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Poem

Closed eyes
Lashes interlaced
Closed mouth
Lips tucked into each other
Pale face
With no emotions
Upper limbs
Straightened at tension
One on either side
Lower limbs
Motionless

Byamu lies on his back
Dead
Stone dead
Swabs of cotton wool
Stuffed up in his nostrils
In his ears
In his rectum
Two and twenty years
And he has outlived his short span

I saw it coming
When he sat by the door to Keshato's bar
Morning and evening
A bottle of mwenge-bigere at his feet
A cigar clutched between his dry lips
And an expired condom in his fury wallet
I knew he would not live
To recount his own deeds
To seat his offspring by the fire on a cold evening
And hurl (g)olden stories into their ears
And watch them thrive
And grow like grass
To repeat the life he has lived

His are a people
Whose minds are stuck in the past
Whose minds are clogged with ridiculous ideas
Whose minds are thirsty
And dark
For lack of knowledge
His chest shall be split into two equal parts
His flesh, served to mourners
Tomorrow at the funeral
And his bones? 
The dogs are chanting a thanksgiving
Thou shalt waste no meat

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