It's Easy To forget by Surumanzi Manzi-published in A Thousand Voices Rising

IT IS EASY TO FORGET …

When you are alive
It is easy to forget that you will die
Or even that death actually exists ...

Beyond wreaths, caskets and cemeteries encountered seasonally
You cannot feel the sting of death anymore...

You believe such things to be reserved for ‘others’ ...
The unwanted step-children of gods who did not exist anyway ...

When you are young ...
It is easy to forget that you will grow old,
That you will lose the smooth texture of skin,
Or the milky white of your eye ...
That your beautiful black locks of hair will grey one day,
and your heart will grow weary with lack of ambition ...

You forget that one day,
You will lose the spring of step ...
And the innocence of youth ...

You will lose the liberty to dream dreams,
and a lifetime to chase them ...
You forget that you will someday be bald, bent and bitter ...

When you are healthy,
Well, sane and strong ...
It is easy to forget the pain of illness ..
The physical pain ... and the mental pain,
the anguish of immobility ...
The dread of impending death...
And the insane lusting-after life itself ...

When you were born in Kampala,
It is easy to forget the deprivation of a rural childhood...

When you were bred on buttered-bread and frozen-milk ...
It is easy to forget the hard corn-cobs welcoming the toddler in Moroto
to yet another day … everyday …

When you are perpetually conflicted between beef and mutton for dinner,
It is easy to forget that thousands of fellow citizens have been constantly unsure of their next meal from the day they left the womb ...

If the toughest riddle in your life has been choosing between Budo and Namagunga for your high-school education ...
It is easy to forget that 70% of the nation‘s children will never have the chance of knowing the meaning of the boring word ‘black-board’ ...

When you are alive,
It is easy to forget that you will die ...

When you are safe, sound, fat and pampered in your gated & manicured sub-urban home ...
It is easy to forget that the masses of Ugandans ‘out-there‘ can only manage half the night‘s sleep owing to incessant battles with mosquitoes, bed-bugs ... and stomachs grumbling from emptiness ...


When you are young ...
It is easy to forget that you will grow old ...
And, SURELY, you will die ...

When you are young,
When all you think of is girls and boys and toys,
A good job, money to spend and a life to live …
It is easy to forget that your country needs you …

That by sitting all day and wishing of good times …
By refusing to partake in efforts to right society’s wrongs,
You are plainly betraying your country …

When you are young,
It is easy to forget that by not speaking for justice, and writing for justice, and walking and marching for justice …
You are effectively as guilty as the corrupt of robbing public funds …

As guilty as those parasitic politicians,
Of killing pregnant mothers due to absence of medicines in our hospitals …

As guilty as the reactionaries,
Of selling the soul of Uganda to foes yonder …

It is easy to FORGET



Solomon Manzi,
Lantern Meet of Poets
Uganda

A Thousand Voices Rising poetry anthology:
Copies in Kampala available at The Uganda Museum.
In Kigali, available at Ikirezi bookshop and Genocide Memorial Bookshop.
In Nairobi, call +254 722 790479

The Careless Cook, published in A Thousand Voices Rising, order your copy from www.bnpoetryaward.co.ug

THE CARELESS COOK
The pot is boiling, boiling
And boiling to spill over
But you don’t know
Because you are a careless cook.

James Dwalu, Liberia

RUKUTURA/RED-POEM BY PATIENCE NITUMWESIGA,

RUTUKURA

kammyasyamyasya
kammurinkanya
ka'goondagoonda
keiruka.

kammurusyamurusya
ka'yetoroora
ka'shwarashwara
keiruka.

keirukanga
ka'muriinkanya
Ka'barabaruka
Keiruka.

Tigwaaba mugyera, bakanaabiiremu
Tigwaaba murabyo, bakaagutiinire
Tigwaaba muriro, bakaagwotsire
Tizaaba na'nsiriira, bakaazakize.

Kaaba rutukura
Kaaza burihamwe
Keijuza empaanga
Keiruka.

Babeiha ngu nikabi
ngu keine n'oburofa
Beiba ebyaako byoona
ngu tikeine buganzi
Baarya ebyokurya byaako
ngu nikagura zingahi
Bakireeba kaahwayo
ngu nikeenda obuyambi

Haza kataraaka
Katyo kaaguma
Kaacura kaaborooga
Kwonka kaahunama
Keiruka.

Ka'shondashonda
Ka'tonzyatonzya
Kashataguruka
Kaayebaziira
Keiruka

Ka'toonyatoonya
Kayetereeza
Kaayecureeza
Kaabaha amagara
Keiruka
Enfeerwa yaako bakigishumbusha
Ngu eshi nikatungwa ebyabusha

Patience Nitumwesiga
Uganda

RED

It twinkles
It glitters
It's frail
It flows.

It flashes
It wanders
It blushes
It flows

It runs
It glistens
It sparkles
It flows

It isn't a river, they would bathe in it
It isn't lightning, they would be scared
It isn't fire, they would sit by it
It isn't sparks, they would light them up

It is red
It is everywhere
It fills up valleys
It flows

They lie that it's ugly
and say it is unclean
They rob all it has
and say it has no honor
They eat its food
and ask for its price
And when it's broken
They say it needs help

O it scatters
Dear me, it endures
It screams and yells
Yet it remains silent
It flows

It picks all it can
It grieves
It explodes
It weaves its pieces together
It flows

It drips
It gathers its grip
It humbles itself
It gives them life
It flows.

when its loss is compensated
they say it thrives on favors.

Patience Nitumwesiga
Uganda

Better At Dawn by Barbara Oketta

Better at dawn

When all is silent and the rhythm of the night takes control
And the whisper of your hoarse voice penetrates my being
And everything else does not matter
I say, better at dawn.
When the Chirrup of the birds
Is as distant as a dream,
And your embrace as cajoling as a baby’s stare.
And my hunger for you as desperate as a sneeze,
I say, better at dawn,
When the children are dead asleep
And the maid’s snore fills the house
And the neighbors’ dog
Provides the distraction-
Better at dawn.
Not in the morning when the cups and saucers clatter
And the fear of the school bus
As alive as dawn,
Or lunch time, when the sounds of the keyboard fill the space
As the boss shouts ‘today is the dead-line’
And there is hardly time to sing,
Or in the evening when the family is bustling
And the 9 o’clock news fills the T.V room
As the children run and unsettle everything
Knowing that family time is an unbroken tradition,
I say better at dawn
When the world is frozen
And the rhythm of our bodies much sweeter,
For then, only at dawn
Can I dance to our music?  

Barbara Oketta
Uganda


Published in A Thousand Voices Rising. Buy a copy in Kampala at 20,000/- during the 13t Februaru reading and get wordy cakes for free.

OEDIPUS REX: POEM BY ROTIMI BABATUNDE-PUBLISHED IN A THOUSAND VOICES RISING

Oedipus Rex: The Comedy

Daughter…

Listen:

Once upon a time

a cat

swirled like an iron vortex

whirled

as it chased around a narrowing spire

Curiosity’s tail

But Curiosity, the cat-killer, also swirling

was stretching for the cat’s tail

was looping around the vortex

tightening like a noose.

A requiem for the strangled cat,

(For dawn hangs nude the buried wombs,

the broods of gall and – ah! – screaming wounds).

Was I Medusa?

Was I Medusa reaching for a mirror?

Daughter, sister…

Listen:

But once upon a night

I was the billy goat humping my mum’s rump, our mum’s.

Until dawn dropped down – a conjurer from the east –

Scooped up the night with his hat of rays.

From it the goat jumped out a man – I.

So I was Orion.

I was Orion in night’s woods hunting for dawn.

The goat was the father of the man.

The man will be father of the god.

(For nine lives the cat has,

Nine stairs soaring to the stars.)

Have, child, this sacrament – my outplucked eyes.

Use them as spectacles in my memory.





Rotimi Babatunde (Winner of 2012 Caine Prize)

Nigeria



This poem was first published in Nigerians Talk.

Fun and Fun at #Ake2014

Yejide Kilanko , author of Daughters who walk this path and Clifton Gachagua , poet.

These photos were taken by various guests at the Ake Festival.


The Ake Arts and Book Festival 2014 was tremendous. Lola Shoneyin, the Director and to the wonderful team, what can we do to help out next year?
All the nights were short except the first one, with a 3 hour bus ride from Lagos Airport to the June 12 Cultural Center. The Air conditioning and open door matatus alongside us, with conductors standing astride, did not make the time go any faster. They were just a reminder that Nigeria is not Uganda. Also, everyone drives a new car. What’s that about?
It was obvious from the dinner that first night that God created so many fine looking people and said, “They shall be called writers.” This festival was not for the faint at heart. No one’s steed could withstand that. No Sir. The heart flutters and betrayals notwithstanding, the festival was at the crest of literary power in many ways, possibly the synergy of publishers and their authors, feminists and past Presidents (Former President Obasanjo was there) and the poets on their dance floor. The connectivity was scattered and yet absorbed at the same time.
The film, October 1, directed by Kunle Afolayan and written by Tunde Babalola, was an incredible platform of traditional and cultural beliefs, the many faces of National and personal independence and more deeply, sexual abuse against children. The film had lots going on and some can arguably edit out a few scenes but it was overall an intelligent piece of work that has positively changed my opinion of the Nigerian film industry. It’s a film with universal appeal, which grossed 300,000 US Dollars in five weeks and Netflix also contacted them. It’s a good thing.
School tours: In groups of about five, we all headed to different schools for, well, a school tour. My fabulous team had Jekwu Ozoemene (how can you not love this banker with the abs), Adenike Campbell –Fatoki, author of historical fiction, Thread of Gold Beads and the always friend, Richard Ali, who has and continues to be a tremendous support to BN Poetry Foundation. We visited Gateway Secondary School, a public school about ten minutes from the June 12 Cultural Center. The literature class in particular-such confidence in knowing what they wanted to achieve in life, quite amazing. I knew what I wanted at 29 years, I think. Visiting schools is important so that the students get a peek into the various alternatives ahead of them, the creative abundance of choice.
Mutation and Mutilation: Feminism in Africa. A well-thought out panel with Bissi-Ayedele Femi, founder of African Women Development Fund, Iheoma Obibi of Intimate Pleasures, you all need to drop by, Zukiswa Wanner, Molara Wood, Nomboniso Gasa, Ayisha Osori, Edwige-Renee DRO and Ukamaka Olisakwe Evelyn. Bissi, an unapologetic feminist, explained that it’s about mutual respect. It’s not about destabilizing marriages and just because women are born women, they should not be demeaned.
Later in the day, I had the pleasure of launching A Thousand Voices Rising, an African contemporary poetry anthology, produced by the BN Poetry Foundation. Several of the contributors like Rotimi Babatunde, Abubakar Adam Ibrahim, Richard Ali and Clifton Gachagua read their poems. Fubaraibi Benstowe, shortlisted poet of the BN Poetry Award 2014, read from his piece, Orukoro Dancer.The launch closed with autographs and a recitation of Ssebo gwe wange. Different reactions each time.C

It’s impossible to highlight all the awesomeness of Ake. Call Mr. Robeson, the one man act produced by Tayo Aluko was phenomenal and energetic while historically deep, performances by the remarkable Bassey-Ikpi with multiple meanings of identity and feminism, Kei Miller-Jamaican award-winning poet, Efe Paul with his political piece, Chijioke amu-Nnadi,  author of several collections, Jumoke Verissimo, Dr. Dami Ajayi-it got real in there, especially poetry dipped in palm-wine.
And while we all strut about from one session to another, the most talented photographer and artist, Victor Ehikhamenor, showed us his exhibition, The Lion’s Lair, photos of Prof. Wole Soyinka at his home. Honestly though, I would love to read Victor’s secret photo diary, the photos he keeps for himself. Vera Butterbusch, German photographer, likewise revealed interesting shots of various Nigerian social landscapes, like the Masquerades.
What’s a literary festival without a dance party and swimming? We laid it all out there. The music called and we responded. How else could we show our appreciation to the Ogas and first ladies that had put such a great event together? It was a bevy of rams on spit, tangled feet, hands where they shouldn’t have been and sweaty sweaty sweaty bodies. Prof. Rem Raj, President of Association of Nigerian Authors, celebrated his birthday just after midnight as well.
And the ghosts at Continental Suites didn’t follow Lizzy Attree the Caine Prize Director, or myself, to the swimming pool that last night either. Heck! Maybe they couldn’t swim.
by Beverley Nambozo Nsengiyunva