East African Poetry

Below are three poems by East African writers that I have come across, like, and can relate to/understand after spending time here, and appreciate.  Enjoy.

Building the Nation by Henry Barlow

Today I did my share

In building the nation.

I drove a Permanent Secretary

To an important urgent function

In fact to a luncheon at the Vic.

The menu reflected its importance

Cold Bell beer with small talk,

Then fried chicken with niceties

Wine to fill the hollowness of the laughs

Ice-cream to cover the stereotype jokes

Coffee to keep the PS awake on return journey.

I drove the Permanent Secretary back.

He yawned many times in back of the car

Then to keep awake, he suddenly asked,

Did you have any lunch friend?

I replied looking straight ahead

And secretly smiling at his belated concern

That I had not, but was slimming!

Upon which he said with a seriousness

That amused more than annoyed me,

Mwananchi, I too had none!

I attended to matters of state.

Highly delicate diplomatic duties you know,

And friend, it goes against my grain,

Causes me stomach ulcers and wind.

Ah, he continued, yawning again,

The pains we suffer in building the nation!

So the PS had ulcers too!

My ulcers I think are equally painful

Only they are caused by hunger,

Not sumptuous lunches!

So two nation builders

Arrived home this evening

With terrible stomach pains

The result of building the nation –

-Different ways.

The Guilt of Giving by Laban Erapu

You’ve seen that heap of rags

That pollutes the airconditioned

City Centre,

That louse that creeps about

In the clean core of sophistication;

You’ve seen him waylay his betters

And make them start—

Especially when they have no change.

You recall the day you came upon him

And were startled by his silent presence

Intruding into your preoccupation:

You hurled a coin

Which missed the mark

And rolled into the gutter

Where he groped for it

With a chilling grotesque gratitude

That followe3d you down the street.

You dived into the nearest shop

To escape the stare

Of the scandalised crowd

That found you guilty

Of recalling attention

To the impenetrable patience

They had learnt not to see.

I Speak for the Bush by Everett Standa

When my friend sees me

He swells and pants like a frog

Because I talk the wisdom of the bush!

He says we from the bush

Do not understand civilized ways

For we tell our women

To keep the hem of their dresses

Below the knee.

We from the bush, my friend insists,

Do not know how to ‘enjoy’:

When we come to the civilized city,

Like nuns, we stay away from nightclubs

Where women belong to no men

And men belong to no women

And these civilized people

Quarrel and fight like hungry lions!

But, my friend, why do men

With crippled legs, lifeless eyes,

Wooden legs, empty stomachs

Wander about the streets

Of this civilized world?

Teach me, my friend, the trick,

So that my eyes may not

See those whose houses have no walls

But emptiness all around;

Show me the wax you use

To seal your ears

To stop hearing the cry of the hungry;

Teach me the new wisdom

Which tells men

To talk about money and not love

When they meet women;

Tell your God to convert

Me to the faith of the indifferent,

The faith of those

Who will never listen until

They are shaken with blows.

I speak for the bush:

You speak for the civilized—

Will you hear me?