Collops of Fat
Collops of fat line the tables of the few,
while the many stretch hands toward empty plates.
Skyscrapers rise in the capital,
yet in the villages, children bend under jerrycans,
walking miles for a sip of muddy water.
The economy grows, they say—
percentages polished and paraded—
but the growth is stored in vaults,
not in classrooms with broken desks,
not in hospitals without medicine,
not in the pockets of the farmer who tills red soil for nothing.
Every election season,
collops of fat are dangled like bait—
T-shirts, soap, envelopes,
promises swollen with grease,
but never nourishment for tomorrow.
The youth, restless, crowd into boda stages,
degrees folded in pockets,
dreams reduced to dust by unemployment.
Markets overflow with speeches,
but not with buyers.
Streets fill with posters,
but not with jobs.
Uganda’s wealth pools in corners,
thick, congealed, unreachable.
The nation limps,
while a few grow heavier, rounder,
their laughter echoing across gated compounds.
Collops of fat—
the evidence of excess,
the proof of imbalance,
the weight carried not by those who eat,
but by those who starve.
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