GEORGEViLLE

You don't have to worry yourself about nothing For fruitless concern is a barren dry gully well You can groan, wail and chant into bloody exhaustion and only attract bored mockful chuckles and rehearsed pity 'The elders' shall be too busy for all except foreplay related bothers They shall be aroused by the anguish of your hands being shredded as you croon You shall learn to find it refreshing and thrilling to party on borrowed time You don't have to hardly think about nothing You are not the first to fall prey to a con Beguiled, you naively gyrated, planned weddings and discarded your underwear to surrender it all In response to their absent minded skillful flirts, wrapped in flattery They teased you, indulged you for pastime entertainment To blame your naivety and gullibility is even less pointless You don't have to talk about nothing for speech is as futile a chore as collecting bathwater in a sisal-woven basket You'll slowly learn to also discuss, sing,

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

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

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

In the deceptively quiet backdrop of intense winds, falling rustling leaves You clutched your rosaries and  bibles in grim silent fear 'Shut your Eyes' 'Don't peek or speak'-divinely echoed internally The clack sound of bone and wood against the dorm floor availed your cue You repented and said a silent earnest prayer for instant sleep Recalling Muwanga's horrid prescient natter Earlier in the bright sunny secure blanket of day The uninvited terror thirsty night guests - ghastly apparitions carried with them slappy treats for the naughty boys and much too often made off with their valuables to the obscure world beyond Woe unto he whose curiosity tricked him into opening his eyes, Legend had it that Kakalabanda liked such rebels most and often carried them away never to be seen again. @Georgewkiwanuka *Kakalabanda is a popular urban myth in Ugandan traditional boarding schools. It was the name given to a ghost which allegedly visited dormitor

I am going to wring you a heartfelt ballad on a dry old note and cage it in a dimming glass bottle I'll pour out my unfeigned hopes and fiery desires Toss and set it adrift the lake I'll hope that you dig in, inhale and partake of the thousand dreams and memories imprisoned in the fading glass dungeon I am irresolute with feelings a thousand feet tall thwarted by open sores from spewing and affirming them So I'll lay back and envisage you...your thin brown fingers cracking open the bottle bathing in the liberated plaudits and sunbaked laments of my soul I'll send you a message in a bottle, and...wait for you to come  rescue me, For I am marooned on a defeatist desert island Gloomed and smothered by ambivalence without a ship in sight @Georgewkiwanuka

Today, in the oblivion of night, I will knit you a golden noose to match the golden chalice from which you've supped and inebriated yourself with our blood whilst we bow It will be perfumed and laced  with a ritzy fragrance kissed and wrapped in Egyptian cotton to suit your opulent lofty relish The noose shall be woven with expensive thread from Spain and infused with a bit of arm and leg, embroidered with your initials Cleaned and dusted daily so it does not crease Lest we forget, we will dye it with what's left of our blood only it will not matter...we will not remember So long as the noose is a tight fit for your fine neck. George W Kiwanuka @Georgewkiwanuka