We were just doing fine before the western culture ruined us,
We used to dance to the rhythm of our traditional “kilumi” songs with passion,
You could feel the impact of our native songs as we perambulated around the fireplace,
Leading the troupe of dancers was my favourite uncle, “Muoki the drummer king”

There was a special horn that once blown, the huts would be left open,
People would leave their pots snoring in the kitchen,
Just to witness the beauty of the famous Kamba dance, Musolo.
Thumping of feet would sound like an old diesel wagon struggling through a rocky pathway,

Just like our forefathers, sharing in Africa was a gift from the skies,
As the humming went on, a bull would be slaughtered to feed the hungry crowd,
Old men would isolate themselves for a cup of “muatine” a local brew made from honey,
They would sit in a circular manner behind the cow shed as the drink penetrated through their gullets,

Life was interesting, no one was allowed to leave the gate with an empty stomach,
The dance was organised to appeal the gods of our ancestors,
After the great festival, rain would ponder the dry thirsty land,
Hunger would be buried deep in the sand dunes of Kalahari desert!