Pg poems

We’re living in a world where counting Covid 19 waves is our new norm The first, second and third waves over, nothing changed – people still dying. People are tired of protecting themselves against the pandemic That seems to be assassinating daily. We wear masks or still get vaccinated, but we are still fading The first hope is avoiding gatherings. But how do we avoid gatherings when our beloved leaders are the ones who congregate us? They are considering us to be kids on kid skipping ropes. They impose rules over the pandemic on us to follow, They need us to stay at home and feed them with gold, As we feed ourselves with clay. Feed ourselves with clay, then dry ourselves parading to vote for them. To vote for what they call a bright future…  All they are in need are votes to maintain their social class, That’s why they will congregate we crofters who understand that purchasing a mask a day, may make us miss a meal That’s why they will congregate we crofters who underst...

Long gone seasons, inside a shanty village, Ululations filled the firmament, The ‘nyatiti’ drums were heard everywhere, The isukuti dancers showing off their prowess, in honor of baby king. The Abarugi filling the clouds with aromatic fumes of obokima, Making the tones and sound more and more, welcoming more visitors. Rushes up and down, Everyone trying to peep through the ray dots of the grassy hut, At least to have a glimpse of the king with the golden skin. The awaited king to taint flowers in place of peoples’ scars, To cover their shame with beauty And to fill their eyes with happy tears. The Abagaka spitted sour milk onto his face, Welcoming it to a bitter world With a song of hope they sang - “Son don’t leave home as they left, Son don’t leave home as they left, A home, sweet home, A home, sweet home, Whether rich or poor is to be cherished and kept, For it is where all your treasures are kept, Son never give up on it, Son never give up on it, Though parents, g...