Millenium poems

DEVELOPMENT:



Every paying paper is written pay,

The cars with elephant trunks

Always insist on paying.

The short stout people,

With their projectile bellies,

And hanging ropes around their neck:

Always come on 30th and say pay.

For your country, your head, You pay.

For your house, your health, You pay.
.
For your future, your development, You pay.

All my 28 days sweat taken,

My hope too, I remain with the if I weres…

But, these people who say pay “Pay too”

“Tax for the development of the country”















PEASANTS:

Strikes the jigger in the toe

Sadly under the mango tree

Tired of the hand hoe

Made old by the three common foe.

With his hand on his chick

An old man, thinking and think:

The crouching cockroaches over the toilet walls

And dancing mice in the bucket of flour

Bed bugs make tour on the walls

And the ticks flood the kraal

With goats and calves in the bed room

Terrified by coldly nights

The lion’s roar and the hyena’s laughs

Whose eyes are seen through the “tembe”

The teacher has left on bare foot for “mbege”

The local market is crowded and shines

Eroded with traditional medicines

Waiting for the M.P, to thank him

And say;

They are ready for the “IZATION”





WHAT IS AFRICA?

What is Africa, A stranded housefly

In rain season, a dark tomb, hell

Blackman’s leprosy, a Whiteman’s giggle?

What Africa really mean?

The ancient mother of life, that denied life?

The husband that stolen wife?

The king, that turned a slave,

The hero, which gifted a grave?

The dim-star, the sold brave?

What are thy religions, than ways to heaven?

Africa!

The house, split by boundaries, dark home!

The smokes mushrooming city, gun powder, firing game

The home of wars, school of puppets, tent of refugees,

What are your tribes, than just dialects?

Africa!

The free bomb town, land of mine own,

The queens tattered gown, worthless mine

Of the endless sunset, mute sunshine

What are your colours, less rainbow signs?





Africa!

The gourd of rat race

Of the greedy to bury peace

And prophets, pioneers of pupecy

The modest lamb, father of autocracy,

What are your races; a mother to forsake her child?

Africa!

The mid-day rose, the wild daisy

The kingdom in wilderness, pal to democracy,

The deserted dame, diseased mother?

The dying child, the whipped brother?

What is your clan, a unity of state?

Africa!

Who are you, Africa, than that I know?

An innocent child singing

The sweet, soft flowing Nile in the desert

The Rapp’d maiden in her childhood,

A nymph at the bank of the Kagera River

Eating green, living green in green

But dying of “tribus”







MY DEATH DEI


From a far distance,

They saw us,

When we got close,

They suddenly blind us

With their high light torches,

The “Kamanda” said,

“Let them go, I know them”

A street after a street,

Then to the street I grew

A dozen of “Sungusungu”

With the Hon. Ward Councilor,

Equipped with spears and shields.

“Who are you?” They asked,

“Students” we answered.

The W.C ordered in his Bwanyenye’s tone,

“KILL THEM THIEVES”

Then, they took our carcass

To the Police Station.








WANGWE, FAREWELL

Farewell Wangwe and all that made you the front liner,

Your courage shalt spark our desires for equality,

Your wisdom nourish our democracy loving hearts and

Be guidance to our tireless advocacy on good governance;

Thy desire for human dignity, resides in our hearts,

Thy passion for unity be our song

For the Warionchoka & Warionchori to cherish your legacy:

Farewell, Chacha Wangwe, for God loved you the most

Your personality will ever ringer in the hearts of parliamentarians

Thy being will be drawn in the hearts of impact driven activists

And thy name will be sung, endlessly

By the democratic generation.

May the almighty God rest thine soul in eternal peace:

Wangwe, Farewell!

















THE BEUTIFUL STATE

The beautiful state;
The state of the giants.
Of the quick services
To those with personality.
The wonderful state
Of the rule of law
To the ruled,
Of the excellent doctors
-a worse of drunk
In the naked crying morning,
Of free services and free market
To their in-laws,
Of thousands of prisons
For the poor.
The harmonious state;
Of the active policemen
To brutalize and torture innocent countrymen,
Of corruption free zones in offices
And naked bribery in groceries.
The democratic state;
Of the banned strikes and demonstrations
And the free to assassin,
Of the free elections
And counted votes in the dark,
Of the honorary professors
And the committed lecturers
To grant “underpants” degrees to the glamour.
The beautiful state;
Of the wisest leaders
Who are after peoples’ interests
During the campaign
And their interests
After the elections,
The nicest orators of good ethics
Whilst the best “boyfriends” of their house girls
Of hundreds of media houses
Of states men editors.
The beautiful state
The paradise there be.





THE MASTER:

The master says:

A servant takes a whip.

A slave dies, happily.







































WHIPP’D

My body shines of sores

Caught loiter about Indians stores

My shoes are crying of no soles

Taken to the cell for not paying tax

And loitering and roving and “negligence”

I got no job as employee and capital for business

That’s the truth, and if I get

With whom, will I compete?

If every banyan’s frame

Is shinning of the Presidents photo frame?

To me, nothing is to blame

Even, the system.





















A HENCH-MAN’S LOUDYDREAM

The work of my own hands

Feeds them:

The toil of my foolish brain

Makes them strong.

My worthless breath

Strengtheneth their fame, worth and power.

Yet, “they don’t know me”































MONKEYS CAN BITE TOO:

Therefore; tortured, then detained and fired,

The mango is sweet, though shelter the Dracula,

And when whipped;

A cow sheds a millions of tears, painlessly; crylessly

Why so boastful little Equator?

The Sahara have much to be proud of; too

The mirror reflects in dark, the dark image

An witches bewitch in dark, but they live up in daylight,

As servants are free, enslaved is their mind

With a sluggish prestige of attending the table of highness.

And why so pig-headed Alps?

Don’t you know of the Kilimanjaro?

Dogs have no hands to fight, but gorillas do,

And monkeys can bite too.

















LEARN OF THE PEOPLE


Learn of the Mohammedans,
Learn of their faith
Know the allah-akbar
Learn of their prayer
Not a must to worship
But you learn it all
For it won’t cost even your finger nail.
Learn of the Christians,
Learn of their belief
Know their Jesus
Learn of their worship
Not a must to believe in
But you learn it all
For you won’t loose even your sweat drop
Learn of the widows,
Learn of the orphans
Know their pain
Learn of their wish
Not a must to help
But you learn it all
For you will know God.

Learn of the poor,
Learn of the beggars
Know their sufferings
Learn of their desires
Not a must to be;
But you learn it all
For you will see the light.


Learn of the highlanders,
Learn of their customs
Know their strength
Learn of their pride
Not a must to acculturize;
But you learn it all
For it will secure you a new homeland.

Learn of your neighbours,
Learn of their laughter and cheer
Know their weaknesses
Learn of their cares\not a must to imitate
But you learn it all
For it will make you a peace maker.

Learn of the tent dwellers,
Learn of their courage and hope
Know their fears at mid-night
Learn of their solidarity
Not a must to get used
But you learn it all
For you will be off when floods strike.

Learn of the cowboys,
Learn of the shepherds
Know how they protect the heard and flock
Learn of their toil
Not a must to have the flock
But you learn it all
For you will be a good pastor.

Learn of the clergy,
Learn of the monarchy
Know their principles
Learn of their conduct
Not a must to pay your servitude;
But you learn it all
For you will loose nothing, but gain prestige.

Learn of the big-potatoes,
Learn of the rich
Know their secrets
Learn of their shortcomings
Not a must to be their servant;
But you learn it all
For you won’t starve.

Learn of the hypocrites,
Know the ways of bandits
Learn of their conducts
Not a must to take part;
But you learn it all
For you can now stand
And speak for the people:




THE DOGS OF SAN PAUL:

They have conquered human kind; with a book
They have tortured human life; with a hook
They propel conspiracy
And live on hypocrisy.
Have lifted themselves high
Made us lay low die,
Bow and praise,
Their long dresses and heavenly terrifying words
Have brain washed us,
They gave us their opium,
The objectless ideologies.
The dogs!
What must we understand?
You tell us not to steal; you have looted enough,
You tell us not to polygamize, yet you preach our wives and rape them;
You tell us not to drink while the wine is your daily water,
You tell us to be His while ye, always visit the witches
You were put to guide us;
Yet, you sleep and tell us
To guide you
Because you are not sure of yourselves:























THE DISCENDANT:

Before sunrise, she fetched some water,
To take bath in the sun set:

In the noon, firewood
To prepare her lunch.

In the evening, A dance
To rejoice after supper,

The giant came,
Took bath, ate, and danced!

Because, he is the prince
And deserves it all.






























THE WHITE EAGLE:

The black mother hen.

Was lying on black loamy soil,
Not in cage, because it was safe,
With a dozen of healthy chicks,
The eagle came, took the chicks,
Ate them, made others crippled.

The mother hen ran into the cage.
Hid with a few unfit chicks,
The eagle went away.

The chicks have become hens,
They are out with their healthy chicks,
The eagle has come.
Wants to be domesticated:




























HELP BUILD YOUR COUNTRY:

Help build your country:

Buy local products,

The street wall advert insists,

And ye always give announcement:

Kinsmen, O kindred brothers,

Help it us, it is ours,

But we wonder of your uncle’s care.

For he sends you “masalo”

From Bulawayo

And beef.

From Chicago

And full is your fridge

Of Vladimir vodka and Scottish whisky

But we kinsmen,

Sit round

Ready for “kibuku”













DEMOCRACY:

Plato saw it,
Through the windows of Venus
It spread throughout Greek city states.
Practiced by the demos themselves
Whom later established the kratos.

It is not paralogism to us.

The holly men brought this,
Dithyrambic idea from Dionysus
On the shoulders of fraternity
A dogma which has ever been our saviour

O brethren, how good it is to us.

We see fratricide
Brought by the pseudo-kratos.
Think of the good life we lead.
Brought by this paralogist kratos

How precious it is!?

Brought by holly men,
Upheld by the eristic black white men
The conservative Judaists,
Whom when we ask for our rights
They give us even more!

When we contribute our idea
They welcome us with both hands.
When we go in mass for reforms,
They give us precious gifts
That floods our happiness with joyful tears;
Yet, they say;
We need more kratos:
We remain mute.
Cowardly we tune our coos
Happily, we praise
Our country is really democratic.





DIGNITY?

Hurrah!
Hureeeeh!
“Get your job now”
Hurrah!
Vacancy?
“Come to our company,
And make money”
On TVs
On radios
In news papers
They announce
“JOB VACANCY”
But:
I went to the first office and they wanted to know my name,
They wanted to hear something like “Rwegoshora”
Instead, I said,Kilugala; and so vacancies were full.
To the second office, I said “Kezilahabi”
But, they wanted me to say “Mushi”
And again vacancies were full.
To the third, I said Daniel
And so they welcomed me with a bible
And grant me a job!
I refused;
For I can’t forsake my friend; Suleiman,
For I know
“The quality of man is he, himself,
And the quantity; his dignity”
So; they better say:
Hurrah!
Vacancy!
For our brethren!













I, THE RIGHTS SEEKER;

When I see blue,
I always turn cool,
I, the rights seeker

When I see white
I become a lamb

And when I see red
I grow mad
Like the injured hog,

And I ask myself:
What is the use of freedom?
If we all are in chains:
What is the use of life?
If we are not independent:
What is the use of schools?
If there are no pupils:

And;
What is the meaning of the government?
If there is chaos:
What is the state?
If people are not served by it:
What is bureaucracy?
If it does not know the people:
To me;
It is like baptism to a dog:
And, the use of perfume
To the dead body:














WHAT I NEED IS A PEN:

What I need is a pen!
A magnificent stick
With everlasting fluid, ink
In it
I write!
A dancing stick
With zigzag movement
And whispering voice
Through it, I speak
An optimist stick
That prints to the last drop of its ink
Without the fear of being useless
With it I can say what is to be said,
And I can be understood:
The stick which has ever
Emancipated my thoughts
The stick which has made me
A strong warrior, a bull among asses
The stick which has put me
In the front line of deadly barbaric wars
The stick which has filled my heart
With greatest happiness.
The stick, supplied me with joys of life
And the courage to carry on with life
The only spear which has won my foes
The one which has taken me miles away
The stick which has my eyes opened
Thrown away the chains of slavery
And taught me radicalism
My path and shield to defend my dignity
My teacher on the meaning of state
Ant the torch to the rotten meaning of it
Oh! Pen.
My saviour
The magnificent one
My father, mother and humble friend
My brother and sister, my brethren
You are my true love and friend
You have thrown away my worst foe
And brought true friends close
You have made me a person among the people
How precious art thou?
When I’m grieved.
Pained.
Confused.
Happy.
When I need to be real
I, me, and myself
What I need is you:
When things are cumbersome
When they do not work right
When I need comfort
What I think of, is you,
My pen!
And my everything
Even if my mouth is super glued
I can say something
If you my friend
Are there!
When I think of life,
Death,
Love,
Hate and corruption
When I think of the truth
Decency
Honesty
Pax and Justitia
Harmony
Brotherhood
War and destruction
Wisdom tells me to take you
My companion:
For by you, things can be set right
Since you can create and destroy
Yes, you can.
With whom can I compare you?
Should I do it with a knife?
Whilst, you are mightier than a sword:
With you
I can stand
And say what
You: the magnificent one allow me to
Oh, pen my pen!







WHEN THE SUN SETS:

We sit near the “kikome”
To listen to the legends
Given by the Mzee
We, in the village.

They take the jeep and vogue

To the banquet nights,

Those, of the country

They take cha-moto and fatuma,

Those, hard workers in the dark.

They take mini skirts and transparent gowns

And go around the city streets.

Those, in the city.

We die of not having a cent,
For treatment in the village dispensary,
For a kilo of “sembe” for “malagela”

They come mourning, with the merc.
In twelve buttons suits.

They buy us coffins from UK
Build golden monument for US

When the sun sets:

They pray.

Rest in peace who died of hunger,

A bravo farewell

With a glass, full of VAT 69.




A DIM LIGHT IN TOTAL DARKNESS:

In the room of heavy darkness,
The master lights his dim light torch,
To make his apostles see the needle,
Whenever they fail
He grinds his teeth,
Grows bitter,
And becomes angry.

Slowly the light goes off.
If switched on again,
It becomes darker than ever before,
The master punishes the apostles,
For being negligent.































IN THE DARK OUR AGONY:

Too big is the crowd,
So many the sweet, endless speeches

Our stomach rhyming,

In the dark,
The table of honour, full of liquors be
The speeches insist us to take tithe
To the table of highness

At home, children on bare foot
The school fees-tomorrow:

Our agony.






























BLACK BLOODY:

My brothers come and see.
I see black blood

From black veins and arteries,
Our brothers are given pearl
By the lovely hogs
They swear to lead the dead,

From boundary to boundary,
City to city.

Our victory is sold
To them pinkies
Because they really love us.






























BLAME NOT THE MIRROR:

Blame not the mirror, though
The image reflected is your ugly face,
The angles are well set by your own hands
And the frame that lights thy ileum
Is well twisted by your intelligence
So, blame not the mirror.
Blame is thine image,
That into the mirror.




































OUR CATTLE:

Look at me, Laugh:
On my cracking feet,
And the endless cough
And my tattered suit
I unworn the deceased, hung oneself on the tree,
Which has cow-dung smokes smell
On my dry, scaled and valleyed skin,
Living dead, dying poor.

For our fathers didn’t take us to school,
For we had to heard the cattle,
Since the cow’s life is worthier,
Twin brothers in the kraal
Which can’t be sold, than of hunger or sickness
The cattle for prestige
The prestige worthier than education
The education for the collar-jobs
The jobs against our customs
Look at me laugh:
For when I passed for secondary school
My father had a thousand cattle
Which I had to take care of
For he didn’t have some money
For the school fees:




















WHY I WRITE OF KAHAMA:

Why I write of Kahama;
Is because I write of it
On a paper with a pen
A pen that urinates ink
The ink that is immortal!

It is merely a district, we all know of it!
It is exponentially populated, we all guess of it!
It is a business town, we all accept it!
It is the fastest growing town, we all hear of it!
It is the town of dynamics, we all appreciate it!

But why I write of it?
Is it because we grow tobacco?
Or because of cotton and sunflower?
Or because we fatten the cattle for the Pugu market?
I do not write of Kahama to praise of it!
Not because there are three operating gold mines
One amongst the giant in Africa, The bulyanhulu!
And not because there are two mute M.Ps
Who are there to fill the house of the law-makers.
Not because the politeia has closed her eyes on it
Not because the embezzlement is rampant
And not because is my place of domicile
I do not write of it for that:

And not because mine workers are oppressed
By their indigenous black white-men
It is not because its people are ignorant on politics
Not because it regurgitates more than thirty passenger busses
And swallow thirty more per day;
It is not because fifteen containers of
Mineral soils are exported weekly to Canada
Understand me, I do not write of it for that:
Neither because there wasn’t any government Sec:
For the whole region had only two.
Nor because there are tarmac less, unknown, shapeless roads
Not because they come, loot and go; the civil servants
Not because we use typhoid waters whilst the lake’s are for them.
It is not because of that:
And not because its people are unaware of their rights,
I write of Kahama because I like to have a pen
And twist it on a piece of paper.

A DRUNKARD MAN’S SONG ON THE AUCTION DAY:

Friends wake up!
It is another morning
For us to take liquors
Come friends, come enemies
Liquors never select,
Mchaga wake up mbege is ready
Msukuma, come on
“Kimpumu” is waiting for you
Msumbwa, where are you?
“Wanzuki” is calling you!
Welcome for “usele”
Not at my home,
For there is no even a single chair
Friends let’s take our beer
Our pockets are burnt
Coins have lust them.
There is no way of buying a second hand Peugeot
Our eleven marks is enough
Even without sleepers;
To whom do they announce; cars for sale?
They are the ones who announce
Yet, are the buyers too:
Ours are liquors
For doctors do take it
And officers too;
In the infant morning,
The M.Ps are enjoying the beer, in the city
Ours is wild konyagi
To relieve the pain
For hospitals have no medicine
The roads are tarmac less
And water in tapes
A riddle
Friends wake up
It’s a day for liquors!









LOCUSTS:

Here they come
The locusts
Again!
Their long, sharpen teeth are out,
Ready to eat.
It is not a joke they eat,
All the crops, they eat,
Maize, beans, millet,
They eat!
The leaf, the stem, the shoot,
They eat
Leave they, only the root,
In dark, in light
Day and night,
They eat
The small shamba we had
To save the agony of last year’s starvation
Has gone!
We are told to sell the remaining
Maize grain
To buy the insecticide for spraying
The locusts!
The helicopters come and spray
Some they dead, some they went
Flew away in the sky
Went to multiply,
Waiting for the year of starvation
Come will they, again
From southern or northern
Brought by the wind or rain
Must come again
To eat the grain
And make some of us
Die!
In villages
For lacking
A tin of sorghum!