video courtesy of Masaani Art
video courtesy of Masaani Art
Old granny sat us down to sing to us. She sang in the most prophetic verse.
Beauty that chased away the time curse.
Gently she began.
Singing of times of peace,
Tranquil breezes soft sea caresses on shores whispering sweet nothings to the sky above her.
Of laughter full of love and life of all the splendid aura of melodies…
Then she went silent.
She was lost.
Then delicately she sang again.
Her voice not as visible,
For the color with which she sang first painted wondrous pictures but now gray and metallic. Violence in silence pitch dark in rain.
Vivid ellipsis she sings in melody mystic of white clouds creeping form the belly of the sea.
Swooping in quickly taking this earths virginity.
They dig and sip and dig till drip of life native is left pathetic.
Boredom drapes me like the dark drapes the skies.
Sleep evades my white-widened eyes.
I must remedy this before I reach my demise!
I wake from my cocoon,
In search of a distraction;
Something that will quench my overwhelming boredom,
Or at least numb my situation:
Off to the kitchen!
I open the magic box that turns on its own lights,
Search from top to bottom for a dissuading delight.
And behold what stands before my sight;
I NEED A SPIRITUAL DRINK!!
I’m on the brink of destruction,
Please call me for a drink someone!
I scroll through my phonebook with utmost urgency,
Hoping to find someone with needs as me;
From ‘a’ to ‘b’ then x,y,zee…
Oh my god, the agony.
I grudgingly walk back to my confined little space,
Where I try to convince myself that this is my fate,
Then I get a text that lights up my face:
“Drop wat ur doin, hse party at my place”.
I get my things ready,
Jump into Suzuki,
Drive so fast that even lightning has nothing on me!
Lights, bloody traffic lights,
Please turn green already!
Ok, now I’m at the party,
And standing right before me is a plethora of beautifully placed intoxicants…
Different sorts of whiskeys,
White mischief, Black mischief,
Teasing me so gently.
Eyes wide open,
Swiftly I’m whisked away to pick me a cup.
1 sip, 2 sips, 3 sips, 4,
I’m done with that one, pass me some more.
Slowly I transcend from this to another world,
One where everything is perfect and pavements are made of gold.
I see a lonely damsel she seems to be cold,
Remember, I’m drunk, ergo, I’m bold!
“Excuse me, do you mind if I tula wansi,
I’m sure I could tickle your fancy.
Tour you like Kampala city,
Hit the potholes as I drive you crazy.”
…she slaps me
But I’m a man,
I grab me a punch,
And as I scope for a scrumptious munch
I swig it once, twice, thrice,
And at this point I can run on thin ice…
8am I woke up in the car parked in someone’s compound!
The birth of the Kalashnikov did not give birth to war.
Do not be fooled.
Neither did the uprisings of protestors marching change any verdicts for any trial.
We are not in control.
Martin Luther King did not bring freedom for the westernized slaved men
And Mandela did not do shit for his kinsmen.
Screw the Obama craze of “yes we can“
And all of those nonsensical slogans.
Be gone with all your Greek mythology,
All your maths, physics and biology.
I want to know about me,
The wars, the Majimaji
The Mythicals, the Bacwezi,
My roots, MY reality.
BUT the reality IS THAT
We have lost our identity,
Our souls, our heritage,
Our ancestors’ stories now slowly fade to the back with the black lost ghost of self.
Left behind in a map and fled to a foreign land to try and understand why he couldn’t be a free Ugandan man.
Now taking on new vices, virtues,
He chose to desert you because with you we lose,
Get lost in the corporate noose wanting to break thru but get sucked in to an education system that does nothing for those they study.
They force feed, educate greed and in the end
It’s wants and not needs that take lead.
Bring back the days when cultural pride took the frontline,
When everything was “us” and not “me”,
When being African meant being free,
When hearts thumped and veins filled with passion,
When everyone ACTUALLY meant everyone.
Who are we? What have we become?
Slaves to ink-stained paper,
Seeking loans from those that we do for favors?
Africa cries. She bleeds.
She pleads but we squeeze and we tear her wounds wide open with our short-sighted needs.
We stab and we spit, we dig and we shit
And she pleads and she pleads, please let me breathe…
We are the breath of this soil.
Pick up your tools, sweat, toil.
Open your ears, Africa calls…Do you hear?