I have carried the load of mixed signals Been bruised swimming against the unsteady tides in their lake And for this I bear a scar to remind me Words I adore and heed to when said by mouth I practice today the ingenious lazy stoic art of feigning blindness to all forms of sign language I will miss the point when you suggest marriage by tidying my nest and leaving your pearl earrings on my night stand I will saunter by clue-less when a blushing you,  guided by your wisdom, giggle and wink at me, expecting me to guess I will stare in vain surprise at the silent treatment For silence is easily misinterpreted not misquoted Infact, a sorely tale sings of how, in a sour twist of signal blending I once mistook concealed love-filled coyness for mockful disdain And mined scorn once the care fermented stale into bitterness So I beseech you to say what ought to be said For in showing, a lot is lost in the loud colours of the busy backdrop It is recklessl George W Kiwanuka

Besides that hard concrete pavement, where the new city flowers thrive They collected what was left of her, packed in a blood dripping black plastic body bag Hurriedly bundled onto a garbage truck so as not to stain the freshly washed police van The tarmac was hard scrubbed to wipe away her obliterated beauty 48 hours after her thick red blood had seeped through the light layers Into the earth’s eager open mouth The drunk motorist who had transformed her into a road kill statistic was on the wrong road side when he swept her off her feet Always having lived by the narrow right path, her end echoed her school years often punished with the naughty despite pleas of innocence, Death had fetched and defiled her from the right side of the road that scorching hot Tuesday evening Death had caught her in a hurry, back from church counselling Rushing to her son’s school to collect the child, bearing news for him elated at the news that he would soon have a sister

Futile Quibbling

You don't have to worry yourself about nothing For fruitless concern is a barren dry gully well We groan, wail and chant into bloody exhaustion and only attract bored mockful  chuckles 'the people' are busy and only accessible for foreplay bothers Others have had their hands shredded and made to croon while at it It is refreshing to party on borrowed time You don't have to hardly think about nothing For you are not the first to fall prey to a con Beguiled, you naively gyrated, planned weddings and discarded your loincloths to surrender it all in response to their dalliance intended flirts The 'reps' were just teasing you So....we'll blame your gullibility You don't have to talk about nothing for speech is as futile a chore as collecting noon bathwater in a sisal-woven basket You'll discuss, sing, moderate, debate and attempt to sculpt 'the ideal' even bathe in virulent dollars to host talks and symposiums Frown and wail n

Copyright, neighbouring rights and art in the Ugandan perspective

News of the tragic death of Ugandan star Moses Sekibogo (Mozey Radio) that February morning found me scrolling through an online David and Goliath tale of a young lad who had embarked on a legal battle against a giant broadcaster. He alleged that his TV show treatment proposal had been stolen when he submitted it in hopes of employment. Imagine his alarm on seeing the station that had promised to get back to him premiering a ‘new show’ bearing his concept under a totally different name with a celebrity host. He is just one of hundreds of creative people who get their intellectual property stolen to enrich others. The deficiency of aggressive copyright jurisprudence has continued to stand between the royalties and revenue that the estate of this young singer would have been earned and the sad reality that without concerts, the financial future seemed bleak. American superstars Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston were able to posthumously pay off all the immense debt they were in at th

Cryptocurrency Exit Scams; Red Flags You Should Look Out For.

There is a growing mix of excitement and anxiety over the emergence and growth of cryptocurrency popularity in different countries around the world. Uganda is no exception. The internet and press is awash with stories of individuals who have mined and reaped big from the trade enough to lure new investors to this ‘digital revolution’. However, the same media is filled with tales of other less fortunate investors who have lost their money in ‘exit scams’. A number of questions and concerns have arisen out of the complex nature of cryptocurrency. How does one protect themselves from falling victim to fraudulent exit scams? Is there a way to spot an exit scam from a genuine cryptocurrency trade?   Is it legal and crucially…with no central regulatory authority how are exit scam victims remedied? This article focuses on exit scams in cryptocurrency and how one can spot one and protect their money from fraudsters. What is a cryptocurrency? A cryptocurrency is a digital or virtual

Oil and Water

By day, the sharp streaks of scorching sun deeply slice through our skins-but not our souls folks hiss and slither side by side Yet glide after stride,blow after hug Sinner stands apart from saint, black flows sharp  from white and the righteous condemn and curse the damned With the long awaited relieving cover of dusk, the comfortable blanket of night spreads in its path an odd honest spell of lycanthropy A metamorphosis of white and black into familiar  cocktails of grey We juggle and vanish our halos for fitting crowns of thorns At that holy moment, there is no need to decant For oil and water seep separately no more George W Kiwanuka @Georgewkiwanuka


The fear of death is obstructively futile That cold numb night as you lay bleeding in the ICU, gasping for breath Feeling lighter and lighter - almost floating As the monitor beeps, you see a faint image of your kinsfolk Staring, embracing – hugging tightly In the absence of the proverbial gentle breeze, Their sobs and wails concern you not For its pointless to brood over what might have been You ponder about your pilot to the ‘other side’ Is it Walumbe [1] who has wrung the life out of you? Or a sword bearing angel of death atop a dark horse Do you traverse a tunnel at whose end a light awaits? Or stride into an initiation fete with ancestors to await appeasement as an ancestral spirit Honoured with spilled drinks [2] and consulted by descendants for counsel Have you earned the right to eternal rest? Or will you unhappily roam and haunt the earth settling old scores? Occasionally creeping from your dark grave to Venture onto streets as a sheep