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.
Categories:
jerrycans, africa, deep, destiny, discrimination,
Form: Free verse
In the
closet
of our
hearts
lies
hooded
jungle
of
sinister
acts
waiting
to
kindle
the fire
of
wickedness.
What
intoxicates
the
mind of
men to
incinerate
infant
dreams
pollinating
in the
garden
city of
death?
Like
barbecued
beef
meant
to be
served
at the
banquet
of
visiting
official
loiters
and
looters
of oil
currencies,the
jungle
hearts
rain
arson
rain to
drench
the
lives of
the
foursome.
In this
throes
of
scarce
petrol
jerrycans
of the
hoarded
spirits
lost in
the
bellies
of
subdized
fat cats
conducted
the
feast of
horrendus
death
Categories:
jerrycans, adventure
Form: ABC