These walls

There's a hidden mystery behind these walls.
& this mystery is loud, calling out for me,
and I'm listening although it is silently dark.
At the shift of a second,
the wet paint smells deafening
and the cracks start to show.
The windows are held tight
and the door is sucked in,
slamming hard and weakening at the hinges.
It's a cold world,
and the roof knows the clouds will rain.
It keeps it from us, it won't tell.
Until the drops get too lusty
and the roof will have to give way.
We are cornered.
These walls won't move.
Where is a Samson when you need him?
To push these walls down.
I hear they have ears too
and their eyes have seen our darkest sins.
It's a cold world,
and these walls know the winds will blow.
But they keep it from us, they won't tell.
Until the zephyr turns too husky
and these walls will have to give way.
Behind these walls is where I found peace
and turmoil at the same damn time.
Behind these walls did I seek solace
and found a place I called home.
In this space, have I reveled and in it, also, have I wailed.
Times have been patient and subtly merciless..
and I have been wrongfully jailed.
My will imprisoned.
Call the prison and the fire department,
oh, yeah, and the police, too.
I am about to bring these walls down.

Under the blue lights

Under the blue lights
your eyes gleamed.,
a perfect mixture of pearls and tasty diamonds.
Under the blue lights
I held you close,
under the blue lights,
you, I, we.. shared our air.
Under the blue lights
your smile was illuminated, brightly,
your teeth sparkling from all edges.
Your smooth and gentle laughter
knocked my soul blue.
Under the blue lights
I remembered the first time I saw you.
You were dressed in blue
and your face a golden hue.
The blue lights give me this clue,
that you are the most purest and true, wait.,
that you are the purest and most true.
Under the blue lights
the curls in your hair stole my attention,
and robbed the air
of all sensation.
I was speechless.
Words were cruel and deserted my mouth.
I was thirsty.
And only the taste of your voice could quench me
and reconcile the without and the within..
Under the blue lights
the gentle winds blew your hair towards me,
the perfume struck my nose
and left me a bit dumbfounded.
It was a bit of oxygen and I wanted more.
It teased my senses and eased me around you.
It was like a magic had come
and swept you off your feet and into my arms.
Fewer wars had been fought like this, yes,
you left me ravished.. Positively famished. The desire.


Written by Yvon Ngabo and Dennis Tuyishime

Whispers from the death chambers

It has been 17 days.

17 dark days in this lonely cell.

They say, I've heard;

"What goes around comes back around."

And it did.

The shackles had been broken

and time seemed to have frozen.

The line had been drawn

and when the judge uttered those words,

I had seen it coming.

You don't azonto around fire

and expect not to sweat.

This time, though,

my tattered clothes had caught fire!

& now my aching body.

3 days left before the little

that is left of me burns to ashes,

turns to ashes.

Why would rain come falling

in the middle of the harvest??

I had cut down so many innocent trees,

I think nature was punishing me.

& I expected it, of course.
I expected retribution.
I expected to suffer.
But not in this manner.
Counting down long weeks, days, hours
and then minutes, soon, to your death,
had to be the most inhumane penalty.
"What is more wicked than suicide?",
My friend once asked me.
"Killing yourself a million times
before someone else noosed you."
I wish I would have answered this then...
Now that I knew better.
Now that I was shoulder-length deep
into the waters I was to drown in.
& my chin was touching the surface,
my beard choking in these mean cold waters.
My hands couldn't help now
like they had helped me before.
Someone had the key to their actions now.
The best I could do was greet my other hand..
as if to congratulate myself for my stupidity.
Or reintroduce myself to me
and say "Nice not to meet you"
and talk to myself.
and go mad.
and all that stuff.
There was no one close by.
Maybe the unmotivated guard outside my door.
and he kept asking me to not worry.
SHUT UP, is what I wanted to say
but a weak "I'll try" is what kept coming out.
I had a few days left to live;
I guess that pressure is bound to blow a few things
out of proportion.
Like what life really meant to me.
Why was I living?
What was I about to leave this world with?
What would people remember me for?
The heartless murderer?
The evil man?
How did all these happen?
Had I just fallen into a hole I would not get out of?
I think I had taken out so much
than I had given back.
I was selfish and my motives were screwed.
I was evil and I eventually pleaded guilty.
I wasn't ready to run around in circles.
I was cornered and my days numbered.
I had been cheap and this was its ramification:
3 days left to breathe,
and the world too far away from me,
to hear what I have to say.
That I am sorry.
So I scream out loud,
with a message tonight.
I'm anxious and death seems to beckon me louder.
I'm trapped in its voice, it's loud
so I have to scream louder.
I have to overcome my limits once more.
and I silently hope someone somewhere will hear my unwelcome scream,
even if it is just its whisper.

Custodians of The book of poetry

The dying embers of fire

and the slowly dying chatter 

as everyone headed to sleep

signified the curtains-close

of that day's night in this Kingdom.

The gates were closed at sun down

and stories would be told 

well into the night.

The children were always first to sleep.

Then the beautiful strong women.

Then the old men 

would string tales

and wove riddles 

and play with words.

The servant men mingled with the noble

and everyone was in high spirits.

They would sing and dance around the fires

and every one was super merry.

It wasn't a tradition

but the King wanted to repay their efforts.

The harvest was good this fall,

and the food would last them a year.

There was a new sense of commitment 

in the whole kingdom.

It must have happened after

he appointed the custodians of The book of poetry.

Poetry that had been told through the ages

in this Kingdom had been compiled

and written into a book by young men

suggested and brought forward by the council.

Scholars.

They were diligent

and highly knowledgeable

of the things and ways of the earth.

This book was then blessed by the King

and put in the hands of these custodians.

They were meant to protect the book at all costs,

and, I think I heard the King say even with their lives.

A huge bargain, that.

And they were required to read it aloud

during the end of festivities like these,

inside the King's chambers 

when everyone but the counsel and Your Highness

went to sleep.

It was like a spoken lullaby, not sung.

That's why the King was particular.

Only poems that were sweet to the ear 

and musing to the soul would be read.

& that was all of them.

The poets took their work seriously

and went out of their way, often times,

to stay in tune with nature.

It was a perfection game 

they kept getting better at.

& the King was always impressed.

These words were like honey

that tore sweet through your tongue

and won principality wars his sword 

had never seen.

Mufasa, the Shopkeeper

It wasn't hard living in the village.
It wasn't easy either. Why?
Because life was communal
and everyone seemed to be in your business.
It was a nice hard.
A hard I couldn't live without.

My grandfather was frail and old
and so was the shop I sold in.
It looked like it would fall any time.
Many people called me Mufasa,
just because the goods in my shop, wait for it,
moved faster.
I was famous and everyone would rather come
to my baby of a shop
than go to the new supermarket in town,
woe to the other small shops in the vicinity.

I liked this interest.
But again, it's not like I hadn't worked for it.
I had put in an effort to befriend every customer,
even the little kids.
Those ones, I would surprise them with sweets,
once in a while and as nature would have it,
they had to come back, naturally for more,
sent or not; with need or none.
This one mother came, this one time,
and yelled at me.
"STOP GIVING THEM SWEETS!"
& it was simple frustration in all honesty.
Small gifts gave me a huge demand.

For some reason,
I always knew what people wanted
depending on the time they visited the shop..
and it was a nice place to read newspapers, too.
(I always had a couple from the previous week,
the daily ones never reached in time)
News and affairs about the village
would always get to me.
People knew where to get it too
so they'd flock outside my Kibanda
and tell stories for ages in the evening hours.
I would join them occasionally,
when there was less traffic of people to the shop
that could actually buy something.

That bench, has to be the cradle
of all the funniest stories in the world.
We were so creative and anything someone said
was an absolute rib-breaker!
We'd laugh so loud and create a scene
that everyone wanted to become a part of us.
There was a different energy of positive vibes
and every one among us felt at home.
We were family.
& loyalty, we bred.
It wasn't easy,
because everyone had their different ambition,
but we found common ground.
A place where we leveled out.

The ghost in a town inhabited

The moon would phantom its way up,

creepily, as if tip-toeing.

No one slept earlier in the city

and no one cared for ghosts, either.

But where a free-spirit belongs,

a free-spirit will find itself.

This town was completely different.

The wooden houses creaked hymns

in the direction of the wind.

The dust covered these old buildings

and not a single soul was in sight.

The run-down petrol station 

seemed to have been run dry.,

probably by some reckless youth,

in pursuit of some fun and a road trip.

You could clearly make out

the overall image the town

had tried to create of themselves.

But it was history now.

It was all gone.

What outbreak had diseased them?

Where did all these people go?

It must have been a war, wasn't it?

But a free-spirit embraces even in scarcity.

The pleasure is hidden in small things.

& she had heard stories of herself in the city.

Such a pity. No one was discreet these days.

Everyone was trying to be the one with THE story.

None of which were juicy, of course.

But they still got her.

They knew what she was up to,

now, and they kind of saw her light shine 

when it wasn't supposed to.

So she ran away.

And this is where we are now.

In the inhabited town 

that understood her more than herself.

It was an open unrestricted playground

that she discovered she could discover herself in.

There was not too much grass here

but those childhood days were gone.

She could live wherever and adapt 

and she was happy she could.

She needed it now.

The clouds paved way and the sun struck her face,

she stealthily sneaked back into the shadows,

she knew her place.

The poem we sung

"Poetry to me was hugely vague,
and the words never made sense.
See, everyone was doing it
and they all seemed to say the same things.
It wasn't special,
a very odd way of expressing oneself. "

"We played with words and toyed with visions,
creative imagination was our reason to source for ideas.
Nobody liked to read as much,
save for the few friends and family we had.
We chose a sport no one saw need for
but the few who stumbled upon us
found a reason to sing. "

An orchard of dreams is what we had left,
clustered hopes of a failed tomorrow
bunched into an inconceivable idea.
The violin strings did not fiddle with our fantasies
and the foods we ate tasted something like disgust.
We were never satisfied
and maybe that's why we were never invited to the high table.
The lonely nights paraded our dreams
and despair lurked in the shadows.
The creepy moon only reminded us often
that we didn't have much to offer the world during daylight.
And what pained the most,
is that we had forgotten who we really were.
We had lost feeling for anything real
and our lives had become crazily busy.
We were all somehow obsessed with this stupid thought,
that if we looked like we were doing something
people would be more proud of us.
It's funny how they still never did
and the pretense game we played so skillfully
was child-play to who we were in us.
We were big.. so huge, bigger than life!
but we were yet to find out.

- A poem is written -

We sat by the Humber river as we listened to the river hum by.
It was a beautiful feeling and I could tell we were daydreaming.
Something was different about today;
the winds were gentle and the sun needed no shade.
The clouds looked spaced out and the blue sky was intriguing.
Something about our generation, nevertheless,
phones always had to get flipped out.
Small gadgets that our lives seemed to revolve around

and we needed them, somehow,
to stay connected to our own little solar systems.
So a message would show up,
and one link would lead to another,
the tweet the birds tweeted led us to a forest,
found ourselves by a river
and we stumbled upon a poem.
A poem so beautifully crafted, it would make you cry..
Each word served its purpose
and every intonation dwelled in its right place.
This poem played with so many of our feelings
all at the same time! 

I promise you, no one was ready.
See, the poem was a perfection of art.
It was everything artistic and music was its soul.
This poem embraced you so tight,

it could leave you breathless.

Few had withstood to the end,

but those are the ones who walk with a tune

repeatedly playing in their heads,

haunting them for a while.

This type of poems held you hostage

and their aroma smelled different types 

of deliciousness.

It was a plate well served

and we were villains well starved.

So the hands were washed, waters of the river,

dried, plates involved and the forks came poking,

one word at a time, silently absorbing

and silently digesting.

This poem we sung was a masterpiece.

This poem we sung was the elixir of life.

Happy Mother's Day, mama!

Happy Mother's day, mama!
You deserve it! On this very day and every other!

You deserve to smile, to be happy,

or wouldn't it make you smile,

to look back and see

that the flower seeds you watered

are grown and beautifully standing by themselves?

They are humans now, no longer little people,

they've grown from your hands,

your gentle hands of steel yet tender to the bone.

They've cushioned themselves in your warm heart,

because you've cuddled them up before,

from the day they were born.

You've cuddled them with prayer,

you've cuddled them with care..

You have blessed them in secret

and covered them with good wishes.

They might never understand the little precious sacrifices

you made for them, but they'll feel the love.

You exude compassionate energy

and the worlds accept you and love you.

For you've opened doors for your children,

and let them see it in their own eyes.

Of course, you're worried some things,

beyond your control can happen,

but you've learnt to trust the storms.

You have let them flow with the waters,

but first taught them how to swim.

You have let them go to hunt,

but first made sure they could shoot.

You have let them fly high into the skies

but first hand-made wings for them.

& today you'll hear the crowds sing,

and they'll chant praises they never say daily,

they'll call you precious and adorable,

beautiful and someone they couldn't be alive without (of course),

and they'll hang up pictures of you with them

and say the nicest things you deserve to hear,

they'll send you messages of unending love

and I want you to believe them.

I'm far away from you right now,

and about to scream out something,

and in the midst of these crowded happy cheer,

I hope you'll hear a whisper from afar,

saying "Happy Mother's Day, mama!"

because you deserve it.

We are selfish

For were it not for the constant nudge
of nature upon our own desires,
to a speculation of fires we put on
to raise the temperatures
of the icebox that is our hearts,
we would never know the bounds
we've been enchained to.
We are selfish.

The thirst in our throats
craves for a drop of water.
We travel miles in the deserts
we are born in,
to find the oasis that we deem
our destinies.. destitution.
We are selfish.

Because it thorns in our hearts,
it pricks in our wounds
to feel like the journey might have been
wrong, right before we die.
The inquisitiveness of our minds
might misdirect our hearts,
but the belly in our anterior,
is a greed to an end.
We are selfish.

And I agree that we are insatiable humans,
voracious and gluttonous to that
which is served on our plastic tables.
When the spoons come flying,
the fork becomes our weapon and the plate our shield.
Dinner is served, before the interests of others,
songs are sung solo, before the choir chimes in the chorus.
We are selfish.

And we are selfish,
not because there's pleasure in profit,
but because competition is repugnant
to our interests.
We want to reduce the probabilities
in our futile possibilities.
We are afraid to lose
so we eliminate competition.
We are looking out for ourselves,
and only ourselves, even in others.
We are selfish.

We are selfish, mostly,

for the things we hope to receive, not for how we don't give.

Not for how we refuse to share but for why there's a need to share.

Not for the time demanded from us but for the time we create for others.

Not for the intentions in other's hearts but for the selfish ones in us.

We are selfish.