GEORGEViLLE

The ghosts of my lost dead children call out to me…every now and then  These ghost children desire to play  Their lively playful chuckles frozen in time… Oblivious of today’s concerns  Trapped in the past joys of their days,  They know and care not that in these cloudy murky days,  Endless toil is the natural accompaniment to breath  And that a minute lost in the sunny embrace of nostalgia is a whole handful of life-giving peanuts lost!

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 reckl...

In the backdrop of intense winds and outside rustling leaves,  You clutched your rosaries and  bibles in grim silent terror 'Shut your Eyes' 'Don't peek or speak'-echoed internally like divine law You froze to the clack sound of bone and wood against the dorm floor  And lost faith in the cross you had drawn on the suitcase squeezed onto the side of your bed You repented and said a silent earnest prayer for miraculous instant sleep. You instead recalled Muwanga's horrid prescient natter on these creatures Earlier in the bright sunny secure blanket of day The uninvited night violent 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 those who curiosity tricked into opening their eyes, Legend had it that Kakalabanda liked such rebels the most and it was said that he was certain to carry them away never to be seen again. @Georgewkiwanuka *Kak...

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

I saw her again, I laid my eyes on that beautiful passionate volcano Regret and nostalgia almost overwhelmed me for I missed her the sparkling gem of perfection that had warmed my cold lonesome life with heat and joy replaced my dark thoughts with boundless content and sensual adventure An angry flame that never quite run out of love I was a hateful ice block intimidated by her ember and smolders disarmed and threatened by her happy free spirit A burning flame of desire, she was a conflagration she tore me with her nerve wrecking force and knocked me over into a colourful bewildering cocktail of gratification and longing sealed over legal jargon and scorching vodka she was this enchanting spark that would burst into a consuming energy whose touch and kisses sent me into ceaseless trembles I am....was possessed, out of control high on catalyst, off-guard and fearful the fast speed ruptured us as well as heat and cold go I was ice and she was my fire...while the cind...

Callous candid recollections plunge my now n yesterday self Flashes of past lives  pleasure and torment me my demons stalk, possess me conspiring with loneliness in a dirty liasion to choke and drown me into subdue I moan with dark uncertainty and peak in passionate consummation with danger dance-skiing on knife edges, courting and caressing grenades,triggers kissing the hangman's noose in playful hobby trading for  brief intimacy with comfort & content Nay, I reject the bittersweet blues of nostalgia I denounce the consuming need to answer and explain to pledge to 'concerned' folks to let me trek my path granting me orgasmic fulfillment in the drugs and poisons of my choice. By George W Kiwanuka @Georgewkiwanuka

Decades ago, in the jungles not irreconcilably far from here We, downtrodden fauna of the woods, gathered Wrapped in a patriotic spirit we identified a leader, youthful intelligent dog he would stand on and out as a revolutionary... the messiah to bark on,scaring away the hyenas they that had lost their way, plunging us into disease and ignorance-immense lack and doom The dog's role was to bark and scare away the hyenas then lead us to light, prepare the jungle for a new hope-filled world to clean the stump throne on the clearing the throne that alien lumberjacks had earlier created Aliens we had expelled and banished We danced away in jubilation when the revolutionary canines struck and sent the hyenas packing-'warming' the hunt for a while They scorned and scoffed at us-the hyenas and warned us of the addictive contagious plague of its indiscriminate manner of devour politricks Alas, for years as we absent-mindedly danced off to the sunset our dog n...

The dailies beared it actually-screamed it with scorching eagerness the murdered professor's horrid torrid tale silently slain by callous cut-throats slaughtered returming from Sly Pleasures Lodge Eulogies told of the perfection he desired in his essays-one of a kind The kind that even he could not quite explain Save in the comfort of his hotel room or the back seat of his Volks that blood stained leather held many secrets His vigil was a masquerade Flanked by a harrased army of female student 'weepers' Momentarily pausing to take selfies The overt absence of grief became the subject of anonymous rumours Gatecrashers stayed present...to bear witness and mould a folktale to tell tommorrow's youth A firm, generous and affectionate teacher colourful grades were scripted on routine passionate nights between his coarcively warmed sheets A stern judge, he weighed the futures of many youth expunging the clueless he deeemed unworthy with late night exam...

Tease me now about my fleas Mock me now about my still stale stock Stress to gloat over my strain and misfortune Laugh to my face about this phase being a permanent place I hope your self assurance is rooted in some insurance of sorts I leave it to karma to teach you trauma to chain your mockery and vain flattery or nurse your stained ego Fate will unmask you, for that face you wear will tear for its plainted in very faint shades.... George W Kiwanuka

I stared into the cold chapel across the casket Caught glimpse of my expressionless lifeless body lying still in that huge varnished wooden prison seemingly floating in a sea of hypocritical flowers and wreathes all my power and millions irrelevant From a distance, bewilderment served me  blows at the few people who sincerely mourned me I saw the futile efforts to feign grief They tried to lie, in vain, but their grins gave them away Deception presided as folks concocted good inexistent memories of me I saw them all scheming for the vast property and legacy I had left I scoffed at this, for the cut throat politics I had taught them would be their death I saw my family infiltrated, contaminated by greed My wives, raised to be sisters, plotting each other’s demise My sons laying it bare in air tight bloody war, their sisters picking sides A preference to spill their own blood to divide the dirty wad of cash I had left like spoils and booty from a conques...

Don’t look at my face I abhor being in this place dread that it’s not a mere phase Jailed in this maze I cry for freedom…escape Hesitating though  at the thought of the cost Lust and tempting kisses chain me here so wrong yet so addictive  Doom impends over my head claws of death reaching out to clasp me Marked by my own…like Iscariot’s kiss of death Quivering and quickening at every sound and bark I lament of my ghosts and demons They that day after day cast nets To tear and drown me The skulls in my closet anchor me down  like a weight tied to a drowning man’s limbs My feet are slow, knees and limbs numb My lungs ache, defeat is calling Demise’s dark veil flying towards a doomed me Pity and despise from all the sadist witnesses I give in to futility and accept reality The Inevitable  End      George W Kiwanuka      @Georgewkiwanuka

I braved the grave scorching sun squeezing through the cocktails of folks and lads my mission was simple and pure To violently plead for an explanation From the loud demagogue at the podium demanding why five years down the road He’s returned to bask in the same unfilled promises as last Silently praying for answers My thirst to mete judgement was unquenchable-insatiable Looking at his lifeless eyes I planned to question about the wax that had successfully sealed his ears from  hearing the dying hungry’s cries during his tenure I failed to decipher his eyes from his heart and mind Immune to our wails yesterday, today he sang promises of self sacrifice He was the promised son he said…the long awaited Messiah Better schools, medication in hospitals, better pay even flawless 'kolansi' roads As I hungered for signs of shame from him, his obvious oblivious ՙabsence՚ hit me his body was there, but ՙhe՚ was in another realm-a glorious paradise A realm whose real...

I used to always be left speechless whenever I spent time with my nephews on visits to their home or the countless times I was left to babysit them whenever their mother’s schedule kept her away for longer hours than usual. These boys’ reading culture always worried me. In a bid not to sound hypocritical, I don’t expect a child to be citing Okot p’Bitek or Desmond Bagley at that tender stage but to want nothing at all to do with non-academic reading is a terrible seed to sow for our children and future generations. As African parents, we have to set aside the western parenting techniques and direct our children in the direction we want if they are to cope with the day to day problems in our world. Our problems as Africa are not the same as their (the West) problems. My Torts professor likes to joke that the West lives in the Disney channel mode where angrily barking at one’s child could attract a law suit while we are set in the hard less more real National Geographic mode. The rate at...