Second Floor

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Ddala, nsakaatidde!

all around the kalevu

like a lions mane,

my kakoba extends far

as high as my earlobes,

somethings surely take time, 

malodorous kabuvubuka,

rest in pieces! 


Here high I stand,

young and handsomely,

in snippets of ignorance

far beyond acmes of teen age

along the ruins of adolescence

tiptoeing towards fortunes,

of an unfolding hereafter.


Upstairs and quite sophisticated

boasting off a wisdom tooth,

I mull over words of old mzee

words that are making,

much more sense now

see me ripen, indeed I am ripe

abassajja ebimuli bya Kampala,

call me the typical mbulakalevu.

november (the black poet)

*tales of grandpa*

©2023

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