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I often remember with a lot of thrill in my spine every time I reflect on the Writings of Miguna Miguna in his book peeling Back the Masks, a certain sub-plot that most of Kenyan students in Canada, America, Britain, Germany or Australia often fail to go through pre-university examinations and then they opt for faculty friendly courses like carpentry and electrical-wire man offered at some polytechnics in this countries. Then these students end up living as informal sector workers in the Diaspora, and hence putting themselves into a cash strapped condition that they don’t easily come back home. This is also the same texture of revelations I have been encountering for the past five months of my regular reading of the literary pages of The Saturday Nation, in which a most of Kenyans write alongside some foreigners, but notably Professor Austin Bukenya as the foreign writer, Bukenya himself being a Ugandan.
The revelations are that the writers who were regularly writing on these pages sometimes ago have gradually waned up, not because of anything but due to their intellectual irrelevance. Mostly caused by a defect of intellectual inferiority. They were the likes of Evans Mwangi; Mwangi was forthrightly coming up with a tribally fine-tuned niche in the name of being Ngugi wa Thiong’o scholar. He had a specialization in writing about Ngugi because Ngugi is his tribesman, they are both Kikuyu’s.He also had substantial writings on Ngugi’s children; Mukoma, Lee, Nducu and Wanjiku wa Ngugi, who are in similar stretch of their father struggling to be established as writers. But all in all, Professor Evans Mwangi has already ended up as an intellectual without consequences.
Another writer in point was one; Dr Tom Odhiambo, who also teaches literature at the University of Nairobi. He had been writing on the same pages but with a strong bent towards Luo Chauvinism and stark Conspiracy against Luhyia veteran literary Critic Professor Chris Wanjala.
The only Kenyan literary activist who has been trying to remain globally vogue in his literary writings on this platform is Dr Godwin Siundu; he often displays Global relevance through his pataphorous approach to literary appreciations and criticism.
But whatsoever the case, professor Bukenya has towered seriously above these Kenyans.Bukenya’s command of English language and literary command has no match on the Kenyan literary market. Bukenya Tackles globalectics of literature as Kenyans struggle with tribalism of their home literature.Ethinicity is the enemy of Kenyan literature and as well an established foe of any other Kenyan professional perspective.
Why Kenyans are threatened with intellectual suffocation when exposed to otherness is because of a few reasons. As cited above ethinicism remains a dominant factor. But also, lack of homogenous public language, absence of ideology in their political history, failure of politics to achieve common nationalism and corruption in the public sector are contributing forces among others.
Your consecutive  look at the literary pages of  the Saturday Nation of the previous three weekends will be an empirical testimony to this position.Bukenya’s stories have surveyed dialectics of English language, aging of African literature , translation and greatness of Uganda orature with a focus on Okot P’ Bitek. And this weekend he has beautifully lime-lighted on Julius Nyerere’s Intellectual tigritude. Nyerere’s as the killer of colonialism but while at the same time he lingered as the staunch lover of Shakespeare.
This is simply a farcical repetition of the previous tragic history, as reflected in the words of Karl Marx in his 18th Brumaire, which made the Ugandan educated Sudanese Poet, Taban Reneket Makititiyong Lo Liyong to look at Kenya’s literary poverty and then take a synechedochal stand to decry that east Africa is a literary desert. He was right, but in a sense he did not mean east Africa per se, he meant Kenya .Kenya at that time had only an English Department at the University of Nairobi. The department was poorly performing in terms of research. It was desperately tethered duplicating of the European classics as its literary overture.
But when the foreign and radical blood came to Kenya, in guest of helping Kenya to overcome the fog in the seasons end from colonial mire to literary and cultural freedom, Native Kenyans were surprisingly never friendly to them at all at all. Some of the intellectuals who had come to Kenya that time were the greats like :Ezekiel Mphalele from south Africa, Okot p’ Bitek from Uganda,Okello Oculii from Uganda,Ayi Kwei Armah from Ghana, Joie De Graft from Ghana, Walter Rodney from Guyana, Austeen Bukenya from Uganda and Taban Lo Liyong from Uganda.
All of these foreigners in Kenya have later on been absolved by time and history  as literary greats.They have proved clear intellectual and literary superlativety  over and above all Kenyans. The point of contrite is that, Kenyans of that era did not give them a chance to share their intellectual resource with the peasants and masses of Kenya. Instead Kenyan bureaucrats began their usual came of intimidation and tribal nagging whenever intellectually outshone.
Austeen Bukenya was condemned into poverty at Machakos girls high school to be an English teacher or a teacher of English without a salary. Liyong and Pitek were perpetually witch-hunted out of University of Nairobi by Ngugi and Wanjala. Rodney and Armah were frustrated until they desperately moved to Tanzania from where they wrote their respective oeuvres. Armah wrote Why are we Blessed, While Rodney wrote the world famous book How Europe Underdeveloped Africa. Mphalele was frustrated to oblivion, only for him to die mysteriously when on a literary tour in West Africa.
But sadly enough, the Kenyans who were seriously illiterate, in the  likes of : Daniel Moi, Jomo Kenyatta, Ezekiel Barengtunny  and many intellectuals so-so’s shamelessly made themselves to be  chancellors of the Universities .They were chancellors who never went beyond class seven of primary schools in their child hood. They then became bovaristic if not atavistic only to begin writing lame books like Nyayo Philosophy, Suffering without Bitterness, Facing Mount Kenya and other literary trash of the same calibre. It is this intellectual sludge that they again turned to impose as compulsory reading materials on sons and daughters of poor Kenyans.
By
Alexander K. Opicho
Eldoret, Kenya.
response to literary journalism in east africa
Mio Seanachaidh Jan 2017
Lack of money is lack of friends; if you have money at your disposal, every dog and goat will claim to be related to you. ~ Yoruba
War has no eyes ~ Swahili saying
There can be no peace without understanding. ~Senegalese proverb
A leader who does not take advice is not a leader. ~ Kenyan proverb
If there is character, ugliness becomes beauty; if there is none, beauty becomes ugliness. ~Nigerian Proverb
Unity is strength, division is weakness. ~ Swahili proverb
Wisdom does not come overnight. ~ Somali proverb
Knowledge without wisdom is like water in the sand. ~ Guinean proverb
Home affairs are not talked about on the public square. ~ African proverb
Show me your friend and I will show you your character. ~ African proverb
Make some money but don’t let money make you. ~ Tanzania
When you are rich, you are hated; when you are poor, you are despised. - African proverb
A man who uses force is afraid of reasoning. ~Kenyan proverb
Traveling is learning. ~Kenyan Proverb
What you learn is what you die with. ~ African proverb
He who is destined for power does not have to fight for it. ~ Ugandan proverb
It takes a village to raise a child. ~ African proverb
Poverty is slavery. ~Somalia
The wealth which enslaves the owner isn’t wealth. ~ Yoruba
Much wealth brings many enemies. – Swahili
You are beautiful, but learn to work, for you cannot eat your beauty. ~Congolese Proverb
A pretty face and fine clothes do not make character. ~Congolese Proverb
Show me your friend and I will show you your character. ~ African proverb
A close friend can become a close enemy.~ African proverb
Daily life quotes
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)


I guess most of you will be born when
Taban Makitiyong Reneket lo Liyong is dead
When he will be already another ****** dead
Myself I am luck I have met relative of zinjathropus
I have shared a table and a roof
With Liyong the poetical witch of port Africa
Let me tell you how he is and what puzzles him;
He is black and short stumpy and weak
In his shadow of seventy years, a sagacious septuagenarian
He has **** eyes and his protruding nose is keen
On solving problems of an African girl child
He has read all the books in the world
Apart from the book of Amos in the evil Bible
He is ugly in the face and breathes cacophonously
In the left north with heavy sound
He is an aggressive eater with sharp appetites
Towards African herbs and turkana beef; goat meet
He is a sympathetic listener who gets
Inspiration by listening to the young
He loves all students with passion, but who knows
He loves poems and incantations
From the akuku culture in southern Sudan
Where he was born before becoming a temporary Ugandan
He is fond of taking knowledge upwards
The palm wine tree along the shores and coastlines
This is where he found the fellow son of zinjathropus
A palm wine Drinkard in the name of Amos Tutuola,

Taban wonders why Frantz Omar Fanon has
The un-even ribs on the sides
Taban wonders why there are no aged Chinese in the world
Why turkana women are the most beautiful in Africa
But they play like playing bush love where
But every time before you go off her top
The deadly desert scorpion bites you on the leg
Why The Babukusu of east Africa stopped their revolution
Why the books of Ali A Mazrui form a succinct tribe
Why the Masai chiefs eat as peasants beggingly look
Why there is oil in turkana area and no turkana man knows where oil is
Why Obama has not read his fixions and meditations, his youthful oeuvre
Why Wole Soyinka used to be jailed by foolish people in Nigeria
Why Achebe and Okigbo condemned Captain Elechi Amadi to detention
During the tribally secessionist Igbo war of Biafra
Why publishers in Kenya take bribes in kind
Especially whisky, pilsner, viceroy, smirnoff and freezing tusker
Why Pablo Neruda was not born in Congo
Why Jews are all over the world but none is seen
Why thirteen offenses against his enemies
Never shook the world like Das kapitel of Karl Marx
Why man cannot eat socialism but only bread and wine
Why Ramogi Acheing Oneko was not in Lodwar prison
Why Paul Ngei broke the leg of Jomo Kenyatta
When they were in detention at Lodwar
Why he missed by a whisker to betroth Grace Ogot
A Luo babie who leaves in the land without
Neither thunder nor promise of thunder
In the bossomy bossom of Bethwel Ogot
Whose foot prints on the sands of times
Hat to Sent Daniel arap Moi Home shout a lame poem;
Jogoo! Jogoo! Jogoo! Jogoo!
Why a short fat big headed man the poet in this poem
Asked him why he launched Christmas in Lodwar during December 2013
But not the intellectually logical So what and Show What
Why turkana men don’t put on *******
But still their ***** cannot make three percent in size
Of the size of the ***** of a Luhyia man Mr. Wanyama
Who hosted Taban during chrismas in Lodwar
Why his tribesmen will remove six front teeth
From his lower jawbone when he is dead.
Yenson Sep 2018
Yadda......yadda......yadda
he's dying of loneliness
Go listen to the news
They're Nine million people lonely in the country
You're all known for your coldness
Some don't even know their neighbours
You abandon your parents when they get old
Put them away in Retirement homes
when was the last time you saw your elderly mum
when was the last time you called your sister
Thank God for the GRASS being the scapegoat used by crooks
To illustrate community mobbing let us all gang up together
Now you're hugging the Asians and the blacks are your best friends

yadda......yadda......yadda
come join the club we are all mates now
against that outsider grass we welcome all
the ***** ******* are molesting women oh it's just
to make grass envious cause we've stopped him loving
talk to me I hate you no more because grass is more hated
no more bullying you just join us and help us harass that grass
don't trouble that foreign shopkeeper we now want him to join
welcome Muslim brothers and sisters come join us
we now like you cause we have somebody else to hate
hey Mr ugly come here for a hug just make sure its in front of grass
you my loner friend be lonely no more you are now a club member
you Somalian, you Ethopian, you chinese, you Ugandan no matter
everyone is friends no more hassle just hate the grass as much as us

yadda......yadda......yadda
this is politics we fool and fool you all
when we need you you are our best friends
we show you our commonality and bring you into the fold
just make sure you do as you're told and don't grass like grass
we will give you opportunities to make grass jealous
we will forge a grapevine from here to Kathmandu and beyond
we will teach you hate and poison your stinking minds
we will imprison you and make you our slaves to serve us
just make sure you give that grass a hard time and come for a prize
this is all our secret and your minds belongs to us gangstalking crew
make him lonely make him friendless and show viva democracy
You are all simpletons and that's how you will stay in our pockets
this is a union of morons by morons for morons and the crooks win
yadda......yadda......yadda
The time I felt tummy hurts
Those that needn't the doctor
Those of hunger strikes in me
I clinged to worry for myself
Before my life discovery.
Was too used to pizza and burgers
Nothing from my own homeland
Though in my search I fell in a direction
An improved variety tabled for us
Down the table I sat, not popular to the world but my tummy signed in
Lost my taste buds to only this
To that I ate like a hired thief in full bites
The bells of Hawaiian, becon, chicken, sausage, all for One
  A Rollecks.....
Marked my anniversary of love for snacks
The place whose memory runs in my blood
The Ugandan Nemo's,
Imprisoned my love for Rollecks
One of a kind shared without regrets
Notes (optional)
Macstoire Mar 2014
Atop an Orange van driving through the jungle
Journeying toward Ugandan Safari
Heads skimming branches and hanging leaves
And above us super sized spiders held between the trees

Up-tailed Pumbas dash into the unknown
where branches are tangled within themselves
and cacti are dressed with vines like a curtain
giving lives some security from the hunters hidden within

Nearing the fall the redness of soil shines shards of diamond
like the confetti of angels
Whilst the deathly currents are gushing a fierce calming
the spray saturates us in a welcome cooling
as we view the hanging rainbow of bliss

The journey continues with our legs dusted in glitter of the earth
and wind blowing the wet from our skin
A knock delivers generous giving’s of green
And we listen to an orchestra of nature
welcome us to the scene of Africa as it should be

Within the park we’re stunned by stretching scenery
Raw Africa as far as eye can see
Afront us a distance of still Savannah
Yet life roams within in abundancy

Of which life we’re left wondering
As we reach the camp of the red chilli
our favourite taste of beer greets us
So sitting back we see the sun sinking
Whilst man builds for us shelter to sleep in

Next morn rises early setting out for sightings
And we watch the red-hot sunrise upon the Nile
The light catching glistening ripples of water
and the painted sky reflecting onto the hippos habitat

Our first taste of the wildlife we wish to see
Their faces skim the wet shallows
and occasionally rise to gather gasps of air
Father and child fight for hierarchy
And we’re excited to witness the creatures’ honesty

Across the water atop Betty life feels complete
Without doubt there’s no better place to be
Chapati and egg breakfast with wind in our hair
whilst we look for movement of life amongst the trees
Our faces stretched with permanent grins of glee

It’s so quiet we can hear the grasses rustling
The tempo set by the crickets chirruping
Interrupted only by spontaneous sound of birds singing
And whistles of romance as the winged ones are wooing
Peace is so perfectly performed it’s mesmerising

Of animals and birds we encounter many
The signatory Kob prance elegantly upon the heath
and dodge road collision at the last minute
Reminding us that this land is theirs
Pace needn’t pander to our presence

We catch glimpses of mongoose scarpering into bushes
And guinea fowl following the leader as they dot along the roadside
Kingfishers fluttering flirts in the skies above us
then make a sudden swift dive for feed in the ground beneath

The giraffe stand still like statues
all pointed toward the sun like proving a point of endurance
Determined not to let us see them run
While the birdlife exceeds expectations
as we score sight of spoonbill feeding breakfast in the lily littered lake

We meet herds of buffalo grazing
whilst birds peck the pests from their backs
proving every part of nature has its’ purpose
And making their bulky weight appear as no threat

The queens of the food chain are found chilling modestly in the shade
ignorant of our privilege for close proximity
Unfazed by vehicles gathering in view of her public rarity
she relaxes comfortably at roadside so calm she’s almost cuddly

Upon the Nile we witness wildlife washing
Flumps are cooling in the muddy waters
Ears flapping whilst feeding on the grasses of the riverbank
oblivious to the still and sinister crocs waiting within for prey to pass
their jaws held open ready to strike a snack

The blazing heat and gentle motion leaves passengers falling into sleep
But they willingly wake to view the gushing falls of Murchison
cascade down the rock front separating the hills of pure luscious green
and creating current for driver to fight so to journey back safely
Not become another story of tragedy

Then as we wait to board the boat back
Baboons come hither to hunt our rucksacks
To spite their unwanted paparazzi
They help themselves to our belongings greedily
Mother carrying child throughout the robbery

In two days atop Betty and water we’ve been enriched with excitement
and opportunity to see so many new beings
Route home passes Ziwa meeting the endangered rhino species
And we share time with Obama and his protected family

Our last portion of pleasure is hopeful
as we watch the bulky beasts live life naturally
in a sanctuary maintained by committed rangers
who help us follow their motion so closely
we see them soak and scratch their skin

Then back in Betty we have one last long journey
that takes us back to our dreaded reality
of a working week back in capital city
We’re sad but glad to hold a memory
of what was a fantastic fateful opportunity
Merchison Falls, Uganda. 13-15th January 2013
Old school, gymnasium, Christmas fair, Thursday night.
Hoops at either end. Tables. People. A woman carries a baby,
could be the PE teacher’s. A Ugandan flag. Jars of dark purple
jam next to jars of chutney, perhaps. The youth, us once,
flit between here and the hall. A choir, maybe thirty strong,
sing Santa Baby. Parents watch, as do we. Half a minute.

The head. Still a towering, suited figure. Handshakes all round.
What are we doing now? Voices like knots of consonants.
Geography man. Flecks of grey stubble. Procedure repeated.
Finger pointed. Scrabble for a surname. Exclamation.
Years rattling back to the front. He remembers, as do we.
Head of sixth seven years ago. Instant recognition. Repeat.

Half an hour. The place, no longer ours. Never was.
Friends the same. Memories. Dust between dark and light.
Car. Back seat. Barely two miles. Little traffic. Turn
into street.  Step out. Chill drizzles the face. Handshake
again? Again. Time and place discussed before home.
See you tomorrow then. Yeah. Yeah. Front door key.
Written: December 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, actually based on real events this time. 'Head of sixth' refers to sixth form, a period of study before college/university in England. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
Ignatius Hosiana Jul 2016
"Being an introvert in an extroverted
world can absolutely be difficult."
Came across this on some blog.
Think it's more complex to be a mediocre, an extro-intro or an intro-extro...
you can't go all out... you won't remain all in...
you're doomed to be in the twixt. Yet the middle is dangerous...
The middle of the Ocean is the deepest, the middle
of the jungle is the riskiest... the middle of the garden
of Eden doomed an entire race...
for its existence... no driver would drive freely in the middle lane,
most run to the climbing lane soon as they see it.
Some say the Earth is trapped between Heaven and Hell...
maybe we're a compound of Paradisal elements and
the rumbles of the Hades...
the pawns in the Chess between God and Satan, the Jobs in the bible of now...
I'm a Junk of all trades & I'm afraid being in between trades makes me a master of non...
I know too much and yet I know nothing... I am an extro-intro...
I go out only until the plank starts to swing the other way...
I go out until I sense the cold and quickly run back to the lukewarm
betwixt for the hot is as fatal to my kind as the cold.
Am not an Author and neither am I a poet... Am a "Poether'' or an "Auoet", Am not philosophical neither am I Theological...am "philological" or "Theolophical".
I'm trapped at the equator... I'm neither an Eskimo nor an "Antactico"...
Not Ugandan nor Kenyan... Tanzania can't claim me
but there's yet to be a concrete East African...
maybe I'm African.
My point is some people think the middle is safe...
but I believe different. it's my opinion if you want to be a piglet be one,
if you want to be a puppy be a puppy for its fatal to be a Pipet or puppet...
both are instruments... even their use is similar.
My tragedy is am in between, am a mediocre, a pother,
an opssimist, a philothopher, a ctranger or say "Ukantan".
I'm just there... Don't be caught in my place...
find a place to belong... no matter how dangerous and risky...
always choose where you lie...always strive hard to find a prowess...
Go past the lines for History remembers those who are unique...
whether for the worst or the best.
Be the last if you can't be the first...
*Everyone will remember Mabirizi for he knew how to be the last...
And sadly everyone will remember Museveni for he's good at keeping his place.
Who will remember the one in between.
Who will remember Besigye? Who will remember the servant boy that
cautioned Achilles against fighting the Thessalonian?
Who will remember me?
Sam Winter Feb 2016
O*ne-thirty in the morning, I'm creeping, ever-so-swiftly, to the entrance to my favorite public sculpture park. I don't like the sculptures, but I like their shadows. There's so much hidden meaning in what you see when you look at a shadow.... Thousands of years ago, the sun was worshiped as a life-giver - the ultimate source of everything man needs to survive: food, water, shelter, companionship.

     Shadows are the only thing that light will never reach.

     I don’t have an MP3 player, but I have music. Tonight, my playlist starts with Yellowcard’s *Lights and Sounds
…I sing it lowly to myself as I approach the darkened rebar fence that acts as sentry, guard, arbiter, and jailer to the inanimate zoo they contain. Rebar is always rusty. My hands wrap themselves around two of the bars as I ready myself for the heave overboard.

     I’m over the motor gate, now, and I’m free. The police don’t patrol the park, and there are other cars populating the lot I parked in. Too many people work too late. A girl I know told me that the quality of one’s life is multiplied by two for every three hours of sleep one gets – she told me this at three a.m. after we’d painted the town red. Someone else told me that for every eight hours of sleep one loses in a week subtracts, roughly, a week from one’s life expectancy. If that’s true, and I was supposed to die at seventy, I’ll be dead at sixty. But, honestly? I don’t care how long I live. I’m ready to die now. I mean, I don’t want to die now – it isn’t my preference of events – but, I’m at peace with how I’ve lived my life; so if I do die, I’ll die happy…. What was I talking about? Right, “Too many people…” So, why, if they’re going to die (because even if we distract ourselves, like Mr. Ivan Ilyich, we will die), do they seek these self destructive courses through life? Staying up to finish the quarterly report; dying of hunger to lose some weight; falling asleep at work, and getting assigned more late-night work as punishment; buying things no one will see; dressing up to impress those that don’t matter; dying for that promotion; dying for that car; dying for that girl; dying for that guy….dying.

     I look at my hands as I walk into the shadows of trees and gazebos. Rebar is always rusty…and rust is always red. Now I look as though I’ve killed. My hands are the evidence that I’ve wrung the life out of an innocent metal gate-post. I’d like to plead insanity. I’ll take the ten years in solitary confinement, please.

     I pull a left, then a right, then a left, then a right, then a left, then a right…actually, I’m wandering – no, meandering – through the park, with Hans Zimmer’s Davey Jones Movement roaring in my head; I meander in time with the music. My feet take me to the places I like best. Places where the night looks back at you; where you have to force yourself to set your gaze. Try staring into pitch blackness sometime. It’s not a comfortable feeling. I’ve heard that darkness is where evil resides. I think darkness is misunderstood…like the nature of “evil.” Sit opposite a weird, 20th-century abstract three-dimensional art piece, and stare, hard, into the darkness at its heart. There are stories there. So many unanswered questions can be answered when you ask those things that can’t give you a tangible answer.

     I’ve counseled with the shadows; now for therapy: interpretive dance accompanied by a healthy dose of therapeutic screaming. I sing a lot. You never notice how quietly you have to sing in public until you really need to sing. That’s why there are shadows. They listen very intently, don’t think you’re strange, and soak all pain, pleasure, anger and fear you might sing to release. Something by Vampire Weekend is jamming in my head, and this time, I’m singing along….

     To the shadows.

     Snippets of opera pieces start fluttering through my head. Accompanied by Ugandan chants, and Pawnee ritual songs. And I’m dancing around the shadow of a fire.

     If you never felt pain, how would you know what pleasure felt like? So I celebrate it; by exhaling it in a chorus meant only for the stars, and shadows, and ghosts. I celebrate, dancing in the darkness, waving my arms at the veil of clouds and the stars behind them; I hop to one foot, and wobble in step with the music in my head, and the words on my lips. I hop to the other, and jump at the crescendo of sounds in my mind, those sounds flushing me clean of the hurt, and pain, and grief that plague every creature that may consider why he’s been hurt. In mid flight, I feel the brief weightlessness of flight, hovering in the heavens. Caught between the clouds and the shadows, I close my eyes, and leave my time of arrival a mystery to myself; the last of my cares escapes me, and as I touch the soft, dewed earth, I am delivered.

     Now I can commune, freely, with these dark places. Don’t Let Me Down, by the Stereophonics comes to mind. Have you ever been let down? Of course you have. You are every day. Every hour. I am. Every day, every hour. It’s life. I think we expect too much of ourselves…of others. That animal desire to improve ourselves and our conditions drives us to expect the impossible. And the animal desire to improve our chances of success in life tell us we’ve failed when we, well…fail. The pits of our souls know better, though. They see the whole instead of those precious few real failures. They’re as dark as night, herself. She’s listened to our hearts tear themselves apart. The weight of failure is overwhelming, but the shadows lend shoulders to bear the weight with us…to lighten the load. I’ve told them how it feels to be human, now they show me how it feels to not care.

      “Don’t Let Me Down”, they plead. The bluesy, wailing lyrics fit the moment: all of the emotion of celebration and sorrow wrapped into one tangled poem. My arms climb above my head, wrapping around themselves, snaking through the air, as I dance with the absence of light…as I embrace the objectivity that knows how to evade the sun.

      Wisdom, is wisdom, is wisdom; truth on the lips of the devil is still truth. And I’ve listened.

     Now those great, and wise shadows bear my weight effortlessly, and I can relax. I find myself exhausted, and legs give way to putty; I find myself flat on my back. Now I lie upon the grass, touched by the places where light never will.

      The color black is said to be so because it absorbs all the colors of the spectrum. That it takes, and never gives. Like Salt Lake. It’s said that anything that never gives, dies. Like Salt Lake. But can death die twice? How much more can shadows absorb than colors? What else can shadows absorb? I think black is a wonderful color. Like shadows. And they both give. To give by taking; what a wonderful idea…. They’ve filled a very hard niche to fill in this world.

      My legs and lungs compete in me, burning, exhausted, and happy. I let the veil slip from my face, and the shadows watch me smile; my big, goofy, elated grin thanking them for listening. There’s no fear in my gut, no depression crushing my chest. The doubt and loneliness and helplessness cannot touch me.

     I am the shadow of pain. The shadow of fear. The shadow of the pull and push of life.

     They will never reach me.

     The world would be a better place if we sung to the shadows instead of running from them. You can’t touch one, like you can people; but they can’t hurt you, either – like people can. Someone told me that you can’t depend on people, because they will always let you down. I think I’ll keep trusting, and sing when they do.
Skyscraper.
Such a violent name.
Sheets of metal and glass placing their fingernails on a chalkboard of sky.
Scratch. Tear. Rip. Slice. Howl.
They stand unaffected by the frosty winds that gild each strand of my hair
And make me long for fireplaces and Christmas.
The gale has wrenched the clouds from above me
And the night opens itself coldly to my pleading eyes
Revealing stars, real stars
Even though they are smothered under the pillowcase of city lights.
But the moon dangles in the sky, opulent as ever
Almost full
A dented ping-pong ball suspended halfway back to its earthly table.
I think suddenly, inexplicably
Of dawn.
I think of how the sun rises in Africa
Hauling itself over the cliff-edge of Ugandan earth
A blue dawn.
Night seeping into the birth of day
Soaking everything in saturated indigo
Blue hands
Blue skirts
Blue road receding into the damp air that will soon bow to the sun.
I want to breathe that blue again
To roll it between my palms
But it is a city night
And I must wait a very long time
For the rescue of a pale winter dawn.
Julian Delia Aug 2019
Last July was the hottest month, ever.
That is, ever since we ‘officially’ started tracking weather.
The Earth is lying on the bathroom floor, wrists severed;
I wonder whether this is a storm we can weather,
Or whether we’ll all perish together.

Greenland lost 12.5 billion tonnes of ice sheets.
That is,
The island that was 80% ice is becoming one, giant, puddle.
The earth is about to be slain, a warrior conceding defeat;
Huddle up, give your loved ones a cuddle,
For we are so troubled that any aliens out there must be truly befuddled.

My generation was born with a guillotine looming over our heads.
An impending sense of dread,
As corporations put on their executioner’s hoods,
And reach for the lever.
A sordid reality in which to save the planet,
One must fight one’s own government;
A reality in which we may have done permanent damage,
A reality in which valour gets no monuments,
But only condemnation and incarceration.

Remember these names:

Julian Assange. Currently awaiting an 18-count indictment charge from the US.

Edward Snowden. Could face up to 30 years in prison if the US get their hands on him.

Chelsea Manning. Spent 7 years in prison.

Abdullah Öcalan. In prison since 1999.

Edem Bekirov. A man who has been dying in prison for the past year.

Benny Tai. Sentenced to over a year for fighting for what is right.

Nasser Zefzafi. In prison for the next 20 years.

Kerry Shakaboona Marshall. A man who received a life sentence aged 17 years old.

Simon Blevins, Richard Roberts, and Richard Loizou. Sentenced to over a year for fighting fracking.

Tim DeChristopher. 21 months for fighting oil and gas pipelines.

Stella Nyanzi. The raunchy Ugandan poetess who cannot be tamed, no matter how many times prison beckons.

This list is basically endless.
It is saturated in blood that drips from the corners of the page,
Soaked in the rage of brave men and women, living in a cage.

Depression. Exhaustion. Numbness.
Oppression and a lack of caution,
Leading us to this dumb mess.
This can no longer be the norm.
We can no longer conform,
Nor can we compromise or haggle;
We must reverse our own demise,
For this is our generation’s battle.
The pain of our extinction.
Macstoire Mar 2014
The journey here was entrancing
and the state of semi-consciousness
induced by the wavering waters
has been stretched out to theme the weekend

Helped occasionally by smokes of something special
we’ve been coexisting in harmonious condition
of pure laziness

Our biggest achievement walking to Palm Beach
Which we lengthened creating circles around
Before realising it was in fact in front us
Since we arrived

Our companion Cecil has been guarding us
Whilst we sleep in the shade
And leading us on the way to the local fishing village
Where we’ve adopted the Ugandan pace of exploration
And have enjoyed the local tastes

Sessee sounds like we are walking through natures ****
The birds making out in trees are plugged into amps
Whilst the crickets chirp in competition
And the chickens cockadoodledo

The birdlife is vastly variable
and the bat in the bedroom an unexpected guest
Perhaps explaining the piles of roof debris upon our beds
But also accountable to the bugs gnawing wood

The dead frog in the shoe was an unwelcome companion
and upset the pleasure
taken from a lone explorative beach strole
paddling upon white sands in the shores of Victoria

But it was soon forgotten with a game of smackabum
and some drunken discussion
trying to distinguish Wafargi from Farigi
The Waragi has hit our heads

Needless to say next day our hurts are hurting
and we’re frowning at the fishy friends
accompanying us on the journey home
….nothing a rolex (or two) can’t fix though
Sessee Islands, Lake Victoria, Uganda. January 27-30th 2013
The Memes. What are they. Maybe it is Pepe the frog making you cry. Maybe it is Ugandan Knuckles making you question if you know the wheh. Maybe it is grumpy cat making you grumpy of everyone around you. Maybe it is Doge and his rainbow "sentences"  making you forget how to talk. Who knows.
aha Dec 2019
(insights by 15 year-olds on the known universe)
1. ovens are just spicy refrigerators
2. Costco stores are Karen energy
3. tumblr is just depressed kid's Instagram
4. muffins are just tiny cakes
5. soda is just spicy crunchy juice water
6. caffeine is a psychoactive drug
7. oatmeal cookie batter is crunchy slime
8. arson is just community service
9. tik tok is for unintelligent people
10. ugandan yobungus
Some of these are factual. Some are not. Take 8 for example. False.
These are samples of conversations I have overheard.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
ha ha! white priv? what about these black girls blasting more sensual song than a fat girl might in opera? i.e. blasting out the sensual, soul-fathomable sounds? white privilege? the **** is that? what about black priv? no black priv? really? so why these black girls singing double the standard, solo, of a choir of white girls? blah-ha-ha-ha!

not that i get to excuse myself
                                          that often,
but if i did, it would begin with
i'm beezee....
no, i'm not selling
      fake *fabergé
eggs or rolex
wristwatches...
     **** me, i could do a whiskey
or a beer commercial,
   but then i'm no
  jean-claude van damme,
jenny and clarra will sort you out,
and yes, to me sweden = roxette
minus abba...
although i could be doing
all these things,
     orio orio oi oi!
      kil'oh a'f a bannana bunch,
two kil'ohs fo' a fiver!
              i could be doing that...
but then i can't stop laughing
writing this *******,
  not that it's fake,
   it the fact that it actually is,
   it was a magnetic approach
to the late existentialism
    accent of heidegger's dasein...
it has a place...
        no matter what the being
is about...
     at least it conceptualises
a sense of gravity, a grounding...
       a drag to the source effect...
beginning with kant's concept of 0,
namely 0 = negation...
    and heidegger's
         fetish for dasein avoiding
a worldview...
       what dasein is, will always be
newtonian,
       a worldview? alway in the hands
of the einstein correction...
       newton could never be a globalist
that einstein became...
   but look at it this way...
  the re-emergence of israel is *******
fascinating...
          2000 years of there-abouts
of the "idea" of a state having a clearly
stated dynamic of government and borders...
  ******* lazy leftist donning
   a keffiyah / shemagh /
niqab / whatever party-dress
                         at the laundrette...
              my country was sold
by the aristocrats to three factions,
the prussians, the russians and
  the austro-hungarians...
         it wasn't invaded, it was sold,
thrice dissected... thrice!
                that disney movie about
a ugandan femme chess champion?
          **** me, i dig short hair on a girl...
          war dogs? great movie,
best movie i've seen in years.
        the last king of scotland?
tell me you wouldn't want that
   cadbury flesh in your bed at some
random point in your night?
   well **** me, if i were hanging on flesh
hooks from my **** up,
    sure, i'd call a scandinavian ******
                     working in saudi arabia;
yep, tears go into a bucket denoted by (a),
   and male arguments / words go
  into a bucket denoted by (b)...
       the rest?
   well **** me, hopefully a good pop
song.
Brenda Nalugo Oct 2018
Am not angry
Am bitter!!
When did it become criminal to be stylish
Stylish in a red...color of my blood
Color of love,representation of brotherhood!!

Been treated like a dog,my black skin beat like a rug,z it criminal to be Ugandan and love red...
Z it criminal to love one person & not the other
Don't care about your politics
As long as you stop being judgemental
Y shud my favourite color be the death of Me
Not angry...just very bitter

— The End —