Poems for elephants in love

My names in full are Alexander Ernesto Khamala Namugugu Opicho, but my names as they appear on the official papers are Alexander K Opicho was born in the year 1974, in Bokoli village of the current Bungoma County in western province of Kenya. I went to primary school and secondary school in Bungoma, later on i went to a University in Uganda for a degree course in management. After which i came back to Kenya in 2000 and since then i have been working as Lecturer alongside being a postgraduate student of governance. I now teach management and research at Mt Kenya University in Lodwar, and currently a doctorate student of gender and governance. My several essays and papers on literature and governance have been published in different journals. some of them are ; Pambazuka News, journal of African voices, online journal of African literature, The neighbourhood( digital daily in Nigeria) Sahara reporters ( a daily paper in Nigeria), East African standard, the Sunday standard, the East African, the Sunday nation and the Ugandan monitor. I have more than five hundred poems published on the digital poetry sides like; poem-hunter.com, hello poetry.com, Algonquins poetry table, power-poetry.com and all poetry.com. I live in Lodwar but i occasionally appear in Eldoret for postal and tax services.

CANCER IS SWALLOWING AFRICA’S POOR FOLKS

Here hails a huge, long and dragonish snake,
With myriads of dangerous heads on its thorax,
Roaming up and down in a nefarious duty
All over the African streets and hamlets,
Villages and terrains, the abodes of poor folks,
Swallowing daughters and sons of this land,
Swallowing a handful of them on each bite,
They are in a forlorn despair like never before,
Defenselessly succumbing to the dragon once in the grip,
Young and old, prepubescent and all others are cancers’ fodder,
Africa is truly diminishing to the abysmal jaws of cancer,
Forget of initial vices of HIV, Ebola and leprosy,
Forget of the contemporary terrorism and ethnic warlordism,
Cancer is ruthlessly swallowing poor folks of Africa
Into its inferno of early deaths, rendering many parentless,
A knot for the living to put aside pride and seek genuine help,
For the myriad heads of dragonish cancer violently kill the prey,
I have seen sons and daughters of poor Africa in cancerous agony,
Often with a blocked food pipe when in the grip of throat cancer,
Non-stop vaginal bleeding at mercilessness of cervical cancer,
In the torture of brute pulling weight in grip of scrotal cancer,
On the top of maximum pain in the grip of breast cancer
Humorously desperate before menacing eyes of death,
When misfortunately in the grip of heart cancer,
Deathly starvation condemns many poor folks to grave,
Always when in the unlucky tentacle of intestinal cancer,
In this desperate land of Africa where basic hospital
Stands a luxury, affordable by the rich in the political class,
As the poor without choice die and die and die,
O who will take me out of Africa, this nonchalant Africa?
Before the dragon of cancer condemns me down to its
Inferno of pains and miserably violent death!
I fear death due to punctured lungs without solace,
I fear death due to stunted blood cells without succor
I fear death due to poisoned blood without palliative
When the cancerous heads of ; lung cancer, blood cancer,
And Liver cancer will besiege this land of Africa to hold me a captive.

AN ENGLISH GIRL WHO MARRIED AN AFRICAN OGRE

Song one

This is a song about tarzanic love
That subsisted some years ago,
As a love duel between an English girl and an African ogre,
There was an English girl hailing along the banks of river Thames
She had stubbornly refused all offers for marriage,
From all the local English boys, both rich and poor
tall and short, weak or strong, ugly and comely in the eye,
the girl had refused and sternly refused the treats for love,
She was disciplined to her callous pursuit of her dream
to marry a mysterious, fantastic, lively, original and extra-ordinary man,
That no other woman in history of human marriage ever married,
She came from London, near the banks of river Thames,
Her name was Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill, daughter of a peasant,
She came from a humble English family, which hustled often
For food, clothing, and other calls that make one an ordinary British,
She grew up without a local boy friend, anywhere in the English world,
She is the first English girl to knock the age of forty five while a virgin,
She never got deflowered in her teens as other English girls usually do
She preserved her purse with maximal carefulness in her wait for a black man,
Her father, of course a peasant, his trade was human barber and horse shearer,
Often asked her what she wants in life before her marriage, which man she really wanted,
Her specification was an open eyesore to her father; no blinkers could stave the father’s pale
For she wanted a black tall man, strong and ruggedly dark in the skin, must own a kingdom,
Fables taken to her from Africa were that such an African man was only one but none else,
His glorious name was Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
When the English girl heard the chimerical name of her potential husband,
She felt a super bliss in her spine; she yearned for the day of her rendezvous,
She crashed into desperate burning for true English love
With a man with a wonderful name like Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya.

Song two

Rumours of this English despair and dilemma for love reached Africa, in the wrong ears,
Not the human ears, but unfortunately the ears of the ogres, seasoned in the evil art,
It was received and treated as classified information among the African ogress,
They prevented this news to leak to African humans at all at all
Lest humans enjoy their human status and enjoy most
The love in the offing from the English girl,
They thus swiftly plotted and ployed
To lure and win the virgin
From royal land;
England.

Song three

Firstly, the African ogres recruited one of their own
The most handsome middle aged male ogre, more handsome than all in humanity,
And of course African ogres are beautiful and handsome than African humans, no match,
The ogres are more gifted in stature, physique, eugenics and general overtures
They always outplay African humans on matters of intelligence, they are shrewder,
Ogres are aggressive and swashbuckling in manners; fear is none of their domain
Craft and slyness is their breakfast, super is the result; success, whether pyrrhic or Byronic,
Is their sweetest dish, they then schemed to get the English girl at whatever cost,
They made a move to name one of their fellow ogres the name of dream man;
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
Which an English girl wanted,
By viciously naming one of their handsome middle-aged man this name.

Song four

Then they set off 0n foot, from Congo moving to the north towards Europe abode England,
Where the beautiful girl of the times, Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill hail,
They were three of them, walking funnily in cyclopic steps of African ogres,
Keeping themselves humorously high by feigning how they will dupe the girl,
How they will slyly decoy the English village pumpkin of the girl in to their trap,
And effortlessly make her walk on foot from England to Africa, in pursuit of love
On this muse and sweet wistfulness they broke out into loud gewgaws of laughter,
In such emotional bliss they now jump up wildly forgetting about their tails
Which they initially stuffed inside white long trousers, tails now wag and flag crazily,
Feats of such wild emotions gave the ogres superhuman synergy to walk cyclopically,
A couple of their strides made them to cross Uganda, Kenya, Somali, Ethiopia and Egypt
Just but in few days, as sometimes they ran in violent stampedes
Singing in a cryptic language the funny ogres songs;

Dada wu ndolelee!
Dada wu ndolelee!
Kuyuni kwa mnja
Sa kwingile khundilila!

Ehe kuyuni Mulie!
Ehe kuyuni mulie!
Omukhana oyo
Kaloba khuja lilia!
They then laughed loudly, farted cacophonously and jumped wildly, as if possessed,
They used happiness and raucous joy as a strategy to walk miles and miles
Which you cover when moving on foot from Congo to England,
They finally crossed Morocco and walked into Europe,
They by-passed Italy and Spain walking piecemeal
into England, native land of the beautiful girl.

Song five

When the three ogres reached England, they were all surprised
Every woman and man was white; people of England walked slowly and gently
They made minimum noise, no shouting publicly on the street,
a stark contrast to human behaviour and ogre culture in Africa, very rambunctious,
Before they acclimatized to disorderly life in England, an over-sighted upset befell them
Piling and piling menace of pressure to piss,
Gripped all the three ogre brothers the same time,
None of them had knowledge of municipal utilities,
They all wanted to micturated openly
Had it not been beautiful English girls
Ceaselessly thronging the streets.

Song six

They persevered and moved on in expectation of coming to the end,
Out-skirt of the strange English town so that they can get a woodlot,
From where they could hide behind to do open defecation
All was in vain; they never came to any end of the English town,
Neither did they come by a tumbled-down house
No cul de sac was in sight, only endless highway,
Sandwiched between tall skyscraping buildings,
One of the ogres came up with an idea, to drip the piss
Drop by drop in their panties, as they walk to their destiny,
They all laughed but not loudly, in controlled giggles
And executed the idea minus haste.

Song seven

They finally came down to the banks of river Thames,
Identified the home of Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill
The home had neither main gate nor metallic doors,
They entered the home walking in humble majesty,
Typical of racketeering ogre, in a swindling act,
The home was silent, no one in sight to talk to
The ogres nudged one another, repressing the mirth,
Hunchbacked English lass surfaced, suddenly materialized
Looking with a sparkle in the eye, talking pristine English,
Like that one written by Geoffrey Chaucer, her words were as piffling
As speech of a mad woman at the fish market, ogres looked at her in askance.

Song eight

An ogre with name Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya opened to talk,
Asked the girl where could be the latrine pits, for micturation only,
The hunchbacked lass gave them a direction to the toilets inside the house,
She did it in a full dint of English elegance and gentility,
But all the ogres were discombobulated to their peak
about the English latrine pit inside the house,
they all went into the toilet at the same time,
to the chagrin of the hunchbacked lass
she had never seen such in England
she struggled a lot
to repress her mirth
as the English
never get amused
at folly.

Song nine

It is a tradition among the ogres to fart,
Whenever they are pissing in the African bush,
But now the ogres are in a fix, a beautiful fix of their life
If at all they fart, the flatulent cacophony will be heard outside
By the curious eavesdroppers under the eaves of the house,
They murmured among themselves to tighten their anal muscles
So that they can micturated without usual African accomplice; the tweeee!
All succeeded to manage, other than Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Who urinated but with a low tziiiiiiii sound from his ass, they didn’t laugh
Ogres walked out of privities relaxed like a catholic faithful swallowing a sacrament,
The hunchback girl ushered them to where they were to sit, in the common room
They all sat with air of calm on their face, Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
led the conversation, by announcing to the girl that he is Victoria’s visitor from Africa,
To which the girl responded with caution that Victoria is at the barbershop,
Giving hand to her father in shearing the horses, and thus she is busy,
No one is allowed to meet her, at that particular hour of the day
But he pleaded to the hunchback girl only to pass tidings to Victoria,
That Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya from Africa
Has arrived and he is yearning to meet her today and now,
The girl went bananas on hearing the name
The hunch on her back visibly shook,
Is like she had heard the name often,
She then became prudent in her senses,
And asked the visitor not to make anything —
Near a cat’s paw out of her person,
She implored the visitor to confirm
if at all he was what he was saying
to which he confirmed in affirmation,
then she went out swiftly
like a tail of the snake,
to pass tidings
to her sister
Victoria.

Song ten
She went out shouting her sister’s name,
A rare case to happen in England,
One to make noise in the broad day light,
With no permission from the local leadership,
She called and ululated Victoria’ name for Victoria to hear
From wherever she was, of which she heard and responded;
What is the matter my dear little sister? What ails you?
Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya is around!
She responded back in voice disturbed by emotional uproar,
What! My sister why do you cheat me in such a day time?
Am not cheating you my sister, he is around sited in our father’s house,
Is he? Have you given him a drink, a sweet European brandy?
My sister I have not, I feared that I may mess up your visitors
With my hunched shoulders, I feared sister forbid,
Ok, I am coming, running there, tell him to be patient,
Let me tell him sister just right now,
And make sure you come before his patience is stretched.

Song eleven

Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill almost went berserk
On getting this good tidings about the watershed presence,
Of the long awaited suitor, her face exploded into vivacity,
Her heart palpitating on imagination of finally getting the husband,
She went out of the barber shop running and ululating,
Leaving her father behind, confounded and agape,
She came running towards her father’s main house
Where the suitor is sited, with the chaperons,
She came kicking her father’s animals to death,
Harvesting each and every fruit, for the suitor,
She did marvel before she reached where the suitor was;
Harvested ten bananas, mangoes and avocadoes,
Plums, pepper, watermelons, lemons and oranges,
She kicked dead five chicken, five goats, rams,
Swine, rabbits, rats, pigeons and hornbills,
When she reached the house, she inquired to know,
Who among them could be the one; Akhatembete Khobwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya, But her English vocals were not guttural enough,
She instead asked, who among you is a key tempter go weevil car no lawyer?
The decoy ogre promptly responded; here I am the queen of my heart. He stood up,
Victoria took the ogre into her arms, whining; babie! Babie, babie, come!
Victoria carried the ogre swiftly in her arms, to her tidy bed room,
She placed the ogre on her bed, kissed one another at a rate of hundred,
Or more kisses per a minute, the kissing sent both of them crazy, but spiritual craft,
That gave the ogre a boon to maintain some sobriety, but libido of virginity held Victoria
In boonless state of sexual feat, defenseless and impaired in judgment
It extremely beclouded her judgment; she removed and pulled of their clothes,
Libidinous feat blurring her sight from seeing the scarlet tail projecting
From between the buttocks of the ogre, vestige of bestiality,
She forcefully took the ogre into her arms, putting the ogre between her legs,
The ogre’s uncircumcised penis effectively penetrated Victoria’s virgin purse,
The ogre broke virginity of Victoria, making her to feel maximum warmth of pleasure
As it released its germinal seed into her body, ecstasy gripped her until she fainted,
The ogre erected more on its first ejaculation; its penis became more stiff and sharp,
It never pulled out its penis from the purse of Victoria, instead it introduced further
Deeper and deeper into Victoria’s uterus, reaching the virgin depth inside her with gusto,
Victoria screamed, wailed, farted, scratched, threw her neck, kissed crazily and pissed,
On the rhythms of the ogre’s waist gyrations, it was maximum pleasure to Victoria,
She reached her second orgasm before the ogre; it took further one hour before releasing,
Victoria was beaten; she thought she was not in England in her father’s house
She thought she was in Timbuktu riding on a mosquito to Eldorado,
Where she could not be found by her father whatsoever,
The ogre pulled Victoria up, helped her to dress up,
She begged that they go back to the common room,
Lest her father finds them here, he would quarrel,
They went back to the common room,
Found her father talking to other two ogres,
She shouted to her father before anyone else,
That ‘father I have been showing him around our house, ’
‘He has fallen in love with our house; he is passionate about it, ’
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya was shy,
He greeted the father and resumed his chair, with wryly dignity.

Song twelve
An impromptu festival took place,
Fully funded by the father of Victoria,
There was meat of all type from pork to chicken,
Greens were also there in plenty, pepper and watermelons,
Victoria’s mother remembered to prepare tripe of a goat
For the key visitant who was the suitor; Akhatembete,
Food was laid before the ogres to enjoy themselves,
As all others went to the other house for a brainstorming session,
But the hunched backed girl hid herself behind the door,
To admire the food which visitors were devouring,
As she also spied on the table manners of the visitors, for stories to be shared,
Perhaps between herself and her mother, when visitors are gone,
Some sub-human manners unfolded to her as she spied,
One of the ogres swallowed a spoon and a table fork,
And Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Uncontrollably unstuffed his scarlet tail from the trouser,
The chill crawled up the spine of hunchbacked girl,
She almost shouted from her hideout, but she restrained herself,
She swore to herself to tell her father that the visitors are not humans
They are superhuman, Tarzans or mermaids or the werewolves,
The ogre who swallowed the spoon remorsefully tried to puke it back,
Lest the hosts discover the missing spoon and cause brouhaha,
It was difficult to puke out the spoon; it had already flowed into the stomach,
Victoria, her father, her mother and her friend Anastasia,
Anastasia; another English girl from the neighborhood,
Whom Victoria had fished, to work for her as a best maid, as a chaperon,
Went back to the house where the ogres had already finished eating,
They found ogres sitting idle squirming and flitting in their chairs
As if no food had ever been presented to them in a short while ago,
One ogre even shamelessly yawned, blinking his eyes like a snake,
They all forgot to say thanks for the food, no thanks for lunch,
But instead Akhatembete announced on behalf of other ogres,
That they should be allowed to go as they are late for something,
A behaviour so sub-human, given they were suitors to an English family,
Victoria’s father was uneasy, was irritated but he had no otherwise,
For he was desperate to have her daughter Victoria get married,
He had nothing to say but only to ask his daughter, Victoria,
If she was going right-away with her suitor or not,
To which she violently answered yes I am going with him,
Victoria’s mother kept mum, she only shot miserable glances
From one corner of the house to another, to the ogres also,
She totally said nothing, as Victoria was predictably violent
To any gainsayer in relation to her occasion of the moment,
Victoria’s father wished them all well in their life,
And permitted Victoria to go and have good life,
With Akhatembete, her suitor she had yearned for with equanimity,
Victoria was so confused with joy; her day of marriage is beholden,
She hurriedly packed up as if being chased by a monster,
she forgot to put on her panty, nor did she remember to carry one,
she only fixed her chaplet and felt herself very ready for the journey,
The ogres went away with Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill and Anastasia,
The hunchbacked girl followed them crying, wailing to come along with them,
She decried loneliness that would torture her, in the absence of her sister, Victoria.

Song thirteen
The hunch- backed girl persistently cried, following her sister,
Begging and begging to come along with her sister, Victoria,
Victoria often chased her to go back home, to which the ogres
Reacted negatively, Akhatembete on every turn cautioned Victoria
Not to chase her, to leave the girl alone, to come along and travel with them,
Victoria disdained the idea, as the hunch on back of the girl
Will make her a public laughing stock, as for sure; who in the world,
of entire humanity ever got married along with a hunchback sibling?
The hunch back hid herself behind the bush, and totted them,
Victoria and the ogres walked for kilometers and even forgot
About the hunchback, thinking she had returned home
Only for the hunchback to surface
After they had covered seventy five miles,
She announced her presence by suddenly wailing from behind,
All of them were agog, on looking back to find the girl,
the hunch protuberating on back like a tor on the Mountain,
Then it was the time Akhatembete as the key person,
Domineered the situation, he commanded the hunchback,
to come and walk with them, as other ogres laughed themselves to tears
Victoria frowning in shame, while Anastasia counseled her not to mind,
Tell us your name our dear little sister? Demanded one of the ogres,
Teasing the hunchback to tell them her name, on which they were ready to giggle,
My name is Nellykeen, the ogres giggled, mocking the sound of the name,
As it makes no sense in their African language of the ogres, what hogwash of a name!
The hunchback chickened and apologized for having a silly name,
In the usual manners of the European when faced with defeat,
One of the ogres shouted rudely; what you have told us is human nonsense,
It is utter English rubbish from a useless wonk; I have to give you a name;
Your name from now hence forth is Nakitumba; meaning the hunchbacked one,
This is how we call the hunchbacks in our community of Babukusu,
We are the Babukusu for your information, dear little girl,
We are found in Africa, in east Africa; Congo, Uganda, Sudan, Kenya, Ethiopia,
Somalia, Rwanda and Burundi, you the hunchbacked ones don’t come from God,
You are the off-cuts from leisure of the devil; you are harbingers of bad luck,
Do you get me Madam Nakitumba? You daughter of England,
Nakitumba responded with maximum obsequiety; yes I do my brother in law,
But above all I am thankful for the wonderful name, and also for permitting me to come,
With you to your country of adventure, for my break from mundane factories of England,
Two ogres apart from Akhatembete broke into loud cackles, chanting the new name;
Nakitumba! Nakitumba!
Nakitumba! Nakitumba!
Mulamwa Nakitumba!
Kene khukhwirire
Ekhafu ewunwa
Mala! Oliemo kamaneke!
They chanted jumping around, from one side to another, throwing their hands in the air,
They then laughed and giggled until they all fell down in the sand dunes of Morocco,
As Akhatembete, Victoria and Anastasia smiled, restraining their laughers.

Song fourteen
They reached home in Congo, in the Amazon forest,
Each ogre carrying an English girl on the back,
As the girls had gotten defeated from walking somewhere in Sudan,
Akhatembete carrying Victoria in a style connoting some slyness,
One ogre carrying Nakitumba, its hand gripping Nakitumba’s hunch
the ogre that had carried Anastasia was panting with sound, it was exhausted,
During this porterage is when Akhatembete discovered something funny,
That Victoria did not have her under panties on, she was naked of undergarments,
He felt her by his fingers, but he didn’t announce,
He felt the warmth of her thighs in silence,
He was in this gusto for a long time,
None of the others ogres discovered Akhetembete’s fortune
Until they finally entered their home of the ogres,
Hoards of ogres came running,
To receive their brothers back home,
All of them were naked, both female and male,
Tails wagging high in the air, a symbol of joy
Akhatembete and other ogres went jubilant,
They all put down the girls,
Threw away their make-believe clothes
And remained naked to their nudity,
As it is an abomination to put on clothes,
In the world of the ogres,
All ogres were now in a song and a dance,
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
The top dancer, his tail wagging the most,
Victoria and the English girls were surprised,
They realized that they were now in the jaws of hyena,
Victoria and Anastasia began crying, in confirmation of their goof,
But Nakitumba joined the ogre dancers, the hunch on her back tilting rapidly,
From which the ogres found a lot of theatre, they sang, danced, laughed and teased,
Old women of ogres with one eye also came out to dance, with pipes on their mouth,
Some challenged Nakitumba to a dance competition; some just shook their shoulders,
In a stupid style, as they whetted their appetite for a human meat, an English meat,
A dish they had never had in their lives as a community of cannibals.

The last song
Victoria and her friends somberly sat,
Desperately looking on, as ogres bargained,
On whether to eat them straight-away or not,
Those ogres charged with the role of community butcherers
Came in wielding their tools of work,
an opportunity to slaughter a white human being,
instant violence broke out among the teenaged ogres,
fighting one another in a deathly attacks, fighting over
the right to eat the vulvas, a war that was stopped by an elderly
female ogre who came out to caution that vulvas are never eaten by children,
they are only eaten by married male ogres, as an amulet to boost sexual capability,
the truce resumed, then a song and a dance again, ogres were in the carnival,
when the noise stopped the, elderly male ogre purely naked, stood up,
to address the community over the matter of time; eating their new victuals,
the three white girls from the servile land of England, his balls were pronouncedly hanging,
he danced for some time as his balls perambulated, then coughed loudly,
a way of clearing his voice for a brief speech;
he yelled; heberirikwei hei he wunooo!
Response for the rest; he wunooo!
Heberirikwei hei he wunooo!
He wuonooo!
Bakhana bali ano!
Haaaaaaaaaa!
Balinka enyanke!
Enyanke yajaaa!
Khayo ve munye!
Ve munye!
Khubalie mujuli!
Mujuli!
Khoroooooo!
Khoroooooo!
My dear brothers and all the leaders
Of our Babukusu ogre community,
In our tradition we don’t eat tired preys,
Let them sleep, for their blood to flow in their veins,
So that when we eat them tomorrow,
They will be palatable, sweet to munch
Myself as an elder, I will have the hunch,
From the back of Nakitumba,
Not for eating but for voodoo,
That will protect our community
From all evil machinations.
All the ogres responded with one voice
Yeeeeees!
All ogres dispersed and they instructed Wenwa wa Ilungu,
The handsome ogre who impersonated to be the
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
To be the caretaker of the captives, the three English girls
He took them to another hut, terribly dirty, without a door,
Human skulls all over the floor,
And eerie psychopompous sounds,
Was irregularly heard in a faint timbre
A lot wood hanging in the roof,
Possibly used as coal for boiling human carcass,
He commanded them to sleep, on the skulls,
After saying we are the ones, who ate their bodies,
Above there is the fire wood we used to boil them,
Victoria and Anastasia were wordless,
But Nakitumba was jovial teasing the ogres on the way,
Then darkness fell and they were to sleep, and they slept,
All other ogres went for a beer taking spree, bound to end at dawn,
In preparation of tomorrow, they left the compound dead silent,
Apart from Wenwa on the sentry, who was deep a sleep,
Snoring like the colonial train from Mombasa,
Passing by the infamous station Sudi in Bungoma county of Kenya,
Nakitumba developed a trick for them to escape,
She began whining in deep soprano irritating voice,
Like that one of a very sick person, in deep pain,
About to die in an hour’s time,
When the ogre on the sentry heard it,
He woke up quarrelling violently,
Why all the stupid noise?
Nakitumba responded artfully,
in a low melodious voice;
My dear brother in-law, i am very sick,
Am feeling deep pains in the hunch,
On my back, I will die if not assisted,
My medicine is simple, very simple my in law,
Just water from the lake on a platter,
I will be ok; the platter must be a basket-like,
Please do me a favour they way I did you,
To call a girl for you when you came to England,
Kindly help me, I will appreciate.
The ogre felt it, not that he was taken by Nakitumba’s prayer,
But because an elderly ogre had earmarked Nakitumba’s hunch,
If she will be found dead the community will blame him,
As the ogres don’t eat rotting carcass,
They only eat what they have slaughtered.
He opted to go for the waters, from Lake Sango,
Later on renamed by colonial avarice as Lake Victoria
Because its waters saved Victoria, who became the Queen of England.
He calculated he could only take three hours, to cover a thousand miles,
From Congo to Lake Sango, to and fro, given his cyclopic strides of the ogre,
He commanded Nakitumba to be silent as he will be back soon,
With waters from the lake on the basket-work of a platter,
Then he flew away, his food steps causing some tremors,
When the died off, there was silence and calm,
Then Nakitumba knew that he is now far away,
The safest time to escape and run away,
She woke up the two girls; Anastasia and Victoria,
And whispered to them; it is safe
Let us run away, they hopelessly accepted
She commanded them not to carry anything,
That belonged to the ogres, but call all else that is ours,
The only sure way to forestall revanchistic voodoo,
They escaped off walking, no need for running
As commanded by Nakitumba, notwithstanding fear,
That domineered Anastasia and Victoria; they were sobbing,
Shedding tears grievously, without further hope.
They walked and walked in the darkness of African night
Three English girls in the moonless night, walking the hinterland of Africa,
When dawn came they were lucky to see the morning star in the east,
They that it was an ogre looking at them from the sky,
Anastasia confirmed them that it was an ogre,
But one of the planetary objects, visibly clear
When viewed from Africa, Victoria was tired,
She wanted to lie down die, or be eaten by an African ogre,
But Nakitumba challenged her to soldier on,
After a short while of silence and painstaking walking,
Very huge bull frog, the size of a Volkswagen car
Appeared in their front, leaping in a relaxed mode,
They wanted to run away, but Nakitumba said no,
Let us have a looksee of it, we don’t need to be afraid,
To their surprise the frog addressed in English,
Like that one used by Shakespeare in his plays,
The frog introduced herself as a grandmother,
Properly knowing avaricious stupidity of the ogres,
She told the girls not to fear, as she will get them back
To their home in England, away from man-eating ogres
Then she ordered the girls to jump into the empty stomach,
They jumped in without question, Anastasia first, then Victoria and finally Nakitumba,
Then from swallowed back her stuffs she had initially vomited, plus the filthy fluid,
Then she began humping slowly towards England, she jumped for three decades.
When the ogres discovered that the girls had escaped, all of them began to chase,
To hunt for them everywhere in Africa, no girls was found,
They often met a huge frog, with an extra swollen stomach,
The ogres, commanded the frog to puke whatever
that was making its stomach to swell abnormally,
but when the frog puked first the dirty fluid,
the fluid nauseated the ogres, the ogres were repulsed,
and told the frog not to spit more, but to lick back its puke
and walk away, of which the frog always politely complied,
The ogres became tired and gave up the hunt,
On their way back, ogres met the snake,
They asked it if it had seen the three girls,
One with a rump on her back,
Out of snobbish pride, the snake lied to the ogres,
That it saw the girls and killed all of them,
Even they are already putrefied due to its deathly poison,
The ogres flogged the snake, terribly that no other living creature,
Happened to die of as the snobbish snake did in the hands of the ogres,
Then the ogres declared it a loss, due to their folly
To which they surrendered and walked home.
Inside the stomach of the frog Victoria was pregnant,
Pregnant for Wenwa alias Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
One the time neared her stomach bulged sideways,
Instead of protruding forward, Nakitumba predicted the twins,
When time of delivery came, the twins were born,
Peacefully without any medical trouble,
Nakitumba cut the umbilical cords for both the babies,
Nakitumba placed the placenta in position
which it could be digested away by the frog,
the twin brothers grew up into lively babies,
apart from the sixth fingers and toes on the first twin,
Compensated by a charming birthmark on the face,
and sexy gap in the front teeth of the second twin,
all of them in the stomach of the frog survived for decades,
on the diet of white ants which the frog swallowed piecemeal,
Without chewing, each and every evening,
Until the frog reached in England, to Victoria’s home,
It found Victoria’s mother sitting lonely,
On the sepulcher of her husband who had died a decade ago,
The frog surprised Victoria’s old mother with spoken English
That was typical of Shakespeare,
the frog asked only for a permission to puke,
the old lady permitted the animal to puke,
the frog puked out its usual filthy entrails,
then Nakitumba, followed by Victoria,
the twin brothers, then Anastasia,
Miracle and joy overwhelmed that entire home,
Victoria begged her mother to return back to Africa
To search for the father of her sons, but everyone refused,
She also complied, and stayed in England,
She grew up to become Queen Victoria of Great Britain,
Her sons became Prince George and Prince Charles,
The frog is kept unto now in home of old frogs
At London zoo,
Let my tale in this song die now to let myself live for ever
To sing more songs of tales like this one.

THE GUNMEN OF AFRICA ARE NOT A SONG OF THE CAGED BIRD

They began without notice, in the city of Mombasa
By the Al shabab shooting baby Osinya in the head,
Killed the mother, leaving a slug stuck in Osinya’s head
Killing and mauling many others macabrously,
Killing for no other reason, but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.

They had initially lynched the West Gate Mall
In Nairobi, killing the aged and seasoned darling
Of African poetry and true fountain of peace
The dearest Kofi Awonor, in full watch of his son,
Confirming a trail of the ghastly curse of fate and death
That totted him arduously from his home in the west
Of the tropical gulag that makes the land of Africa
From where the terror maestro ; Boko haram reign scot free
Mayheming, Killing, raping, and kidnapping harmless virgins
Killing For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.

They have now killed fifty peasants in Mpeketon town,
Raping them in circles to puncture their virginity
and brutally kidnapping those that are not raped,
Using the AK 47 and the Ak 74 to shoot and kill,
Without reason nor course but failure of mind
Botched down by authenticity of holy diversity
Heavenly packaged in God’s idea of tribe,
Uhm! An African man with a gun is a brute of brutes,
Giving an African a gun is simple mess of the world
In to helter-skelter poise tilting peace higgledy-piggledy,
Killing one another like animals premised by Charles Darwin
As overtly seen in the warring Congo and CAR,
Where Africans kill one another in a stupid dint,
To ape Rwanda or no! To outshine the Jewish Massacre
In the Ammonium chambers of fuehrer Adolf Hitler,
This stupid Africans baser than wild beasts,
Who told you that your greatness will come
from killing your neighbours; the fellow peasants?
These African men are the modern homoguerrillus,
Which one call cheap war making man
They and kill ! kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill,
For no other reason but faith and tribe,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.

Gunshots of the gunmen in Africa are not
A song of the caged bird, no whatsoever,
They are cowardly maneuvers of the weak
As the weak and cowards rarely forgive,
They arm themselves to the teeth
With deadly weapons from Russia or wherever
Only to shoot and kill the old and malnourished
Peasant women, killing the likes of baby Osinya
Shooting a suckling baby to prove your heroism,
These African men are really a Whiteman’s burden,
They kill their fellows from cockcrow to chick roost
For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.

IN PRAISE OF AMERICAN TROOPS IN NIGERIA FIGHTING BOKO HARAM

Match, match forward and go, you heroic sons of America
Reconnoiter into the strongholds of boko haram,
And restore our captive girls from the foul custody,
Lawlessly held hostage by the connoisseurs of terror,
Go on and recover poor souls from ribald of religion
Impishly created by Moslems from the satanic verses,
Regulating foray of terror on the poor of the poor
Raping, mahyeming, looting and executing massacres,
Match on and on yee angels of democracy,
Don’t stop in any haste or in any wonder,
To help in the sham flabbergastations,
About the Igbos who fought the Biafra,
And the Yorubas who federally defended,
Under the aegis of Obasanjo the Sandhurst
General, where are they all to save the girls
Of Nigeria from the Islamist terror
Excuted by boko haram the handmaid of evil.

NEUROTIC LAW OF POETRY

Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future
on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical balance for wondrous poetry.

Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in bondage to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,

From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.

A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from opium and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of opium,
bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.

MOURNING Dr. ANGELOU MAYA

An African sunset has once again,
not outlived darkness of its own sunset,
but the legacy of its poetry will soon
Set forth the new dawn in full brightness
Of the phenomenal African woman
Whose desire to sire human freedom
Irritatingly sings and will ever sing like
A bird in the cage of oppressor’s ploy
Singing the songs of freedom for all,
Invoking ears of the heart in mental realm
Of prejudice and bigoted self-exclusion
to see the self in the face of otherness.

I mourn Dr. Angelou Maya who passed on,
On the black Wednesday of may 2014,
A doomsday of dooms-month of dooms-year,
That extended the invisible tentacles of death
To curtail the breathes African daughter,
At the Wake Forest University, in land of the Yankees,
At her only virgin age of 8 and 6 compartments
Of twelve months swelling not even full in each case,
Leaving me to wonder in my African callousness,
At the magical reality in the sharp sounded words;
Of , O death! O death! Why are you so untimely?
That echoed from whale rapacious jaws in the mandibles
Of capitalism that ruthlessly converts nature into dirty money
In the erstwhile onset of the dawn for new morning.

I mourn with grief, my dear sister; Dr. Angelou Maya,
She boldly stood up in the fullness of her melanin
Pronouncedly sexy and elegant gap in her front teeth,
Blending to overwhelm the entire world with the beauty,
In the darkness of her African skin, provoking evil
Of the time, that let a white man to rape her
A Poor daughter of the an ex-slave in Americas,
And the rapist walked away scot-free at the helm of
Evil freedom in the apartheid civilization of the USA, as her humane
Heart forgave him, the white rapist, seven times and seventy seven
occasions, a reflection of true piousness, true humanism,
Like a phoenix she still stood up, her head in fortitude like a tor,
as we the conquered and the enslaved ones sat forlorn,
in the bondage of fierce slavery, at the nub of salve anguish
in the pangs of nostalgia for the banks of River Congo,
Yearning in equanimity for the life by the waters of the River Nile,
she had to rise indomitably and sing for civil rights of the black souls,
Terrorized by the evils and wiles of Ku Klux Klan, handmaiden
by the Jimmy Crow cultures in the days of Rosa Parks,
She sang tunes, lyrics and poor folks’ ballads together
with Luther King Jnr., Malcolm X and entire Negritude,
When we lived as slaves in the land of abundance,
Caged in the pigeonholes of black ghettoes
Mushrooming the entire Harlem in which
she were born, dear begotten daughter of Africa,
You rose and sang songs of liberty when the world
Was mum on the violations of gender,
Is when your thespic power in your magical
And surreal words, created the truth
In the phenomenon of phenomenal woman
That finds honour in un-bowing before the thrones
Of those who reign by perpetrating terror.
.

IT IS NATURE OF ALL MOTHERS
It is nature of all the mothers
To heartily cherish their sons
To believe with worship
In the mortality of the sons
To whim and fancy
That nothing can beat their sons,

It is nature of all the mothers
To replace their love for husbands
With the love of sons,
Always to suspect
That their daughters in law
Are giving raw deals of life and love
To the precious sons,
To stress for virgin marriage of the sons
To doubt and snook at the beauties of sons’ loves,

It is nature of all the mothers
To be in nostalgia of their past love
On the look of the new beards on sons’ face
To equate the virgin tone in the sons bass
With the voices of a raw lover
On the nuptial night of the eloping evening,

It is nature of all the mothers to fault the person
Of other woman’s sons
Only to glorify the character of their own
As they project fortune for heir own
But stark fate or failure
Befalling the male neighbourhood,
To ask the powers that be
For a political treat to their sons
On a baseboard of full discredit
Unto the otherness that be.

NOBEL PRIZE NOT A ZEAL TO GUNTER GRASS BEAK

It is not a confused whirr,
nor dumbish agitprop poetry,
nor ramblings of a jumbuck
in guest for freedom to peddle
the awry science of antisemitism,
it is a poetic license of word-power
for him to say what must only be said.

to sing cautionary verses and lyrics
against the flow of atomic warheads
from the America ,or whatsoever
on the western and Germany submarines
to the land of Israel, where Netanyau reigns
in terror and racist tyranny con Palestine,
or to versify a caution of this atomic arming
of Israel but not her neighbors like Persia
the cradle of Omar Khayyam the Rubiyatist,
or else to disarm the Arab world, as Israel terribly
arms her sons and daughters with nuclear and Atomic drones
along with hatred of the neighbours in mad avarice for land,
is not at all a crime of poetry but Gunter’s artistic morality.

Nobel reward cannot be a seal on your beak,
you Gunter, the brave son of Bundeslander,
we cannot be lulled to sleepish silence
with blissful feelings of Nobel Laureatry,
cosmetic dignity , nonchalance or standoffishness,
when terror is reigning in the Middle East
Israelis committing crimes against humanity
raping women, mauling children and shooting civilian Arabs,
that would be heinously wrong , punished even not
in the Hague of Holland but in the hottest place in hell
which John F. Kennedy saw Dante Alighieri creating,
for those who stand aloof , when evil is committed in the world.

Your communion in the Waffen schustafel or the Hitlerite SS,
is not impeachment on your moral history,nor reason for shame,
the poltergeist of Europe in the days of your youth was pure SS ,
in nature ,fibre and DNA,every European dreamed of a colony,
Britain and France cahorted to own Africa as their handkerchief,
Hitler bench marked to own France in 1943, a colonial vintage,
Hitler’s Reich was genuine government in Germany,
democratically ratified by the voters in Germany,
Your service to Hitler was service to your country,
it was your turn of patriotism and love of fatherland,
like your contemporaries in other parts of the world
who prospered as the FBI,CIA,Mossadist,Kosmosols,
Gendarmes,Kanu youth wingers,or Colonial police
in Britain’s Gulag in the name of African Archipelago.

i don’t know what they mean,
when they call you Gunter the anti-Semite,
rebuking Israelis terrible killing of Arabs
is not reason not even an emotion enough,
anywhere, whether on earth or in the ethereal,
to call Gunter an anti-Semite or an immoral poet.

wasn’t colonialism a warped racial conscience,
was it not anti-negroism or anti-africanism,
persistent torture of black slaves in America,
doesn’t it call for social phenomenology?
isn’t it Anti-blackism or it is only justifiable slavery?

Let Gunter Grass say what must be said,
let him sing what must be chanted,
Like Lenin and Gogol of Russia
let him do what must be done
let him fear what must be feared,
let him not fear the loss of Nobelite dignity,
Jean Paul Sartre won the Nobel Prize ,
but his clear socialist consciousness
made him decline to pick the cash,
in true service to his ideals,
he still glowed like a bush fire
in the Harmmattan wind
he never waned in glory whatsoever
even in his current realm of abode
among the living dead of the world
he still shines as a center piece
when time for chance to voice of reason
is called for, for humanity’s sake,
Let Gunter Grass say what must be said.

ISRAELI PUSHED US TO WAR COURTYARDS

Look! The state of Israeli has taken us to dark caves,
Left us hanging between western drones
And pious chauvinism of the Islamic state,
We only harvest terrorist bombs intermittently,
As true benefactors are turfed in tight security,
Where mankind linkers an actuary determines not
Only God’s shrewd calendar has salvaged mankind
From the land based time bomb ready to trigger,
But Israeli’s avaricious eye on the lands of Palestine
Wavers not in any tincture of measure,
And western appetite for the Arabic oil wells
Has now gone fluvial spilling the moral brim,
Both have sandwiched us amid delicate edges
Tracking us down to the dangerous courtyards,
Where humanity forlornly gapes at the gathering storm,

Islamic state here comes newly fangled
Fully amoured like Arabian knights
In the dhow of Sind Bad the sailor
Sharpened to date by eastern wisdom
Where China hovers like scavengerous vulture
Waiting for sweet dish of the war plunders,
As Israel giggles at the western folly
Ever jumping into war on a simple trigger,
Evinced in the war on Iraq eked on twin towers
When the true bombers were not Arabs
But shrewd Jews who ployed and stunted
For Islamic fate on the American guillotine,

Israeli state was faked in the formation
Allowing the oil venturists to flock
Menacingly flock from America to Palestine
To usurp land that belongs to the least armed,
On whimsical claims in the fables and rituals
Skewed to favour the tongue of Ptolemy,
Otherwise, who among us has useless history?

The state is formed by identical population,
Definitely numbered for reasons of law,
How many Israelis formed the 1948 state?
Where were the Jews coming from?
How long had they been away?
No good answer will come than drones,
It is folly to claim land you never owned
Because your foremen hailed it 14 centuries ago,
You forcefully encroach on it with force and terror
Killing and raping the genuine land owners
Israeli! Listen to my voice of vision;
Soon God will withdraw his favour from you
For you have raped the weak and the poor,

Which way Africa! Which way?
Will you take to cross the battle field?
Of the possibly coming horrendous war
Between Islamic state and West backed Israeli,
Don’t go to the West in support of Israeli
For after the war Israeli will become a lion’s cub
That eats the dog foster-mother on its maturity
For a Jew prefers an Arab a thousand times,
More than he does to a black and gentile African,
Let us go east and do business with the yellowmen.

ODE TO LODWAR CATHOLIC LIBRARY

Build in a very humble way
Its architecture redolent of Europe,
Plain and honest in structure,
The vestibule at the entrance
Replete with old hardbound books
Dust covering the jackets
In their agony of human oblivion,
Every section has shelves under lock
Only to be open on permitted access.

Located in the desert like an oases,
But the desert of readers not waters,
But like any other oasis, it is useful,
At most to the genuine users.

There are books and books all over,
Windows only open after adjustment,
You start at the door step with classics,
Indian, European, American and global classics,
I pumped into Leo Tolstoy at the first glance,
Finely juxtaposed; Anne Karenina after War and peace.

I opened war and peace and I chanced on Napoleon
Then thrill of intellect and bliss of art
Began flowing into my guts like a river
I kept on wandering why Leo Tolstoy
Never became a Christian sub religion,
To be added to the two testaments,
For it to begat the post-modern holy Bible.

My physical peregrination of the hand
Led me to a vase of rosy wine
Its intellectual whiff surpassing all,
The psalms of David and songs of songs
This was nothing but precious discovery;
A thousand Rubiyats of Omar Khayyam
The shoulder of wisdom and love of God
The hero of Sufism and demystifier of heaven,
When in fact I came unto his 69th Rubiyat;
I have heard people say
that those who love wine are damned.
That can’t be true, that clearly is a lie.
For if lovers of wine and love are bound for hell,
heaven would be quite empty!

I chewed and chewed fortune out of Rubiyats,
I went through all the thousand Rubiyats,
Only hot Sun and desert sand storms of Lodwar
Are my witnesses among the myriads of bystanders
As life of a reader is similar to the life a writer,
They both derive energy from solitude’s power.

I moved on again to Alfred Jarren
The son of France, the father of mystery;
Pataphysics the science of fantasy
It has the realm beyond metaphysics,
His survey of pataphorical world
Has remained witchcraft
Beyond my simple soul’s grasp.

Paradox is one other worldwide wonder
As I look at an illiterate Turkana Man,
Guarding the library, club in his hand,
His ever week from stubborn hunger,
His sires never go to school, perhaps culture
I looked at him often in my pause for muse,
Why guard knowledge that you can’t use?

I again came upon the Quran
I read it voraciously over and again,
In expectation of great knowledge
Always making Muslims to be noisy,
I have found nothing great in the Quran,
Only regular subversions of Biblical grammar,
Let Muslims sober up to respect Jesus Christ,
His sermon on the Mountain is perfectly enough
as an impeachment to crazed pataphoricals
That Muslims often dare the world with.

I read the Bible again in repetition
Of what I had did ten years ago,
I read psalms, Job and Isaiah,
Gospels and epistles are more nice,
Chronicles and Habakkuk are so dull,
Lamentations are somber poems,
Revelations are esoteric lies,
Kings and Samuel full of chauvinism,
Proverbs and Ecclesiastes are mere clichés
My idea is; mankind can fear God
Minus Jewish intervention.

Now I chanced upon The synagogue of Satan,
A book written by one other crazy American,
His name is Andrew Hitchcock Crichton,
The book is long and spellbinding,
Having historical facts from early centuries,
Chronicling mysterious growth of Jewish empire,
Arranging facts one after another
Dismissing Bush’s anger against Arabs,
Over the bombing of the twin towers
When they are the Jews who Bombed America
As a decoy to induce American wrath,
Thus twin towers bombing was Jewish war ploy
To put Arabs into a rat’s corner.

I came across one funny book
Written by a Indian sage
Its title was Secrets of sex
From male perspective,
I don’t liked the book
For its prurient content,
But to my sad chagrin it was the most read
Its leaves were dog eared and use worn
I spied into the rumour about its tearing,
T it was a hot cake among nuns and priests
Presently living at Lodwar cathedral.

You could also wonder my dear brother
Why a Christian library has works of Marx?
This was my muse as I read Karl Marx,
I mean everything written by Karl Marx,
From Das Kapita to Germany Philosophy,
Selected works to Poverty of philosophy,
18th Brumaire to Integral calculus,
The Manifesto to the letters,
I read Karl Marx as if I was in Russia,
I wondered why Catholics are Liberal
They fear not those who contradict them.

The Holy Grail is visibly placed
In fact at right hand corner,
At the far end on your entrance
I chose to read it
Because of its voluminousity,
The book is about sexual life
Of Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene,
This book shares out that;
One time Jesus was found hiding,
Kissing Mary Magdalene, the Grail
In the most affectionate manner ever.

The catholic Library at Lodwar is bad news
It swallowed me like waters of Indian Ocean,
It is located at place called Lokiriama,
It was established by Bishop Mahoni
One other man deserving my respect
He was humble and catholically wise,
Very intelligent and consciously bookish,
His mission was to make the Turkana people
A modern community, but he failed,
He was so disappointed to his hilt
He transferred to the Archdioceses of New-York
Where he began facing problems of the law
On allegations of him being a pedophiliac,
I curse the devil for such temptations.

I did meet Yan Martel in this dome of books
His famous book; Life of Mr. Pi
It was my eye opener?
It transformed me from a village bumpkin
To a modern reader of global literature,
I read this book amid my fear of Tigre
But I was thrilled, to my bone marrow
When the main character drunk the blood,
Warm salty blood of the sea turtle.

I got another book with folded pages,
At its mid was the red book marker
Baring the name of the respected priest,
The book was entitled; How to excel as
A homo-sexual, chapter one focused on gays
Chapter two focused on lesbians,
But the rest of the book was all homosexuality,
In nothing else, but rosiest terms.

On such encounters I once again went back,
To re-read 89th Rubiyat of Omar Khayyam
It has the following quatrain to echo;
Looking for peace on earth? Foolishness.
Believing in eternal calm? Foolishness.
Once dead your sleep will be short. You may
be reborn as a clump of weeds that will be
trodden underfoot, or as a flower that
will wither in the sun’s heat.

African writers were stuffed on one shelve
Labeled African books of English expressions,
But on my request to the project manager,
His name was Peter Kebo, he was Flamboyant
And physically indifferent to Turkana poverty,
We agreed with him to rename the shelves
As; African literature in English Language,
Nobel Laureates are in this section;
Soyinka, Lessing, Coatze and Gordimer
Not forgetting the Egyptian literary tiger
In the name of Mahfouz or Maguiz
I clearly don’t know,
Sembene Ousmane is also here
I read him again for the fourth time,
It’s when I found out the simple truth,
That God’s bits of wood, translates as;
The wretched of the earth,
I read Lessing’s Grass is singing,
She likes sex,
I read Gordimer’s July’s people,
She likes menstrual blood,
I read everything here
As published by James Currey
In his Africa writes back,
I also read the White African Nobelite
Joshua Maxwell Coetzee
He is a wizard of Narrative literature,
I read his life of Mr. K.
I found amusing plots and amusing themes,
I also read Ngugi’s Wizard of the Crow
It is nice; Ngugi is still fighting dictatorship,
Not physically but in a metaphysical manner.

I was again lucky enough
To chance on Caribbean literature,
Is when I read Vitian S Naipaul
The humourist Marxist of Marxists,
I read his Mr. Biswas’s house,
With avidness of an aphrodisiac cur,
His characters like taking a long time
In the toilets, Naipaul is good,
I again chanced on George Flamming
In the Castle of my skin
Caribbean literature stinks of slavery
And counter-slavery.

My landing to the shelve of Latin America,
Was a total blessing; Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Stood out like tor of literature among others,
I began with his Big Maria’s Funeral,
Then I moved on to Love in Times of Cholera,
And then You Can’t Write to the Colonel,
As I spiced my intellect with Melancholic Whore,
Then finally I revisited his Stories from Africa
And the Hundred Years of Solitude,
The following morning when I came back,
I read in the newspaper that;
Gabriel Garcia Marquez is dead!
It was sad and poor of me, I mourned him
With long essays and somber poetry,
Then I fell in love with the literatures
of Spanish origin in language sense,
I read Octavio Paz and Pablo Neruda
From Octavio I enjoyed coda,
Between Coming and Going and so on,
Neruda thrilled me with his sense of Marx
Especially his poem; on burying the dog.

European classics section arrested me
I never easily moved out of there,
I chanced on Hitler and annals of Goebbels,
Reading Russians like Tolstoy,Chenkov,
Gorky, Gogol and Shelynetsyn was lively,
Chewing Shakespeare from cover to cover
Not spearing Pushkin nor Homer,
Victor Hugo was a relish. Emile Zola
And Maugham, I too enjoyed…

Then my holiday in Lodwar was finally over,
But I am soon going back for my Xmas,
I will directly go back to the European section,
I also remember having come by;
The Satanic Verses of Salman Rushdie,
I will have to re-read it with passion,
It is my prayer that this time comes
For I to resume my holy duty
In the Catholic Library at Lokiriama
In Lodwar Dioceses of Turkana County
In the Savannah desert in North West
Regions of my country Kenya.

Ebola

Ebola! Ebola! Ebola!
you are only hunting in the exhausted fields,
you predecessors have done evil marvel in this land
Africa’s sons and daughter were heavily taken away
in slave raid, colonial rampage two world wars ,cancer
and HIV aids, Ebola you must be ashamed to come here,

are you as foolish as lioness that must follow the path
initially taken by her husband the lion?
Ebola Africa is dead tired and lain forlorn
by strange diseases not known by it
but only named in the land of their cradle

where HIV was born in the Irish Laboratory
on trial and error to decimate Africa’s populations
in the racially biased arsenal you have also come
you fangled teeth a bare menace to each of us
you make us bleed from out body holes,
blood oozing out like Nile water from lake Victoria

Ebola ! Ebola ! sympathy is not a vice , but heavenly
virtue, only protege of the Godly please be sympathetic
to Africa the orphan of the classic times with no succour
her wounds of Cancer are fresh and fresh as those obnoxites
from the nasty Aids aka HIV, kindly empathize with Africa

you have eaten Mali and Nigeria after Congo Kinshasa
you are now in Kenya the neighbor of Sudan
the last born of Africa already rendered forlorn
by the AK 47 and AK 74 , shot in the tribal tremors
O! Ebola Ebola ! my prayer to you is as brief

as that; forgive me for my weird mourning
of my brothers and sister in death mongering
mandibles so ugly and Abysmal like
Gehenna of Jesus Christ, Amen !

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.