Lockdown silhouettes…. Limits

They brought lockdown
to put all blocks down.
People gave up on the countdown
because all churches will be down
by the end of lockdown.

How a church is built?
The offertory basket ceases
to be enough and gives
birth to the construction basket
Making the whole place like
a market, and one by one coins
Gather from hands both frightened
and free.
How a church is demolished?
Villains close churches and
suspend their fear to tear
Walls of that church….
And this starts the always
ongoing investigations.
They brought the lock down
That has “many” frown.
Uptown sells well.
Down-town tells a villain tale
but we are all going to die.
and some, will die like flies
because not a day goes by
Without hearing the children’s cry
While those who brought the lock down.
Dance to loud tunes of their snores.
no one will tell our tale
Of these faces so pale,
but this spell is ripe.
this spell trails through a strife.
A scene to tell only a few dare
Eyes meet blood clots on walls
The demolition of street malls
For not even the rent fee falls
They, who reside in sky scrappers.
Look down upon the floor sweepers
To them nothing matters
As long as the demon dollars grows them fatter.

This poetry is generation of two souls.

Kennedy Shabughangise III

Is a Writer, Poet and an English and literature Teacher.

He is also a Programs Manager of http://International African Writers Association.

A prolific Poet whose social media account blooms with Poetry that speaks of society and questions the state of man, individually, and intensions toward society and nature.

A graduate of English language and Literature from Kyambogo University


Things don’t have wings!

Wowe! wowe! wowe!
Tuffudde ffe.
abaagala okuzimba eggwanga.
Zitusanze ffe.

It’s a long walk to freedom.
A journey started off with one foot

Whether you wear boots
or carry guns to shoot.
Whether you hold the mic
and speak with spite
Or wear foot socks
Not to suffer from foot pox

Zitusanze ffe.
We pilgrimage to nowhere.
Yet hope to get somewhere
Like children playing in dust,
we roll in circles-
Tossing like rolling stones.
Climbing hills of bones.
Valley’s of skulls
Because eggwanga is built by merceneries.
Our tongues are blistered,
Burning coal-red.
Our speech is seived
Or- we seive it
Our eyes carry dust
Our mouths are stitched with masks.
Our hair erects with misfortune.

In a home, rough and scrubby

Or hands aren’t smooth but rather-

Twisted and entangled.

We are afraid of our shadows

Zitusanze ffe

Siren sounds in my mind.

Four walls stare at me.
. . . Four worn-out glares form skulls.
. . .Four torn gowns gleam grey.
Four silence in four forlorn towns.
. . .Four weeping, wails walking at a litany pace.
. . .Moving ahead by moving backward.
Is the post-feet of saving grace.
. . . battle within the human race.
. . .Drags the innocent to life- paused yards.
Aging in the age of damage.
. . . A strange season that suppresses reason.
The Prince with a blurred sight of what is ahead.
. . .Has gold, but all that fade.
The Pauper, grey hair– saves him from treason.
Sheds helpless and anguished tears.
Aging in an age of doom.
. . . As if to shield the shame,
. . .Of all the bruises brought to humanity.
Wear masks sewn with gloom
. . .The bourgeois who took part in the game
. . .Because to them, that’s sanity
Are all but gonna die!



In one of my down to earth imaginations on the dilapidated nature of the educational system of our esteemed ‘Giant of Africa’, I remembered the saying that goes thus, ” if you want to destroy a nation, start from her education”. It is on this basis that I try to envisage and visualize the reason behind the horrendous, lugubrious and disheartening situation of our country, Nigeria. This is so because, her educational system has drastically fallen to a low ebb and nothing seems to be done to ameliorate the deteriorated situations of the country. The term, “education” is defined according to the Geddes and Grosset English Dictionary and Thesaurus, as a process of training and instruction which is designed to give knowledge and develop skills. In view of this definition, education is not just what happens in schools, but also has to do with the all-round development of the…

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A woman in labor’s plead.

The woman in labor
Called out to the midwife,
Is there a way
I can save it from the agony of this world?
a world haunted by the demon dollar,
is not fit to greet it.
Is there a way I can retain it in this safe harbor
till the world gets kinder?
Is there a way I can give it a fairer chance?
It is coming from paradise
into a world of disguise.
Milk and honey, it eats
No money to feet”

It is coming.”

Responded the midwife

Invisible bruises.

The invisible bruises on our face mask
remind me of how bitter the course of the task
and the bloodshed labor they took
To free us from colonization.
Like milk from a zebra cow,
everyone is lured to purchase it.
But time topples, for we need somethin’ to eat
My neighbor was once a colony
and I a protectorate.
As the loot went flowery decorated
Now both of us are coron[ies]
and must wear a mask with invisible bruises.
We used to collect in circles around
For the coin has changed.
Our inner circle are family members
breeding the feeling of fear-
a deposit of depression.
Our hands taste bitter to reach mouth.
The waters. . .
Like gold it’s so precious for our fingers
as in our homes, life is in silent bomb
The bitterness of nothing for a bite
And a “must wear mask” with invisible bruises.
We live every moment hiding far from life.
Today or tomorrow we are all on time count.
Fresh air now travels with death.
This world is no longer away from home
but we must hold onto faith.
This might be a fate for all evil of humanity.
it’s just our sanity
So we must seek another sanctity.
For human kind to resurrect for a new sanctuary
A world free from face mask invisible bruises

Literature Genre: Poetry.

Collaboration with:

Yele Nob.

A writer and a Poet hailing from Gulu. He is a writer at http://Northern Uganda Writers Forum. (NUWFU).

A member of http://International African Writers Association.

He as well holds a bachelor’s degree in law from Gulu University.

Kennedy Shabughangise III

Is a Writer, Poet and a Teacher.

He is also a member of http://International African Writers Association.

A prolific Poet whose social media account blooms with Poetry that speaks of society and questions the state of man, individually, and intensions toward society and nature.

A graduate of English language and Literature from Kyambogo University.

Lockdown silhouettes.

Like a dog that seldom bites,
he barked spitting spite.
Hujui ni wakati gani?
Rais alisema nini?
Kwanini umekuja wakati huu?

I got caught up Sir!
I am sorry.

Mmm…..Seven finds home all[ways]

Sasa unayo nini
Au nakupiga risasi?
Kwangu mimi, hakuna kitu Bwana?
Unamaanisha nini?
Nyinyi ndio watu wanaokula unga na maharagwe ya serikali!
Haufuati maagizo ya Rais

Darkness swell[ed] scents of doom.
The man looked up and saw the moon
and wished He, “what-it-meant-to-be-free”
To walk back home without fear.

Literature Genre: Poetry

Collaborator/Word translator:

Mugay Gideon.

Is a Congolese currently living in uganda.

He is a Poet and a Spokenword artist who embraces stages using his multi lingual skills in Francais, kirundi, Swahili Anglais and Lingala.

He can be followed on his social media handles like Facebook, Twitter YouTube among others.

Colony of Mental Lockdown.

I could pretend to be asleep.
And have my eyes closed-
Yet deep inside I am awake.
My eyes are those of an owl
Wide and wild.
I feel the thump! Thump! of your heart beat.
I listen to every note of your snore.
As the stillness of sooty darkness
clouds me.
I am awake,
My mind navigates to tomorrow.
For I know , I’ll rise to another Gospel of sorrow.
The headline that morning is to read another case.
And maybe tomorrow,
we shall have a death case.
As the monster strolls another phase.
There those, from planet Earth erase[d].
It’s a mental lock down
When we think hard as a rhino’s horn.
When we question why we were born.
When we realize from inside we are torn.
Everyday is a matter of survive.
We don’t know who to turn to
For revival.
Is it the politicians?
They are too busy to think about the civilians.
They have meetings to attend to.
And budget for the Nation too
Perhaps the religious leaders.
They are too busy praying, repenting
The end times is now more than near.
Some, on tithe and offering they prey.
They claim to be seers.
Is it the doctors?
They too, are weary of their lives.
“We practically plan and god fulfills”
Is all they say.
Is it the teachers?
They are waiting for a proper pay
To add a revival subject on the curriculum.
Perhaps we turn to the West.
But already, it’s their[s] we give a test.
Where the monster came from,
We are advised to keep social distance.
And social distance we keep.
Our lives virtually seen through the periscope of media.
“Brand new second hand” is the main criteria.
We walk about with face masks
In a bid to fight against [ND] spread of the monster.
Yet deep, we know, it’s a fight against police brutality.
We resemble judges with pale white wigs
Clumsily sat in their head.
We’now watchful of our neighbor
Not to lend a hand
But to immediately stay away for fear of contraction.
It’s a mental lock down brother
Don’t want to see what eyes see
It’s a mental lock down sister
Don’t want to hear what ears hear.
The well off seem not want to bother.
Down town people cry to be free.
All of them person[s] shed tears[s]
For all of them people to HEAR.
That this mental lockdown spreads FEAR.

“No Roses from my mouth” is a reminder for you to “man up”

You are a woman
And I think about you.
Yes, I am a man
But who am I without what you do.

You mothered me
To some it is nine months
But the roots that support the shoot
The roots to this bold tree
Stand the test of months.

This day is far from celebration
It is not even a yardstick
But rather an honour and practical recognition
Of the warrior in you as a woman
To some of us
On planet Earth,
who find it hard to pick
The false from the truth

To some of us
On Earth still drinking from bottles of ignorance.
A blindness that drunken (us) to patriarchy.
A belittling monarchy.
That sits us in unsettling illiteracy.

To some of us
On Earth, despite the thirst quenched from a pot of brew of knowledge
Still choose to sit with our legs widely open
For our scrotums to caress the ground
And our penises’ hunger bound
As we hold talks
On how a woman’s office
Situates in the kitchen
And like “He”chicken
We ought to mount on them

Isn’t is such a shame?
That some males
Smoke weed of impotency of the brains

Shouldn’t we rise?
Now more than ever
And play our roles as best men.

The warrior in a woman.
She concieved you
It could have been our of pleasure or pressure.
But you were born.
You sat in her womb.
She could have had you torn.
A woman is a voice.
A voice that commands
Demands. . .
Compels. . .
Implores. . .
A woman is a song
Whose lyrics should be memorised by a man
A woman is a poem
That ought to be recited by a man
If indeed her office is in the kitchen
Then the man is part of the recipe
A woman a prose
“No Roses from my mouth”
Is a reminder for you to man up.

The endless bend on the road.

Insights on movements
Perceptions on the road.
Poetic appreciations

Two men stand on Entebbe road
Facing each other like hungry lions.
Each asserting his reason for existence.



Two men stand on Entebbe road
Their arms spread at each other
Like a spear hurled at an Elephant.
They have hidden feet of slugs
Their height shames that of a giraffe.

Two men stand on Entebbe road
And on their heads
Sits a sister to the sun
That the moon woes.


This is a short dual act between a shopkeeper and customer. The customer desires something that he is shy about to ask the shopkeeper. He therefore teases the shopkeeper.

Genre: Community drama

Type: Short dual act for community

Length: 2 minutes maximum

Actors: Majors. Man. A girl

Ages of actors: Mid to late youth

Set: Simple – an ordinary Retail Shop.

(A middle aged man stares into the shop. His eyes survey the commodities displayed at the upmost corner. Just a few seconds, a young girl in her late youthful years rises up. She wears a red veil that runs down to her chest and the rest of the body is hidden by the wooden counter table.)

Customer: Eh! Where is he?
Shopkeeper: He is not around Sir!
He left me to help him.
Customer: I want him; I don’t think you can work on me.
Where has he gone?
Shopkeeper: Ask for what you want Sir and I will work on you.
Customer: You cannot work on me.

You are just a girl.
Shopkeeper: But Sir, I have been here since morning.
I have worked on many customers.
Customer: You girl, I am not “many customers”
It is not morning.
Where is he?
Shopkeeper: Sir, I said ask for what you want and I sell to you
Otherwise, you’ll have to wait for him.
I don’t think he is about to come back.
Customer:. Okay small girl.
Give me those things.
Wrap them in a paper as well.
Shopkeeper: What things Sir?
Customer:. Foolish girl, I told you.
You cannot work on me.
Shopkeeper: But what things Sir?

(A young boy seemingly in his teenage years comes from behind the customer, He holds on his head a box. He puts it down with a sigh of relief and rushes in to pick the small box. Wraps into an old newspaper and hands it to the customer.)

Customer:. (Excitedly)
There you are!
I told her she cannot work on me and she was insisting.
Quick! get me my things and I go.
For I have wasted a lot of time here.
My appetite is soon dwindling.

(He walks away making long strides)

Shopkeeper: So he wanted Life Guard!
If it is his life he is guarding,
Why does he find it shameful to request for Life guard?
Better still, Condom.
How many of such customers do you get brother?

~ Ende~

Comedy Type:

Comedy Skits

Author’s Message
It is fine to put this script into a video, provided you let me know you’re doing so, and I get credit for it, and send me the link of the final cut! Apologies if there are any mistakes in the script I often write these late at night and don’t proofread a lot.

Experiencing Benson Benkya in the Play, CRAZY STORMS

Who is Benson Benkya?

Benson Benkya is a character in the play CRAZYSTORMS.
This is a Play written by a popular Ugandan Playwright and Actor Mr. Phillip Luswata. Ben, whose sir name is Benkya is portrayed as a love smitten young man of 28 years old. He comes from a prosperous family and has lived a papamered life
The Play Crazy Storms is a melodramatic drama that invites the audience to witness a spectacle of both laughter and pain, identifying yourself mostly with the character(s) experiencing its emotions of sorrowfulness combined wonder. You find yourself sympathizing with some actor(s) as they narrate the story on stage, at the same time you find yourself at the threshold of withdrawal from that feeling as the actors reveal their true colors and intensions in the Play.
Set in a refugee camp, the Play rotates around a woman of twenty six years old. Sharon Barungi is her name. She is an attractive woman, and a former owner of a salon. She has seductive and colorful choice of dress. It is her whom all other events come about.
The only female character and actor in the Play and on Stage respectively, the rest are male. And with this, we see the power of women and the control they have to affect activities and more than two men within a circle
As Ben, I am love smitten. I am reported to say, “you don’t have to continue stating in the camp if you don’t want. My mother sent me an email from Nail”
In the bid to express my feelings towards her, with hope to win her heart. With a burning desire to have her as my one and only woman
She responds to me, sarcastically laughing “you are not my type! You understand Benson! Let it not be said that when problems came calling, Sharon ran off with a young boy!”
This breaks my heart. In all my endeavours, was looking forward to winning her heart.
The rest of the men express their feeling towards her. Throughout the Play, it is only Maneno who seems disinterested in her. His only desire is wealthy acquisition from Munduki Samson Clementi. A forty five year old. He hails from a financially challenged family. He faces hard times and once owned a restaurant.

Deputy Babadi later expresses how he has taken long without making love to a woman because of the situation. He lives in a house over crowded with his wife’s sister and children and…

Deputy Babadi, known as Dominic Babadi Kasokoso. He is a thirty nine year old. A teacher.

He is sex starved. He masquarades so many professionals so as to win Sharon.

He begs Munduki and me to leave so he can wine and dine with Sharon.
The first of its kind, it is in this Play I have acted in my life where I get on stage and only leave stage at the end of the Play. Literary, I open up the play till end. This is quite a challenge, as one has to think about the audience and also thinking about doing something new every now and then to keep the audience hooked on to watching.
At the opening, I appear on the stage riding my pimped up music. Listening to reggae music. Wearing my multi colored cap, g my head to the music, dread hung out loose. A flowery Hawaiian shirt gives me the look of creativity.

Upon packing the bicycle, I move around dancing. My attention is suddenly grabbed by the scene of Sharon’s underwear hung up just adjacent to her knit bed.
Asides is where she sells warrajji and jerricans visible by the counter. With several glasses and beer bottles. I am mesmerized looking at the under wears hanging up.
And this sets up and forty five minute production on stage. As an actor, I have to marry my life with a character. I have to reconcile with who I am and who the Character is.
Each and single day, I look for alternative of how to sail from one character to another but most importantly I look for grounds where I can maintain and sustain my personality so as not to appear as somebody else in the eyes of peers.
Actors, we reflect times. We are mirrors, as a mirror, you reflect so many faces.
How do you live by that?
How are you able to do it?
Do you remain a mirror after a reflection or you become what you have reflected for the rest of your time?

Play title; Crazy Storms.
Playwright; Mr.Phillip Luswata
Director; Muluya Juma Pj
Acting as; Benson Benkya


Friend; so, am I speaking to kitaka Alex or Kitaka Alex in the character?
Me; hmm! What do you mean?
Him; it is just that I may be speaking to the Kitaka Alex who is in character.
I capsize in a sea of flabbergast. A torrent of questions serpentine into my mind.
Is this how far it gets?
Does being an actor mean you lose your identity? Furthermore, does it call for you to be looked on as “someone always somebody else” among your peers or relations?
As I am writing this, it is a Sunday morning. 6th October 2019. I am excited for this is my birthday month. And according to Egyptian Astrology, I am ISIS my beneficial color is white. My soul is devoted to the clearest of quests. I am a supreme messenger of life. s
I am still dressed in my pajamas, I am sited on a green, three legged, plastic chair and typing. The light from the desktop pierces my eyes; however I win the war, and put on my spectacles Music plays on Sanyu Fm. My recollection is that this is one of the early radio stations in Uganda.1993 a year to my birthyear.
I am bothered at the fact that, it plays the music from almost the same playlist. So I can predict the next song after song after song. Pretty boring I think. I connect my phone via Bluetooth and play reggae roots. Bob Marley’s original version song “No woman no cry.”
It is this ambiance that blends with the still air in my sitting room. Despite the drizzles, the sky is clear, clouds white like a baby tooth.
This triggers me to share my thoughts on Shades of an Actor living in the moment
The moment for an actor is to live, but it far beyond living, but ability to truthfully live under a scenario. Life is not a one face scene. It is not a uniform rhythm or a song. No man or woman does things the same way he did them yesterday. Since the epoch of time, the sun has never shinned the same way it did yesterday nor has the rain.
All the world’s a stage and all the men and women are merely players” by the popular English man and greatest playwright there is William Shakespeare.
Technically, we are all actor. But for one to be called an actor is one that adopts and narrates a story as it is by a character.
An actor spends entirely his life living in several moments, most importantly, He is one ably to live truthfully and marry his or her life with several moments.
Therefore, an actor dissolves in a given character. The actor gets swallowed. The actor gets into several relationships. An actor cohabitates. He walks down the aisle. An actor walks a thousand miles and before he knows it, he has gone back to the past; He is one living in the present and searing into the future. An actor is one who commits all sorts of immorality. You are at liberty to sway on whichever lane you desire.
The mirror of society has reflectors who are actors.
The implication that as an actor, you must be in position to approach several aspects of dread in your life, the weight of other characters lives. It is this spark of boldness that cements onto your life as an actor
What is the position of an actor? How does he or she marry his life with the life in the moment?
This is loading. . .

Breeze of Depression.

Depression Longings. Aloneness. Love within. Lights Darkness. Noises.

Twilight blows his horn.
Dissonant sound
disorganising my eardrums.
Traffic becomes a pilgrimage of slugs.
The crowd, like bees buzz
And no one looks face to face.

A mood, once light
Like season of harvest.
And paced up like birds
Returning to nest.
Now silence makes a fuss
between him and me
and him and them
and them and me
and them and us.
Suddenly a gush of melancholy
and a volcanic mountain of words erupts

The breeze of depression







It is a band of woodpeckers
Lights that once glowed bright
sat on my pupils and reminded me of the days of “The River Between!

Breeze calm. . .
Sound of a horn plays
tunes in assonance

Traffic smoothenes

But the crowd is not bothered

Luck bestowed,

for the lake with shores,

The breeze changes course

The breeze takes a leaf

Depression follows

Eyes gather the strength to meet

to look at another of their kind

And only you is around

With a bouquet full of love.


A tale from a dreamer. . .

Perhaps It is a question of point of view. Which is individualistic. Or perhaps it is that- expected out of you because majority find it so.Or because society has branded it as the way to go.
How possible is it for consciousness to sit on the same table with the material world? Eat and drink from breakable plates and cups respectively?
The existence of consciousness, how firm is it , in expressivity of this it’s inherent flow?
I think it as an illusion.
But in thinking so, I pause. . .If it is an illusion as I think, then I have to exist. These among other questions exhaust my body, mind and soul with so much anxiety. I scratch my head like a chicken beaten by the rain.
I am a complete loss to attention even when someone is speaking to me. Amidst the crowd, the noise, the un-settledness, I seem stuck in a nest of loneliness. I forget to lay my bed. I don’t do my homework. I forget to iron my clothes and polish my shoes. I can’t learn my lines in drama.worse still, I fail to live in the moment during a given rehearsal period.
It creates so many challenges in my life. My Director says: ‘You could do this .’ Or: ‘You could easily make that character But you don’t care enough.’ I have been to beaches of solitude. Pampered myself on a meditation lane. I have swiftly sailed on a wave lane of positivity. But never a diagnosis. They just say that I am a dreamer.
A dreamer in a world which is unsafe. A dreamer in a world that does not entertain dreaming. A dreamer in a world that always beats dreamers. A dreamer means child. So I need to become an adult. I need to grow up and do material things. So that I am stable. So that I can buy a plot of land one day and get myself a wife and produce children and make a home. So that I am not just trapped beneath a bridge—thinking these thoughts. Pondering about and visualising.
But who knows how hard finding that energy is? Before I begin I must know if life is absurd. I can’t live in an illusion. I want to be in the moment. I want to be mentioned. I want to be a tree and stop admiring it. I want to be lucid. I need that assurance that I am doing things for a reason. That I am giving out energy for a reason.That I am a continuation of a template that was once and is and yet.
If death is the end of all this– and nothing but emptiness after that– then it’s a terrible problem.
But is it?
It would be better to not exist than to exist in a world without meaning.”

If I could, I would. . .

If I could,
. . . . . . . . .I would sail with you.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .I would carry with me all my belongings.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .And leave without saying goodbye.

If I could,
. . . . . . . . . I would be the clouds
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . On which you walk.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I would feel the warmth of your feet.

If I could,
. . . . . . . . . .I would be the day.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..And I would welcome you in such a way
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Water is given room at the bay.

If I could,
. . . . . . . . .I would be the night.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . I would keep all stars quite
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . For you to sleep safe and sound.

If I could,
. . . . . . . . . I would be the leaves.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . And feel the gentle touch of your hands.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Then arise forth like a newly born smiling.

If I could,
. . . . . . . . .I would become an eagle.
. . . . . . . . . . . . And soar high in the sky
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Just to give it a try
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .To get close to you.

If I could,
I would become the earth.
So that I feel your essence all around me.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .If I could,
. . . . . . . . . . . . .I would. . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .If I could,
. . . . . . . . . . . . .I would. . .

But I am only human.
With a bleeding pen in my hands.
A leakage of emotions from my heart.
Sometimes, I burn the midnight oil.
Just so, I am an owl.
What has a chameleon
that I don’t have?
My dreadlocks purchase high wit
Like a bat,
I suck for knowledge.

Eaten up by Anger

When you drink from a pot of anger

You swallow hot water of danger
Even the fire that kissed
The bottoms of the pot,
Burns with pity
All springs of gentility are missed
For anger hits the exact spot
That goes against your wit
when the clouds of anger
Descend upon you.
You loose your mind.
Things that sting deep
You say in haste.
Your actions shame your consciousness.
The poison spread in the mind.
Leaves behind trails of destruction
Senses stolen
Raising expenses.
In the darkness
Hatred is all it expresses.

Anger looks like an empty bottle of liquor.
It resembles already used chaffs of millet
It smells like diluted kerosene.
It is a decidicious man

Seeing sun. . .

As the sun creeps over the hill,
Over buildings gazing in a maze
Carrying with her a basket
Of solitude
Yet amidst is multitude of faces.
Amidst is an unhappy darkness

Crimson rays of solitude scattered by bird songs.
Golden as they highlight the leaves
Trees shake, some quake and rustle with the evening breeze
Clouds lesser white than cotton make skips across and on the sky
Each and every new dusk is quite exceptional when nature wakes and speaks.

Echoes from a foreign land…

Report on a strange dream received. Excerpt from my book of dreams

Once upon a time. . .
When the waters formed streams curving and were
confined at the back of slopes of mountains
full of life. . .
When children danced naked in the rain
. . . and brothers and sisters sung in the sun
. . . and fathers and mothers flourished
. . .and the fields bloomed green
From a distance,
a thing was heard
philosophical a sound.
It let loose demons in the course of its melodic parody.
Compeling humble spirits to servitude in a bamboo shrub of lonely men
inhalation of nastiness through thier nostrils
Fumbling with exotic lyrics of melancholy
. . . Sickening to the ear like a mosquito whisper
. . . Stinking to the nose like a yawning egg past its prime hatch.
. . .Symphonies of famished children in Nakivale
A mysterious kind of diarrhea

When a group of cockroaches perverted the justice
. . . and order of fair governance
. . .and nurtured disgust in the hands of fore fathers.
Bush doctors digging up cowrishells and confusing charms.
greedy lighting rods in the heaven hand of Mukajanga.
Pointing towards the East in search for some buried knowledge among the stars
A seemingly serious kind of pain torturing the humble rhythm,
Of the waters streaming.
Leaving it in scars.

The Rose in the garden.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .You are the red rose I saw in the garden
You are no older than a maiden.
But graceful as the grasses that flourish
. . . . Twilight
. . . .
Your face glows with a radiance that speaks of wild flowers
No baby’s tooth is as white as yours
Even the moon on a dim lit night
Stand in awe. . . . . . . . . . . . .

On forgiveness as seen through the eyes of the children

The game of race where who crossed the line first won. Usually there were two people people at the finish line. Opposite each other and holding a rope.

I grew up from an extended family on the maternal side. Grandma and Grandpa had managed to put up rentals, and therefore the whole neighborhood was a swarm of people. Among them were children. Children my age bracket then, we would play all sorts of games which sometimes ran us into penalties for failure of doing house chores or sometimes, we missed taking lunch from our respective homes.
But more so, we used to get mad at each other. Not once or twice we got into heated arguments which culminated into fights. Not once or twice, we swore after a fight never to be friends again, but that never happened. Not once or twice if the fight was at the feast of dusk, the crack of dawn found us playing together. Our anger used to be fierce at time. We got overwhelmed at times.
When children get mad at each other, their anger can like that, and even much more. Because they are learning to experience and deal with hurt. But they quickly put it behind themselves and come together as friends. Friends with no lingering animosities among themselves. Friends with no grudges. Friends with no concealed ill intensions towards anyone.
This is because children live in the moment. Their lives are not governed by what happened time ago. What happened yesterday does not impede their interaction with one another; it does not get in a way of their fun. They still play anyway.
This is what happens. When we grow up, our lives become less and less about the now and more and more about the then
We dwell on negative events in our lives and lose the ability to forgive. Our bodies grow up but we lose the childlike place in our hearts.
We forget the children we were, and instead of living in the now, we swing in-between the yesterdays and tomorrows
We should all embrace forgiveness as a philosophy of life. And in doing so, we must embark on what it means. Forgiveness is not just a sacrifice one makes to rebuild a healthy relationship between a parent and a child, a husband and a wife, and brother and a sister, between spouses or communities and Nations at large. It is beyond. Forgiveness is not just the practical means of preventing physical and emotional harm un-forgiveness wreaks. It is beyond that. Forgiveness is not just a way of embodying ones spiritual beliefs. Or being religious. Or pleasing the ancestors. it is beyond all that. Forgiveness opens our hearts and allows us to be better human beings
Each and every single one of us can reach a place of forgiveness, because we have all been hurt and we are still getting hurt. Being hurt gives us an opportunity to forgive. As difficult as it is, it is possible and once it is embraced. It becomes second to nature. Where negativity and anger once took up residence in our body, mind and soul, we instead find acceptance and peace.
As a twenty five year old, writing about this, over these years, I am learning to nurture forgiveness within myself. I am inculcating it in my way of life. I equate forgiveness to a flower; a flower grows and blooms when taken care of, when it is watered and planted in nutritious loam soil. Forgiveness is a flower which must be nurtured to grow.
Nurtured through good manners, kind speech, honesty and consideration for everyone. Empathy, with this and more, forgiveness ceases to be a sacrifice but rather a philosophy of life.

The things I did not tell you mom dearest

do you remember
the girl called shakira
whom you used to call
The daughter of your tenant
The tenant who stayed opposite a house
that looked like an antique skull
and bore windows similar to eye sockets
with a doorway that was a foyer into a gloomy tunnel
You told me that house had ghosts.
That it was a grave.
In that house
shakira and i
ate the fruit
and swore
never to
about it.

Why I am a creative facilitator and not a teacher?

“So, Kitaka Alex, Apart from being a Poet, what else do you do?
“I mean you need to earn a living don’t you?”

Me: “I am a Creative Facilitator”
“Wait! A creative what? What is that?”

Such kinds of responses- I have got used to. At first I was befuddled as well. Imagine me now. After time, I discovered that am a Creative facilitator. Imagine the process of having to explain to someone each and every time I am offered a job opportunity. I have actually come to love explaining to people what creative Facilitation is. In a way, it gives an employer the idea that I have knowledge on what I am s going to do. He as well entrusts me with the job, well yeah, if the employer is receptive
The creative Facilitator,
Listening voice and seeing eyes

Facilitation is entirely focused on creation of neutrality of a facilitator as he or she works within groups, through this, a facilitator is one whose focus is on aiding groups explore an issue and processes of collective work to find a solution. The creative part comes in through the using of art-based techniques. Or an endeavor to use creative ways to work in a group. Creative facilitation deals with processes that are relatively not long lived, because major group work is done by analyzing an issue in a given setting and working on It using the solutions collectively generated. These solutions are either enforced practically or orally through the arts-based techniques.
Therefore a Creative facilitator maintains a role of neutrality outside academic hierarchs and independent of disciplinary activities, whereas, A teacher is one who teaches. Predominantly a teacher is one who instructs. There are orthodoxy ways things are done, considered right or wrong.A teacher is in charge of instilling what is instilled in him as the only thing(s) right, what he considers right and what he wants you to give him as the only right thing(s). And this has affected the unleash of creative exploration of thing(s) from personal perspectives in the lives of people right from a vulnerable childhood state all the way through life hood stages.
Creative facilitation/Teaching.
Creative facilitation is the use of arts-based techniques as a means of delivering learning or finding a solution for an issue. This delivery of learning may be through subjects like geography, history, social studies etc. The objective of Creative facilitation is to aid understanding and learning and solution discovery through collectively and creatively working hand in hand. It is participatory. Where by both the facilitator and the participant/learners are involved in the process/lesson. The facilitator does not just instruct from without but is one with the learners. In this case then, Creative Facilitation brings sensitivity and awareness of one’s environment. It helps in self identity with the environment. It is used in teaching other subjects. Uses role play and assimilation as part and parcel of the process. In Creative facilitation, delivering of learning is learner-centered while in teaching, learning is teacher-centered. The teacher is considered to be the all-knowing and the participants/learners know nothing while in Creative facilitation, the participants/learners are considered important in the learning process; they contribute to it. Creative facilitation, the learners are partners in the learning process. The teacher on the other hand simply deposits knowledge in the minds of the participants/learners. Creative facilitator operates at the same level with the participants/learners whereas a teacher is all powerful and uses force and punishment in all relationship with the participant/ learners. The teacher uses traditional methods. Uses talk, chalk, answer and question, group discussions etc where as a Creative facilitator uses role play, dramatization, improvisation etc as methods of teaching. The learners in the traditional mode of education are looked at as empty vessels while the learners in Creative facilitation participate in every activity of the class/process.
Creative facilitation offers participants/learners with an opportunity for independent thinking and planning. Each member of the group is encouraged to express his or her ideas and they contribute to the whole process. This further helps the participants/learners to develop teamwork. When a group builds something together, social differences are forgotten as they share ideas and solve an issue. Participants/learners get a chance to release their emotions through the participation and hence get emotional release which allows learning to take place. For example if the part involves emotions like anger, fear, resentment. Pain. Etc. it as well enables a free play environment which leads to discovery and awakening of abilities and talents of the participants/learners.
Creative facilitators can be teachers but not all teachers can be creative facilitators; however worth credited is that both help in language acquisition, concentration, response and reaction.