe it’s because the clientele is majorly of Indian origin and most of the shows are children’s shows. The entry also averages over sh.10,000
This fine jewel boasts of the largest auditorium in the country, of about 1,355.It also contains folding seats which are really comfortable and allow enough leg space. But the shine in this jewel is the sound system which provides world class theatre sound.
The auditorium also slants and this allows even the patrons on the last seats to have a proper and comfortable view of the stage, plus the air conditioning is brilliant.

Definitely the type of theatre we all wish we had in our backyards.

3. NDERE THEATRE, BUTIKIRWA, KISAASI ROAD
Ask me about a place where you can catch finely roasted maize and cassava during a theatrical performance and I’ll tell you NDERE CENTRE.
This place is not all about theatre but culture as well; actually an entrance sign reads HOME OF CULTURES. It also boasts of the only amphitheatre in the country and an auditorium that hosts the shows incase of rain.

Its events table reads something like this:

Wednesdays are spent with the NDERE TROUPE members who teach the patrons all about traditional meals (preparation and serving), there’s also plenty of jazz music. Entry is at sh.10,000
Sunday family show is the pride of NDERE CENTRE; there are plenty of traditional performances and games for the young ones and those young at heart. Entry is at sh.10,000
The end of the month hosts the KWETU INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL.

NDERE CENTRE is also a great venue for private functions.

3. BAT VALLEY THEATRE,BOMBO ROAD

Whenever I think about this place I see bats and I have a phobia for bats, (bat-o-phobia?)..
It hosts a number of drama groups and musicians but is home to the AFRI-TALENT DRAMA GROUP.
This here is a theatre that grows, a number of radical changes have taken place in it but the most prominent, I’m told is all about the new auditorium seats, which are never quite enough. In case you don’t get a chance to get one of these, you have to make do with the hard back benches.
Bat valley theatre remains busy all week because of the attached bar; RED NITE PUB. The finest day in the pub is the very popular embagga y’embaata. Entrance is sh.2,000

Drama is weekend business and the place closes down after midnight.

5.THEATRE LA BONITA,COLVILLE STREET

This the new kid on the block when it comes to the Kampala theatres, and home to THE EBONIES.
Only two years young but attracting massive audiences, LA BONITA owes all these to positive public hype and its central location. It sits about 800 fans but the corridor becomes part of the theatre during premier shows (this shows how popular it is).
It also provides a full package since it has an attached café, bar and restaurant.
Entrance is sh.10,000(general), sh.15,000(VIP) and sh.25,000(royal circle).
The biggest let down is the very bad lighting.

These five are the best and most happening of the Kampala theatres,the opinions in here are strictly mine and are subject to criticism.
Go to a theatre today and support local art.