Poetry: Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe'st

* Author of the Month *

Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe'st

A Crown of Thorns

Much rage, less strength;
Pused in the nose of turkey,
Wearing red ribbon on the head,
Like Samson to tear down the temple,
Fettered in the house of exile,
Son of the miscarried justice,
Guarded by ambassadors of the sun,
In a conversation with death,
Extending days of the night,
Melting down the red hot cooking pot,
Lengthening the days of darkness,
Petals of blood on grains of wheat,
Leaking down the crown of thorns,
I wear to redeem the crying days,
From the hands of the darkness,
Writhing like a woman whose house
Is engulfed in cracking flames;
Only those that hear the music dance,
Those that don't say the dancer is insane:
Much rage, less strength.

A Voice from the Grave

My dear hypocrites,
I salute you all!
Allow me to call you
As ladies and gentlemen,
Brothers and sisters,
Friends and friendly foes,
Not forgetting my in-laws,
And all the mourners in black clothes
Who are crowded like ocean waters,
With your sincere rivers of tears...
True tears don't flow out, but inside.
My dear hypocrites,
I expected this milling day,
The day of the devil's feast,
In this sincere funeral party,
Where I see strong drinks,
Filthy happy modern dances,
Forests of variety of eats,
And bunches of married couples
Caressing other husbands and wives...
Funeral dogs have sharp noses.
I hear you branding me,
With brilliant heroic titles
Like 'the late Lion Killer',
'The late was a great man',
'The late was a good man'
Blah blah blah blah blah...
This is the first time I hear you
Praising my forgotten goodness
You have always termed evil
Before I kicked the bucket,
And permit me not to forget
Thanking you well wishers
Who had been eyeing my wife for long,
And so wished me in your hearts dead soon,
So you could enjoy my left property,
I thank you all for attending...
My dear hypocrites in overalls,
Allow me to say you
Cassock men are holy,
And your true lies are sacred,
I am happy to see your first-time faces;
You tickle my bleeding heart,
You men on red carpets,
Allow me to simply recognize
Your important presence, dear polytricksters,
You are worth mentioning;
I like you for throwing millions
Of shillings in the basket of tears,
The money you should have brought
On my dying bed before my last breath,
You heard the news of my death throes;
But waited for this important time
To acknowledge my absent presence.
I watched your uncommon truths
You always preach on graves to divide and rule,
And I weighed your pretense,
Tears of the crocodiles,
All worth remembering in this grave.
No one believes you till you die.
As I return to my eternal home,
Allow me to thank the choir,
Chanting the 'Amazing Grace',
On the day of my absence,
You are all excellently sincere;
Inside your dark hearts,
I can clearly see your magnified appetite,
For the half cooked and burnt red meat,
And all things as such,
Like your sincere thanks on the grave,
Wrapped in wreath of roses.
You say I should rest in peace,
As if you have been here before,
And have seen all souls resting in your peace;
As if they have judged in my favor already.
Nobody helps you till you die,
Then they help to bury you.
Bye bye,
Enjoy the funeral party,
Forget and laugh out loud after
Shedding the tears of the crocodiles,
Till we meet again,
But deep inside your cellared hearts,
You know you are straight-faced liars,
Happily exclaiming on the top of your inside voices:
'O he died well! He left us a space!'

Eye Contact With The Dead

Let there be peace,
Between the tall wars,
Those profitable wars,
Fought for fame and dimes.
No peace, no world.
No way to peace,
But peace is the way;
The aged begin wars,
Youth fight and die.
The aged, too old to fight,
Begin wars, too long to end,
For children, too young to fight,
To fight and die.
Mother refugee,
With her only child,
Dead on her breast,
Her rags hang like frozen locks,
Convulsing, asking questions,
Without answers,
Why wars are fought.
Wars beget woes,
Only seen in the eyes,
Red hot like redpeppers,
Of the camped survivors,
With crosses and scars,
Who have eye-contact
With the living dead,
And of the casualties,
Laid in peace of cemetery.

From Cradle To Grave

Each of us, born of flesh, has a tomb,
That lay before us all,
Each of us, that lives now, awaits grave' s womb,
Wherein you grow to fall,
Some are born to rule, but some to serve,
Some are born to laugh,
And others to get gentle pain they never deserve,
Much gold dust in rough,
But many endless nights till we kiss the dust:
From cradle to grave all meet all perfect wars,
That tongue-tie the liberty,
All those perfect wars of tyrants are like death-throes,
That come to swallow beauty:
All bones are interred, but only the goodness remain,
Rottenness cast to the smiling Sun,
We are born, live, and die with pangful pain,
Souls to the eternal son.
How weary and wretched I am seeing you, meanness!
Bury my goodness in you,
My badness with my bones, my life in goodness:
Better to die while true,
Wealth, fame, and power are winds passing by fast,
Like saltless ashes, so are the valueless vainity fame,
All are soon mere dust,
All return whence all came.
All are but wandering winds.

My Daughter

Times like these demand
More than your beauty,
That glitters like a gold,
My sweet little daughter;
Times like these demand
Your beautiful character,
That makes your beauty
Young and pretty forever,
And thus, you're a pretty girl,
Become what you believe,
As you let out that gold,
In your sparkling twine eyes,
Color your beautiful world,
You're; but my all dream,
Educate not only your mind,
But also; more; be your heart,
Let education always be,
That's now your treasure,
A treasure no killer kills,
An everlasting pleasure,
A pleasure no thief steals,
My sweet little daughter.

Refugee Child

Marasmus-belly, bonny chest,
Naked feet, diseased hair,
Browner than a monkey's hip;
In a queue of sick-looking chaps,
With bowls of soup smaller
Than that of Oliver Twist;
Struggling in the line
For halfcocked compact food,
In the little pale hands.
Mummy stood in the milling crowd,
Shouting her head off
At the camp commandant
For crossing her only name
Off the book of the white man;
She dared split the commandant's
Owl-head-like head open;
For laughing at her sucking
Woes of the long lasted war.
Daddy was in a big sleep;
In his underground home,
Where this long queue was unseen,
And yet yonder behold
The crying eyes in the rain;
It is my mummy again,
Wanting the commandant's head opened.
Today, I wonder why I was confined
Like batter caged chicken in
This concentration camp.
I believe daddy watched over us,
As he continued reciting his rosary;
I believe he has forgotten
The names of his manslaughters,
As his widow and orphan
Collected the dust of the ashes,
The ashes of the burning 'Labeja',*
And the roaring 'Nwangi Lions'.*
This death's home just a relief
From sleeping under the cold bush.
___________________________________
N.B: Foot note:
*1. 'Labeja' was a type of strange fire that would spark off by itself on people's grass-thatched houses anytime during daytime in most of the camps in Northern Uganda (majorly in Acholiland / Kitgum and Gulu) and burn hectares of houses. It just popped up like a ghost. People (the victims of the circumstance) believed that it was sent to them by the gods of Museveni in power.
*2. 'Nwangi' was yet another strange lion-like beings that would scratch people's bodies at night in those concentration camps or death's camps in Acholiland. In the morning only bloody fingerprints would be seen on the bodies of the victims. It was like daytime nightmares. The same was believed to have been sent by/from the same source.

The Renegade

If the State is on my side,
Who will be against me?
The state is my boyfriend,
I will not want,
He snatched me from the other impotent one,
From his fruitless alluta
To marry me on altar.
I crossed the crossroad
To the other greener side of the fence
To the house of finger-licking,
On the wagon of pigs and vultures
To dance my new old lover's
Unending bitter-sweet songs.
I take refuge under his armed wings;
My pockets run over with public tears
Which I change in banks into my dollars,
Coins make sweet noises
Which make my nonchalant soundproof ears
To those valueless public cries.
I surrender, I surrender to you, lord;
Be my bulletproof from the threatening fears,
I won't fight you no more,
I can't fight those vain battles
On the wing of the left,
Your money calls me,
I can't refuse it anymore ,
Where there is money,
There is life;
Get rich or die poor!
I forget the cause I fought you for,
Initiate me into your extravagant system
To lick your ass and slippery spittles,
I'll be your faithful dog,
Licking your festered wounds.
My master, don't forsake me, my god,
Like the israelites in the desert,
Make me your offertory-holder
From your Commonwealth master,
I am not a wet-mouthed,
Money makes the universe go round.

Setu, January 2018