Just like a flower blossoms beneath the cleft of a rock, so does love, the famous tale of Romeo and Juliet,
From where I’m standing, love remains an illusion, infact it should be included in a million silent ways to die,
In this side of Africa, love has been commercialised, no money, no love is the chorus our hymn,
The media has had enough covering lots of homicide stories, as most of headlines read “man stabbed 21 times by girlfriend”
It’s been half a decade since we parted ways, alot has happened, Sasha got married and now she got a bouncing baby boy,Sinduli the village burglar was arrested, he’s been behind the bars for atleast one year for siphoning fuel from a police van,You remember Tamara the governor’s daughter? She is now a renowned lawyer…
I’ve heard someone say that you can only be hurt by people you love, not strangers, I can’t agree more,
So when age comes knocking, when all men in that house get married, the riddle of love and hate begins,
The firm wall between siblings starts to crack, the innocent souls turn chaotic,
This is the beginning of a new era, a generation of black people from different mothers,
Before you blink for the first time on this planet my son, just presume that you’re alone, humans beings are snakes, vampires, scavengers, crocodiles..,Before you step on this ground for the first time, expect nothing from anyone, you ought to choose to be a happy man,Before you crawl for the first time on earth, just…
Life is unbearable in this side of Sahara, the sun is still hot but our taps have run dry,
We are living in a cursed land where you can sleep a baron and wake up a pauper the next day,
Maybe the blood that we spilled in 2007, the innocent lives that we brutally exterminated has recurred to haunt us!
Infact living in my country under this regime should be included in the Guinness world of records, it’s not for the faint-hearted!
“Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.” — Carl Sandburg, from The Atlantic,…
Once again, the rainy season is here, fumes of a healing land can be seen from a distance,
Before the sun rises from it’s hiding place, mama is already awake, she’s seated on her three-legged stool while milking Kalondu the fresian cow,
The land is still wet and slippery, inside the Boma a herd of goats can be heard bleating, the kids are fighting to suckle for breakfast,
The cows are sleeping together to keep warm, with their bellies intact, the heat party has just started,
There’s a man whose music spread all over the world like bush fire,
Up to this moment, he still holds the title of “king of Pop music” his name is Michael Jackson,
Personally I adolised Michael, I still got his pictures on my wall, he was a great man!
When he sung “you’re not alone”, I believed him, I never thought he would sleep and not wake up someday!
The world is like a busy highway, all of us are passersby, whether you’re riding on a Bentley or walking on foot,
Even if you’re on full tank, you will eventually pull over at a gas station to feed your bowls,
By the time you resume, you will definitely get run over by younger riders,
The night shall come knocking and everyone shall be forced to exit the highway to take a nap,