Birthday Wishes Riding Upon The Waves, poem by BNN

Birthday Wishes Riding Upon the Waves I want my birthday wish to open up the graves of my dreams To make my Daddy come back and for crocodiles To have the jaws of a thousand grains of corn, So that our fear is devoured by perception. I want the skin of the serpent to change into a mirror. I want us to look at our reflection in that mirror and See that we were the predators all along. And watch as the serpent sheds off its skin. I want my birthday wish to ride upon the waves of my life To be my surfboard; so I can play with my troubles And then burst them like bubbles. I want my birthday wish to make you come to me So that we can be Free to make love on a bed of our dirty thoughts And our repentant hearts Because life has taught us that there is nothing As incoherent as desire And nothing as liberating as you and me. If my birthday wish could cure me of cancer If chemotherapy could be a party of afros and models If consultation fees went into consultation If marrying me was your highest manifestation Then my birthday wish would ride upon the waves of my life. © Bev Nambozo Nsengiyunva, July 2013

Article from Proggie UG-on BNN as author of the month

Any aspiring authors who missed the conversations with the author of the month Beverley Nambozo at Femrite are sorely at a loss. Her pedigree needs no recounting and to say that her advice is priceless would be an understatement. We have come to expect every event to start late and so we, at least I, never bother to set off on time. To my pleasure and disappointment this one started on time. People were already seated and Beverley was going on with the conversations. As a first time visitor I was surprised to see more than one man in the intimate gathering. When I hear Femrite, I immediately think women. It was a pleasure to find that the female author cuts across genders. It was aptly titled ‘conversations’ because that is what it was. Certainly some of the people present knew each other well, but even us first time members settled in very easily. Beverley shared and the audience asked questions here and there. Here are a few tips from Beverley for those seeking to follow in her footsteps but sadly missed talking to her. She stressed the need for research and more research. If you are writing a story about Owino market, go downtown and ‘breathe the life’. However she followed this up by saying respect to the characters and their story should always be upheld. In response to a question about if writers can be taught, the lady who asked the question mentioned that when asked the same, Chinua Achebe said that it really comes from the gut, Beverly said that ‘teaching’ might be replaced by the word ‘nurture’.’You should indeed nurture your craft’, she said. She confirmed what I have always believed by saying that writing is hard work and that you need to put in the work. You should find a space to nurture your craft. For her it was her Masters’ in Fine Art but it can be a writer’s club or through peer review. She shared the ups and downs the Beverley Nambozo poetry award has led her on. In its fifth year, it is the only one of its kind in the country. Although there were times she wanted to just give it up, she is proud of the results. Her formula? Determination and a good team. There are other spices that go into the end work but from what I surmised, these were prerequisite. The award is growing to cover East Africa and include men as well. As is the norm at this event, I was informed, the author of the month reads to the group. Beverly recited a few of her poems my favourite being ‘Kampala’, a one stanza piece that proves that truth can really be said in very few words. On encouraging writers in Uganda; Beverly believes the University(s) should build more programs that support writing and that writers should be paid-on that I agree. Her books are on sale for 10,000shs at Femrite, the National theatre or in her handbag, her words. The Beverley Nambozo poetry foundation is accepting entries for this year’s award. The deadline is 5th May. SUBMIT YOUR POEMS TO THE 5TH AND FINAL BN POETRY AWARD FOR UGANDA Theme: Innovation Guidelines for the award: • The theme is Innovation and you may submit a total of three poems under this theme • The award is open to Ugandan women above 18 years and who are residents of Uganda • The poems must be original, written in English and sent as word attachments in Times New Roman Size 12, single-spaced • Previous first winners are not allowed to participate • Submit poems by email to bnpoetryaward@gmail.com or post to P O Box 34942 Kampala, Uganda • DO NOT add your contact details to the poem, only the title of the poem. Instead, include your name, poems’ titles, email address and phone number in the body of the email • For more details, follow the facebook page, Beverley Nambozo Poetry Foundation or blog: http://bnpoetryaward.blogsot.com/ or website:www.bnpoetryaward.co.ug • Submissions will be accepted from 7 January 2013 to 5 May 2013 Prizes: • Fully sponsored trip to the Storymoja Hay Festival in Nairobi alongside cash prizes of 500 US Dollars, 300 US Dollars and 200 US Dollars respectively to use at the festival • Autographed copies of poetry• Autographed copies of Diaries of a Dead African, by Chuma Nwokolo, Jr.

Two Strangers: Christmas poem by BNN

Two Strangers One Sunday in December, Two strangers sat near each other in church. The Pastor talked about Salvation and hope. Then he told the church to join hands and pray. The strangers joined hands and prayed for the nation of Israel and for one another. After the service, the strangers said, Bless you, to one another, and parted ways. The next day, the strangers met in the supermarket. They both reached for the past packet of milk. It spilt on the floor and they both cussed at each other. You fool! you idiot! And they parted ways. BNN 2012

Poem in honour of Ms. Cox , long serving Gayaza High School H.M

For Miss Cox; Following the breadcrumbs of your loyalty (read by Beverley Nambozo Nsengiyunva: Gayaza 1991 - 1994)

We followed the breadcrumbs of your loyalty, from England Where stories of your generous heart filled the empty baskets Being held by girls, all the way to Uganda. We followed your breadcrumbs when we lost our way, wandering Into traps laid by the enemies of education. We held onto your wisdom When we almost drowned in the hypocrisy of humanity. You gave us a song when singing was all we had left. You showed us how to run when our feet were dressed in pain. You led us to believe when faith was never the same. Frail yet strong our hope became truth, Now we are women. Now we can say, Thank you Asante Afoyo. Beverley Nambozo Nsengiyunva Read during the funeral service of Ms. Cox at Namirembe Cathedral Kampala, Uganda, May 2012

My poem for Jajja Daddy (Prof. Senteza Kajubi)

Prof. Kajubi with his sister-in-law, Jajja Julie, Bev and Zion with Emma standing.December 2011 For Jajja Daddy They say educationists never die because that is what you were to many. I say, Jajjas never die because that is what you were to me. They say death has robbed this nation of a great man. I say, death has given me the strength to live like you did. They say you left a big gap in their hearts. I say, my heart has been filled with the need to go on. (c) Beverley Nambozo Nsengiyunva

a few poems

Kampala
The taxi park is our city’s armpit.
The roads are built like boiled spaghetti
thrown in a higgledy-piggledly pile.

Sipi Falls, North-Eastern Uganda.
Your shadow wets the red coffee berries.
You make Mt. Elgon want to blush,
Women wash their clothes in your tears.

Bujumbura
My thumbprint covers Burundi on the map.
Lake Tanganyika’s splashes cool the hot town
Poverty is a boat on Lake Tanganyika,
sailing like a boomerang.

Obushera-dedicated to Katie and Billy on their Kasiki

Obushera by BNN

I am like the porridge, Obushera.
Uninteresting, cold and limp.
You pour cold water over me
I jerk into semi-lifelessness.
You mix me round and round in your coldness
You mix me with your wooden spoon.
Just a little heat to animate me.
Smiling now, moving, excited.
The heat makes me rise
Up down
Up down
Yes… Yes…
Move me… move me…Higher higher
Faster faster
You stop to taste the Bushera
Not yet ready.
I rise higher
Bubbles of elation burst all over you.
You turn off the heat
I am now ready.

Is there Rehab for poets?

If you have been following the recent CNN feature on mental health in Kenya, like me you may have had the following reaction in this order. Shock, pity, resignation, amusement, pity, awe at the in-depth coverage, pity. It is very pitiful and outrageous that patients who feel like inmates who cannot afford the fees are made to stay in. This is a mental institution where patients(inmates are caged like the monkeys at Uganda Wildlife Education Centre but with less care and attention, and even when freedom is nigh, a few pennies short of the fee and their fate is capped with a merciless padlock until they pay up.
In response to the question, is there Rehab for poets? We are the Rehabilitation that the world needs. Haven’t you heard people saying that writing saved their life? And they say that without the slightest nudge of melodrama, unflinching like the German Minister who plagiarised his way in and out of PhD stardom. Maya Angelou’s Still I Rise is a poem whose very message creates a bed of music for the parched soul that needs to be redeemed from patriarchal, political pestilence in this world order called life which none of us can avoid. When she says, Still I Rise, she speaks of hope against all hopelessness; she speaks of the train of courage we have witnessed in Libya, Tunisia, Egypt. That train of courage along the railway tracks that gather hope, determination and steed.
This is what poetry and writing do to me. My poem below is called Jail Sentence.
Shackled to shame
Despair in the darkness
The Terror of Treason
A lifetime of Languish

A kaloli bird’s droppings
Embellish the wall
Blop Blop Blop
The music of prison.

Nothing
Heavy Breathing. My breathing.
Patterns of my punishment
Embellish my mind
I inscribe a song of silence
I inscribe adjectives of agony.
My agony.
Wailing. Waiting. Winning.
Another day.
Another song.
Lines of Liberty
A jail of joy

By the way if the poem doesn’t make sense, please don’t incriminate yourself and tell me how beautiful it sounds and what imagery. I’m an artist not a fool. Love you too. In Ancient Egypt, the walls of the Prison Kingdoms are filled with writings in hieroglyphics because writing is what lifted them from their prison. Many Christians that have been arrested in countries worldwide often inscribed bible verses because they knew that those words would give hope to the next prisoner. Your creativity is the Rehab we all need. There are some young Arab artists now rapping new songs in response to their new found and strangely exciting yet dangerous freedom. It’s all we need.

Kitale-Western Kenya

NB: This is not a picture of Kitale. I just like the pic.
For my first assignment this Lent term of my Masters, I decided to try a go at travel poems. I haven't yet got feedback from my tutor but I'll go with it. Below is a poem that was published in Unjumping, my first chapbook poetry collection. I visited Kitale in 2005. It reminded me a lot of Uganda then because of the landscape, friendliness of people and lots and lots of maize. My friend told me that the people make enough money in December to last the month and they make that money from maize. My husband and I are always looking at ways of investment. just go the way of Kitale-plant maize. It will last us from Christmas to Christmas. Kitale is rural by Kenyan standards but they have huge malls,neat takeaways and the houses in some of the places are very impressive. Anyway, below is the poem I wrote I think two years after the visit.

Kitale-Western Kenya

I took my thoughts for a walk.
The maize stalks swayed in disapproval
Of my forlorn imagination.

Kitale is for people
Not artistes.

The local chatter guided me to the market.
And I laughed as the cowrie shells
Rattled from the shelves

I'm getting published this year

Recently, I emerged second in an international poetry competition. My prize is a publishing contract and publication of my poetry in a chapbook. I'm thinking of a name, maybe Unjumping. Heere is part of the email.
DELIGHTED! Your runners-up prize will be a publishing contract with erbacce-press, publication of a 36 page chap-book of your work and six free copies of your new chap-book... we can start on this as soon as you like Beverley; I'll need the following:

A FULL snail mail address.
A title for your work.
A selection of your work (as much as you like).
A head-shoulders photo of yourself for the rear cover.
A dedication if you'd like one.
Any acknowledgements you'd like to include.

The Judges all liked your work...

My Candle

My Candle

Poem in respect and condolence to the bereaved after the July 11th terrorist attack in Kampala, 2010. Written by Beverley Nambozo Nsengiyunva


My Candle

My Candle Will Light Your Candle
My Comfort will shoulder your grief
My smile will alter your frown
My closeness will decrease the distance

I have no answers
But I have my heart, my words and my strength
The shadows of tragedy
Try to conceal the happiness we deserve
We do not choose to forget
We choose to seal our differences
With a bridge that only a heart can build
Because only a heart understands

May My candle light your candle

World Cup has everything to do with poetry.

From the opening ceremony to the most popular and least popular teams, I believe that World Cup has everything to do with poetry and nothing to do with football. The glamour of the artistes, musicians, dancers, rappers and fans, football becomes insignificant. There is no politician in the world that can accomplish the feat of gathering 64 nations from across histories of imperialism, borders of tyranny, politics of injustice and make them sit in the same stadium for more than one hour. There is no reason why a black and white leather ball redefines unity in a more rational way than hundreds of Protocols, UN meetings, Government efforts, ratifications and so on and so on and so on and so on. It just defies logic. And that is why The World Cup has everything to do with poetry. Most poetry defies logic; or does it?
I wrote this poem below after the infamous head butt of Zidane, who got the golden boot after that world cup. His career was dented but he left a memory in all of us. I’m not sure what I’ll write about this year.

World Cup 2006!

Head butt me on my chest.
Amidst all the cheers and applause!

Head butt me on my thighs.
I’ll open them for your pleasure.

Head butt me on my back.
We’ll fall and roll down together.

Head butt me on my head.
So I can score a goal with my tongue.

Head butt me on my feet.
I’ll dribble your face into my net.

Head butt me on my ears.
I’ll listen to your every fear.

Head butt me. Let the whistle blow!
Let them scream. Let’s give them a show.

Head butt me. Lose the game.
My love for you will be the same.