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!