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Oula Willy Poem
It’s always a man like me
In the mind of donors
Because of my punctured tyre.
My name has become a title
To many charity works
And organisations.
My face is an old cloth
In the eyes of many doctors
And nurses.
I am ever tipsy on the road,
Always looking drunk
Without sipping.
This is why I can’t meet
My future dreams—
Because I am still chasing
My yesterday’s dream.
I can hear in my mind
The voice of a beautiful woman
Calling me for a dance.
The children too are begging me
To teach them soccer,
While my friends are waiting
At the foot of Mt. Rwenzori.
If morning sun comes
With God’s blessing,
Then I pray I receive mine
Before anyone could,
So that my punctured tyre
Can be glued and pumped
Back to its once-hidden path.
Copyright © Oula Willy | Year Posted 2025
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Oula Willy Poem
Tick-Tack, Tick-Tack, Tick-Tack
There is no corner to get stuck.
You may pause to get a snack,
But again you hear the Tick,
Soon followed by the Tack —
Like Tick-Tack, Tick-Tack, Tick-Tack.
Money clinks to this rhythm,
Bodies wet and dry.
Faces smile and wrinkle,
Tears drop and dry
By Ticks and Tacks.
Pain comes and goes.
Trees dry and rain falls.
Wings cease to flap while
Realities turn to distant memories.
Like Tick-Tack, Tick-Tack
Children become parents,
Parents become kids,
And hearts stop their beat.
Days and nights run back to back.
The rhythm turns them to weeks, months, and years,
Steadily turning our ages to gold —
Like Tick-Tack, Tick-Tack, Tick-Tack.
Copyright © Oula Willy | Year Posted 2026
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Oula Willy Poem
He knows no night or day;
no future dreams dwell within him.
His is survival—nothing more.
He wakes up early to supervise
the street activities,
hunting his treasures in bins.
At least a bite would silence the talking belly.
His hard work is not worth a penny;
he can’t negotiate with an empty belly anyway.
So he’s ever willing to make a mountain
just for a plate of food.
As the night gives rest at everyone’s door,
he is always forgotten, for he has no door.
His head is ever open,
yet occupied from the inside
by toxic liquids and drug smokes.
This is the only state of sleep he knows.
His mind, shattered by the cruelty of nature.
In this condition, he patrols all the streetlights
in just a night,
looking for free items to add to his store.
Thanks to his arrogance and fast speed,
it’s either fight and take or grab and run.
Survival is what matters to him,
not the injuries or the beatings.
This is the street where he belongs—
the most beloved home he has built
from dirty boxes and stolen rugs:
a home no one sees as home.
Copyright © Oula Willy | Year Posted 2025
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Oula Willy Poem
The rainbow covered the sky
In the open night,
While the moon gives
Its smile to the
Figures dancing beneath
Its light.
A million miles of memories
Are connected
To the hopeful dream
Laying ahead of us.
With diyas lighting every corner
Of the streets,
The temples glow to cast out evils.
The smell of sweets runs
From family to family.
Under the swaying balloons
And flying lanterns,
Tribes become a family
Offering puja.
The children bow with
Excitement
To receive their parents’ blessings.
When light conquers darkness
In this hopeful night,
Lord Rama’s return to Ayodhya
Is witnessed.
His victory over the demon
King — Ravana — is proved,
With music playing,
Families sharing with friends
And strangers,
While Lakshmi prepares
Wealth and prosperity
For her children.
Copyright © Oula Willy | Year Posted 2025
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Oula Willy Poem
What would you do
if you turned a new page
on the past,
and it begins rewriting
that moment?
What would you think
if yesterday’s song of victory
is suddenly replaced
by emotional cries
and vulnerability?
I slid down the pavement of history,
where the marks of freedom disappear
into the cyclone of neo-colonialism,
and I hear only one word:
“Our land is poor.”
I hear other voices telling their people
to dig through my spine
because I am rich from the inside.
My people shout and brag about the weather
and the riches I possess,
yet they are blinded by the beauty
of others.
None of them wants to use my wealth;
they exchange it for a handshake
and a single stick of cigarette,
followed by a disguised smile
wrapped in jealousy
on the foreigner’s face.
I left my level and climbed the mountain
back to the foot.
I placed a mirror before me
and saw a black, shining reflection.
Maybe this is why I am Africa,
or perhaps it is the reason
my people admire others so much—
the reason I am being sold away.
Every people must love and protect
their own,
but my people’s love and protection come
only when I am beaten and outsmarted
by others.
They do not value the tears
that run from Lake Victoria
to the foreign lands
of the Mediterranean Sea.
I cry for the life of my people.
Copyright © Oula Willy | Year Posted 2025
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Oula Willy Poem
I take you in like water
to quench my thirst and pain.
I breathe you in like the air
that keeps my lungs and pulse.
I couldn't resist
leaning on your shoulder
and feeling the warmth of your chest.
My feelings were in a twist,
flying in the land of nowhere,
before you insisted
on mending my broken pieces
and creating a new world
inside my walls.
Copyright © Oula Willy | Year Posted 2025
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Oula Willy Poem
Under the shade of intense light
I sweat in the coldness of heat
and stand in the presence of those
who could not see me.
I wasn't guided nor kissed.
The blinding light could not show
even just a shadow of me to them.
I wish one of them could just
hold my hands and rub my tears,
or they could all see where I'm coming from—
if not at least where I'm going to.
They should at least have seen
how hard I have worked just to get their trust.
I needed their faith in me, but even
“thank you” was too much for them to give.
If only they could walk with me,
I would not be crying.
At least someone would see me
and say, “Thank you.
Copyright © Oula Willy | Year Posted 2025
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Oula Willy Poem
I left my home for the nation.
My wife stood cold at the door,
Counting my footsteps as they diminished.
The sounds of guns
And rumbling boots
Followed by the roar of innocents
Calling for mercy —
They were calling me to war.
My mother’s tears roll
To wash
Any harm away from my path.
My family misses me
Even before I set my
First step,
But I don’t need their sympathy,
Because the rain must fall
And the grasses must grow.
Flying bullets have replaced the birds
In the sky.
The sounds of guns have taken over
The trumpets.
Butchers are closed,
Yet meat is scattered everywhere.
The night sky is filled with running lights,
And the sleepless children
Make toy guns
From a few banana stems left
To scare the flies
From rotten flesh and wounds.
Every school has received
A permanent holiday
After graduating immature warriors.
The hospital is too short to reach —
Bullets will always be first.
Doctors dissect corpses, not humans.
All are hidden
In their new homes
Under the new dry grasses.
The nights are more crowded
Than the day,
But I walked through this.
I raised my loaded gun
And forgot the count of my bullets.
I turned it toward my fellow countrymen
Without dropping any tears,
Not remembering any face.
I must have shot in the direction
Where I left my wife and children.
I must have pointed the barrel
Toward my mother’s face,
And she just managed to escape my rage.
But I am a soldier anyway,
Who must always lead,
Carrying the flag of this great nation
Till the flowers begin to grow.
Copyright © Oula Willy | Year Posted 2025
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Oula Willy Poem
She knows every step, and a turn
gives the direction of the day.
Every twist in her mind should be straightened
for the children to follow
without stumbling.
She is a widow, dancing to the way of life.
The mark of her pain burns and runs
down her face to wet the old, dry land
that once gave her a reason to live and smile.
She nods her head from left to right, again to left,
back to right, again and again, whenever
she hears the voice of her crying children.
Her little ears are always open,
taking in thorns and honey, while her rough palms
remain forward and sway towards the rain and dust.
The widow dances with her children,
spinning around with them towards light and darkness.
She bathes them with the tears of her innermost happiness—
the holy water from the heart of a single mother,
which can wash away the pain of hunger and sickness.
Her empty kitchen has no rats,
but she kneels down daily to count the plates
and divide them by the number of heads
under her wings—only if she has
managed a few beans in a pool of soup.
The widow spreads her wings
to cover the children; she’s the protector,
the ambassador of the family.
Her voice is her children’s,
and her tears are their pain.
Copyright © Oula Willy | Year Posted 2025
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Oula Willy Poem
Here everyone dreams,
Hearing no one scream.
Hopes flow like a stream,
Hearts kicking but no deal.
Just the normal feelings,
The normal life.
The better stays in the dream,
Dreams playing from within,
Reality fleeing to the abyss.
A good look at yourself,
Your dream is described.
Like the mouth,
Too big,
Too loud,
Too many problems.
You are not the only one dreaming,
Others are screaming
For that same dream.
Flies dominate the world,
Gathering useless things for free.
Just a few honey makers
Stay and build together.
Beware of flies,
Remember their lies,
And know they will die
In the grave when they try,
Or pit where they fly.
Take a little bow,
At least to ages,
If not those offices.
But basically,
Look to the sky, knees down,
And say your words,
For heaven gives the world.
Check the road,
The thorn at your feet,
Stumps on the way,
Or the holes
Do not stop the heartbeat.
It's nothing to crash on a rash.
A faster stream splashes on the rock,
A steady one finds another way.
So lead your way
And be brave
Copyright © Oula Willy | Year Posted 2026
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