Monthly Archives: April 2014



The hearts beating; weary of the rumour of the night

Eyes squinting; fearing to close to the sight of darkness

The body cringes clinging on the tussle looking for warmth –if any there is

The streets of our land have turned the graveyards of our souls- hear on our land

We smell the stench of our own because we’ve denied them a burial- there

Piling all there; there on one another rotting.


We’ve turned imbecile as we vulnerably watch at the tearing and fading of all life living

We’re vulnerable in our nation, because we can’t stop fighting each other.

We’re rotting in our nation

Rotting in our living


The rot!


We sold our souls to the gun

We live to survive only on the run

In our land to the whiteman we turn

We are the brothers of our enemies

Yet we should be the healers of our nation.


Our dear neighbours kindly look on

As we slash and mash each other

Our brothers watch on the side

As we collapse on the verge

You all witnessed the treaties

You all celebrated the young nation

As a nation for the generation

Walk the talk



The end of my love affair with Bubbles O’ Leary’s

Hater with Humour

I happen to be a contributing editor for a magazine called The Expat Guide. My boss had called letting me know that there was an event going down at Bubbles O’ Leary’s, and would I be able to pass by and write a few lines about it? I told her I couldn’t as I had a date with friends.

But when 8.00 pm found me in the area code, I decided to pass by and have a peek. There were about two females and two male guards at the entrance. As I was about to open my bag for them to check it, one male guard snapped at me:

“Gwe Nyabo! Oyagala chi?” (You woman! What do you want?)

Astounded, I simply stared at him.

“I’m asking you! Who do you know inside there?” he growled, in Luganda.

“Why are you talking to me like this?” I asked him…

View original post 1,713 more words



So he called us to the front and ordered us to go with to the battlefront. We took our guns to go and raid the magistrate’s home. The man had escaped and left behind all his property. Very valuable property! I couldn’t stand Amin in the eye. I quit.


These Words

I won’t write of these things you want me to. For, in the name of writivism, writing has suffered a lot of criticism.
Writers of the word have turned fighters of this world.
In a bid to establish a writingocracy of sorts, the rights of writers have been troden.
I choose then to write of the ideas that make me me
I choose to free my mind.

All I am

and me- yes me
in the presence of all the world
for all that comes as word
here all lies – forgotten
all out of hardwork- begotten
i’m consumed by the chasing
-chased the world
only caught the wind.
now I lay broken.
All I need is be remended
Thats all I need