.

To Hanne, Steen, my neighbors dear,     

I can’t believe you’re leaving here,          

Swaning off to sunny shores,                      

And Steen’s G ‘n Ts, and their effects     

will not be felt on Malcolm X,                    

No more on Malcolm X.                                

.

We’ve sat in traffic jams and laughed,    

We’ve tried our hand at basket-craft –   

I will not mention whose was worst…

We’ve talked of family, love and life

Solved audits, dealt with office strife,

And lived on Malcolm X.

.

Of dogs and cats, I dare not say,

For blue-eyed Tanne left one day

And never did return.

But I’ll still hear your old dogs bark,

Our gardens like adjacent parks,

Next-door on Malcolm X.

.

Through lockdown days our closeness grew        

As members of the lockdown crew,                        

The walking, talking gang.                                           

We climbed the hills, admired the view

In little groups, or two and two,

Ending on Malcolm X.

.

While Prunes has been a favorite haunt

The Belgian has the best croissants,

And lockdown weekends took us there.

With Steen to help solve daily trials –

He aided shopping, drove for miles

Afar from Malcolm X.

.

At our age we’ve lived many lives,

Our tales could fill UMs archives

With countries, trips and jobs.

Our times have been so many things                      

But these months flew on parrot wings…                              

Remember Malcolm X.

.

August, 2020

Malcolm X Avenue, Kololo, Kampala

Practical things

There was a time of darkness.

I learned to be strong.

Now the light has returned,

Let me turn my strength

to practical things.

.

Moroto, 2020

A poem about regaining a way to see the world. About the wonder and beauty in everything, when you step back and watch life without judgement.

Seeing

It has taken time, because

This is what I grew up with,

Thatched huts, eucalyptus plantations,

Heads thrown back in laughter.

When I was in paddy fields

Or riding a rickshaw

I was in a state of high excitement.

.

Now I notice everywhere the dark beauty of the Mvule trees,

The piapiac feeding overgrown fledglings,

Colours and changes,

I’ve woken,

My slowly opening eyes are seeing

Things I’ve always seen before.

.

Soroti

2020

A poem dedicated to my fellow Kololo walkers, who have been like family through the long weeks of curfew and lock-down, and have made this strange time fun and full of friendship.

Kololo Walkers

Always that little thrill of meeting long-lost friends;

Though it is only hours since we last met,

At most a day.

Barking, wildly wagging hindquarters,

Dogs well express the cheerful anticipation –

Too every-day to mention, but no less notable for all that.

.

Downstairs group, we’re towed uphill by our eager hounds,

Rendezvous on grass across from the ‘beach bar’,

The one where there is always a South Sudanese car.

Meeting place,

We pause, sharing out dog leads, scraps of news,

Facemasks on wrists, before we take the usual path.

.

After Upper Kololo, green alley, slight slope, steep slope and the long down-hill,

Greeting all other strollers; the lady who walks her goats on leads,

Uncle Bob, with his square-rimmed glasses, jogger with a red Santa hat,

Dogs and their walkers,

Sprinters on the killer slope, taking a break for press-ups.

We stop, flushed, feel the breeze, pick a flower, admire the view.

.

Ther’re birds; plantain eaters drop-bombing into tree tops with self-satisfied chuckles,

Silky-winged Hadadas violently poking lawns burst skywards in indignant screams

If we come too near.

Glossy starlings, hornbills, red barbets, cat-calls from grey parrots,

A Coucal glimpsed in the bushes in a little sloping wilderness, and like a blessing

Flashes of scarlet when a pair of toracos take flight within dark treetops.

.

And the trees! Shade and framed views of neighboring suburbs,

Glimmering iron roofs from slums and mighty Victoria sparkling behind housed hills.

Along our route nature flourishes,

Layers on layer; lawns, flowering roadside herbs, bougainvillea and ancient cycads,

Glossy mangos, Jackfruit, jacaranda, neem trees, flamboyant flame trees,

and towering over it all, elegant palms, giant ficus trees and majestic mvule.

.

Night approaches softly, old Bella tugs down-hill, as eager to end as to start,

Outlines soften, gentle early-evening air, a dream-like atmosphere,

Tenderly, day’s sweetest moment passes.

We head home into the quiet of curfew night, with a golden glow on everything.

Good night, Kololo.

.

Kampala, June 2020

With life, as with driving

The necessity of a sense

Of when to change gears

.

Kampala 2020

Or as a haiku….

.

Fresh green upon green

Succulent rainy season

Colour is shades of green

.

Kampala 2020

So many shades of every colour,

Red; from blood to roses,

Blue reflects skies and oceans, even moods, music.

But green… green

Surely she is Queen.

.

The garden on Malcolm X, Kampala 2020

What else can one write about in these strange times?

.

Corona in Kampala

Something in the news, us laughing at a lame excuse –

A Dutchman on video call from South Sudan,

Tarpaulin delivery delayed because of an outbreak in China.

.

Some industrial city, and also, well… Chinese New Year.

Chinese New Year is hardly an unforeseen circumstance,

And this Corona thing… perhaps… but what are the chances it will affect us?

.

Here, expect the unexpected, Ebola haunting our Congo boarder,

Troublesome elements crossing from South Sudan, rumors,

Locusts from Somalia and Ethiopia, floods, drought, landslides.

.

Illness and death among the poor are often sudden and un-examined

Every fever is malaria, untested but treated, it usually goes away.

God’s ways are mysterious, superstition lurks, drugs in short supply.

.

I following in ghoulish fascination as the numbers climb, as the bubbles grow,

The map flushes, science shifts. Bats and pangolins, DNA, RNA, petri-dishes and labs,

Wet markets and super-spreaders, tears and applause, debates about masks.

.

Leaders are suddenly popular again, something to believe in,

Initially it seems we see the sheep separate from the goats, but no one

Knows history’s, or even next year’s judgement. Braying asses may fumble on truths.

.

All in lock-down now; friends in crowded Asian cities, Nordic family in spring,

Comedy show hosts, those down the street – our lives are quiet and similar,

Excessive screen time, short excursions, Zoom, the struggle with snacking.

.

Perplexity and disbelief turn to acceptance, long days pass shockingly fast,

Workdays run reassuringly smoothly, blue skies so stunningly clear,

Curfew nights astonishingly quiet and despite odd dreams, I sleep surprisingly well.

.

Kampala 2020

.

Across the lawn, the unmown grass,

A whispered word, a shade too fast,

Across the day, across the way,

It’s not my house, there’s rent to pay. 

.

You dig too deep, an unknown guest,

The butterfly, the stinging pest,

Across today, equator ray

The sunshine garden I portray

.

A childhood scene, a floral frock

The cows we miked, the Abdim’s flock

Across the way, the horses neigh

We’re catching up with much delay 

.

He can’t be here, nor neither he

Each have their reasons, reasonably

There’s far away and working day

Each with its vital role to play

.

There’s newborn babes and growing lives

Firestorms, dead bees in hives

There’s birds of prey and judgement day,

There’s vines of hope to swing and sway

.

Is life a warm, green afternoon?

A dark night with a rising moon?

Across the day, across the way

You have your thoughts, you have your say.

.

Kampala 2020

Today’s poem, everyday life with its small and great wonders.

Closer

.

You’re on your way

Leaving there, coming here.

That’s how we live

Days together, days apart.

Each day busy and full

Subtly dusted in love.

Welcome into my life

Stay as long as you like.

.

Kampala 2019