Saturday, December 1, 2018




Your righteous disorders
Break my heart;
Cowards are brave
With guns in the hands,
In your bleeding ancestral lands.
You once blamed the white man,
For auctioning your black children,
In the plantations of overseas,
Down the Mississippi River,
But at this moment of silence,
I bow my head in crying shames,
And salute your bright follies,
For you can't weep nor feel;
Your heart is blunt and numb,
You can't feel your own shames,
You can't blame yourself,
You who call yourself
The Mother of all Mankind,
For selling your own children
Down the running Nile River.
I am ashamed of you calling me
Your beloved cultured son.

Your righteous evil
Gouges out the eye of humanity.
You brave cowards!
Cowards are brave
With tools in the hands.
The world is a webbed cage;
We're mere flightless birds,
With shortcut wings,
With unheard birdsongs,
With blunted tongues:
Only unheard echoes of dirges.
The bond of the nations
Is impotent like castrated bulls,
And can't fertilize a single peace;
All she does best is sit back,
And watch the new faith
Of modern slavery
Trump over the guiltless humanity.

Your rising darkness
Overshadows me
With clouds of heart pain,
For the bullets in the heads
Of children, men and women…
That's what cowards do!
Strong men don't fight wars,
But against wars rather,
Not for injustice,
But against injustice...
Where are your men,
With pairs of buttocks on their chests,
Who fought against the scramblers?
Where are the men
With thick heads and hearts,
Who stood still and looked
Apartheid in the eyes
And loudly and boldly said no?
And where are the brave men
Who returned the cultural loots
From the white man's land?
Are there no more brave men
With such chests, heads and hearts
In this land of black slavery?
I stand tall against your wiping arms!
Africa, if you are my mother,
Then don't call me your son anymore.
Your name is my crying shame,
Your remaining children are assassins,
Power hungry and money thirsty;
Your human markets are full
With human commodity.
Your back-wounds will never heal,
As you preach life but kill.


The pearl still bleeds well,
The futile flag still flies
In the gun-smoked air;
Crawling and weaning
From aftermath colonial breasts,
They said a baby that stands
Could now be given hard foods
Like bones and nails to chew.
The false teeth fall off,
But the pearl still bleeds well,
Flag still follows the cross,
And the head that wears the crown
In the womb of the realm,
Counting his hundredth birthday;
Puppets still play the clowns.
The pearl still bleeds well:
Technical know who
Overshadows technical knowhow.
Chest bones are still visible
From thousands miles away;
They still pluck the guns
To play the mother drum
As they lick the national cakes
Flowing down the stems
Of their overeaten hands.
The pearl still bleeds well;
Refugees in camps are okay
With the meager meals a day.
Nothing to worry about here:
Let the world look the other side
Like they always do
When fires of slavery spark off here.
Let them not worry at all;
It is just the beauty
I read in their faces
As River Nile flows back
To its source in Lake Victoria.


Five foolish virgins, once upon a time,
Sent to dry grains, to dry wet grains;
Five foolish virgins wisely did combine,
Spread the grains, couldn't see the rains.
(Couldn't see this could bring some pains)

Cloulds, dark and pregnant, soon came,
Grains on the bare rocks, the girls with some boys,
The rains came with furious sword and flame,
They played hide and seek, sowing seeds with toys.
(Fish love, blind love! O little coys)

The eldest of all had the strongest voice,
A voice to make all play far way;
The little girls had but no other choice,
But to follow where the corpse would go play.
(At the end of the day, we all must pay)

Off to play, out to play, little fellows,
With those heathen cowboys, young and gay,
Friendly matches — matches in death-rows,
We little'uns gotta lot of games to play.
(One frog spoils the whole water source, pray!)

Rap! Rap! Were the legs of rains on the grounds,
Washing grains for food far away.
Tap! Tap! Were the rains with silly sounds,
Wetting grains of girls in the broadday.
(Since twelve O'clock, the girl still did play)

Ngio! Ngio! Were the grains on the bald rocks,
Dried enough, brittle, to be collected,
But these rains cut like the teeth of mattocks.
Rok! Rok! Were the rains, soon started.
(Two O'Clock, the girls still well played)

Pat! Pat! With their long snakes of ropes,
Little good girls still skipped so high,
Their heads touched and troubled rainsdrops
From the blankets of the world in the sky.
(Four O'clock, the good girls still skipped by)

Wak! Wak! More incessant rains soon begun,
Still good girls in the rains played too much,
And back forth, they couldn't anymore run,
O these rains, nothing could ever touch!
(Six O'Clock, good girls still played in a rush)

Tac! Tac! Hailstones soon started to pour,
Cold like death, they really did fall,
Striking to startle someone to remember;
O Akumu soon remembered, reminded them all.
(Too late to hurry; grains gone to rains call)

Down, down, bend down, virgin girls;
In your Calabashes, in your woven baskets,
Pick the wet grains before the nightfalls;
No Calabashes? No baskets? Use your pockets.
(No pockets? Rush back home like Newton's rockets)

Good girls, run before the end of the rush hour,
Mother's pacing like her house's burning;
Run to the best of your youthful power,
Chase the day! Keep your worlds turning
(Till father's fury and fire stop burning)

Empty handed, Kwet! Kwet! The girls returned;
Except Akumu, they'd all got a dirty trick:
That some bad boys their baskets overturned,
Some bad boys, like monsters, ugly and black.
(Sleep with your mother-in-law under water, bubbles strike back)

Father's got lies-tester, he couldn't believe,
Whip swung in his right hand, ready to swish;
`Little minds do little deeds,` mother gave him a relief;
She wanted his fury and fire to be off-switch.
( Mother's love plays big games in the fury pitch)

Here, father's fury and fire boiled greater!
Little virgins, we're all players at best,
But for your mother's pity, you'd see whip better!
We all must admit truths for the sake of the jest.
(Duty at hand,  hands on duty than the rest.)

Go gentle, father, go gentle and cozy;
whips don't whip out the wrongs.
Wrongs, like spilt milk, can't be collected, worse when tipsy.
Hear me, Akumu, hear my wounded songs!
(We overdid overdose of our rights for too long.)

Father, forgive us, just go gentle;
Mother, I take refuge behind you, speak for us, speak!
We met some good demons with cattle,
And really overplayed that hide and seek.
(Little did we know our mud-walled house over leaks.)

We met devils face to face in the wild;
Promised to marry us after the sweet taste,
But our hearts now yearn for more, wilt with guilt,
Because the devils surly won the test.
(And here, lost sheep stand to embrace the bitter taste.)

Yes, little girls, the devil really tempts,
But, you see… to be tempted is not to sin;
Only you wrought my heart with contempts,
`It is written` would have made you win!
(Once the angels sin, twice the devils win.)

The devil tempts feeble hearts and wins,
But mother's love wins twice with forgiveness.
Father's heart, a chasm where fire oft burns,
Soon is healed by a touch of loveliness.
(When fire catches water, fire dies.)

Go, my invirgin girls, next time be careful;
Don't die for your unknown desire:
Be heedful, be punctual, be helpful,
For your mother's love has extinguished my fire.
(Fury and fire end in mother's love's desire.)


KABEDOOPONG PIDDO DDIBE'ST is a born of Obem village, Kitgum district, Northern Uganda, East Africa; aged 26. He is both a teacher and literary writer, with numbers of online and anthology published works, and he's born to peasant parents — Duculina Lamunu and Odoki Gustony Nyamong.

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