The writers are convinced they will write
The lovers are convinced it’s love
The Beach Boys are convinced it’s theirs
The ocean doesn’t care
Neither do the donkeys
I shall call you Horacio-my Mexico
After the long-haired Spanish speaking gentleman;
Mexico-I implore you. Let me call you Horacio
You rubbed balm on my Uganda ness
I gloated over others who paled against me
Your sombrero blushed as my hip glossed over the pyramids
The water fountains spurted tequila as we fluttered by
The daunting Palacio de Mineria followed us towards the clothes market
30 pesos for you Horacio; 5 pesos for me
3 hours shy of Kigali
The gorgeous visage of the populace
I succumb to my vanity.
Doodling like an overpaid journalist
So tell me about the genocide?
The ugliness of my interview mars the University Woodland
I peer at the pines
Right on the graves
The sniffer dogs decide
I am unworthy of their time.
My budding dreadlocks relax
Under blondey’s armpits.
I stir to the bathroom
Peculiar gawks from a woman.
"I’ve had a long journey."
Her response - a stiff exit.
My dollars cum Euros
Clogs and chocolate are
My visas for a safe return home
Posing like African magic
I feel wasted.
Tourists cling to their egos
Animal statues mock my feeble pockets
The water slide carries the screams
Of spirited infants.
I scream too
At the ice cream that has stained my last Rand.
Kingdoms and dominions-romanticising black wealth
Lies in saying no
In Sun City.
Mamba Crocodile Farm
80 and counting
Snapped at the hand that fed him
The v is silent
It stands for violence.
A trimester of empty promises
Larger than croc’s jaws.
Big Daddy watches
As fifty tiny crocs feed and grow
The fifty ministers of his kingdom.
His children sit on the throne of Bid Daddy’s nostril
To grab at the chunkiest pieces of meat
The leftovers feed the 28 million populace.
Freckled legs in roller skates
Firing water guns at the tramp
Kissing lips and kissing lollipops
At Thorpe Park.
Sun-tanned babes line up for a ride.
Mittens for overcast times
Nervous teens chewing their nails at the underground.
Graffiti-Terrorism is a hoax.
The cold fought for my attention.
It blurred my vision
As the golf ball landed at my feet.
The cows stared at me for so long.
I envied their tits
Covering mine in shame
I went to White Horse Inn
To eat eshabwe
Gold Reef City
The man with the gold bar calls me.
I run and bump into a statue.
My obsession with muggers chokes me.
The peacock in front spreads out its crown.
I bend down and touch the real gold.
Wild in Jinja.
Untamed love at the Nile source.
The birds fly away
Before I can catch them.
A hammock for the fearless.
A trilogy of faith, incomparison, tomorrow.
"This is your home,"
I placed my ears
To the hard ground
As it welcomed me.
And the circumcision crowd
Knocked me down in their haste for manhood
I took my thoughts for a walk.
The maize stalks swayed in disapproval
Of my forlorn imagination.
Kitale is for people
The local chatter guided me to the market.
And I laughed as the cowrie shells
Rattled from the shelves
A tourist caught a salmon.
The ocean spat out salt in fury.
As digital photos reduced the salmon
to a statistic.
It almost fit me like a glove
Before I entered into the heart
I heard a widow’s faint cry.
A grandchild ran to rummage for food
Bujumbura is too big for me.
Traces of UN patterned the dust
My eyes grew sore from gazing into reality.
Dar es Salaam TANZANIA
Scorched by the heat of Kiswahili
The coast is dressed in bitenge
Tomorrow I will catch Nyerere
Before they recolonise us.
Sipi Falls, Kapchorwa
Dried coffee guiding my trail
The cold hills warm my cold heart.
Sipi, make me wet
Like the mountain behind you
Make them envy me
That travel to see you.