Up

"You have only just began..." Journey UP to success.

I've been stool sitting-
for many a year,
in a cart ride heading-
to a place called "home."
A place where success resides,
a place where my trajectory,
wears a smirk and tells me;
"Little hamster, you're almost there."

Yet the stool on which I sat
with friends by my side,
to par with me like cats,
as our teachers parroted,
was a "key" to a future locked away...

I was on this balloon ride-
empty within yet floating-
steadily on my way up,
to a vast and void sky...

When bench time elapsed,
I rose, king from a throne-
crowned by a graduation hat-
heir to tons of nothing.
I opened the locker of my future,
and my eyes feasted on a horrid world,
I dropped my keys in agape!

Having bequeathed nothing,
except years of experience in cramming,
and absolutely none in creativity,
I pita-pata  my feet where I saw light-
commencing was apprehending,
but I did what I had to,
even with hands tied behind my back...

I climbed the stairs in travail,
the light before me blinding me,
thoughts in my head draining,
saying, "you don't have to do this..."

To be honest,
I didn't know the "chariot ride" to heaven,
was close to walking on a blade line.
Yet to aid us on our journeys,
we are handed these pedagogues-
that lay out our bench marks, and hark!
They don't prove intelligence.
they are just marks on maps,
drafted for us to see,
Ayeh, to keep on walking...

Upon apex,
of the flight of stairs-
my feet coal burnt,
I calmed as I pant,
finally!
I basked in the light,
hope, home; "heaven.."


When I turned to my left,
a flight of stairs appeared and I glared,
and the devil grinned and said to me,

"You have only just began..."

Authentic

Just the other day,
I asked a friend;
"do you Ugandans-
have an accent?"
She thought for a second,
then turned to reply,
"no, not really, well it depends."
And I'm thinking wow,
such an ambiguous answer,
then she goes and asks, "why?"

Well...

Thoughts on the Igbo's,
and their thick lavish accents,
made me wonder my decent.
I mean it's rather quaint,
but worth contemplating.

See I wanted to create-
something for one to relate,
something the Ugandan in me-
would own entirely,
something that wouldn't steal-
my so called "African-ism."

My first road block-
was that English is British,
and there's no way to own it-
even if mine is relatively polished,
yet also, American-ish

So I have this ism of ish,
going on about me...
I'm African-ish, American-ish,
Brit-ish yet also myself-ish.
I'm like a queer fish;
everyone is trying to hook me.

So anyway, I hopped that block,
and took a turn round the corner,
and there it was again,
the damn road block!

I had no "IGWEH," nor "KINEKE,"
Or even a click to my speech...
I was disappointed,
I felt naked!

So there I was, stripped,
everyone staring at me-
my tiny balls, my little hairy chest,
feeling ashamed yet astounded-
I couldn't believe I felt unauthentic.

I mean I spoke this language,
I called it mine too,
But, you know it's sketchy,
it lacked root,
it lacked that, how can I say-
je ne sai quoi (french-ish),
or in layman's language "authenticity,"
so I felt like I didn't belong...

Then again,
with these "road blocks,"
I sat down and wrote,
upon realisation in my mind,
that root is not my route,
and that this that I wrought;
is my kind of poetry...

It helps me sink my pen
into ink wells untapped,
to seek deep fresh inspiration-
to replenish me like zam zam.
It helps me express myself,
exquisitely using refined styles,
reborn and re-structured;
It helps me be me,
a being that understands,
languages are for expression,
cultures are for taming,
religions are for grooming,
prayer is a medium,
and "God" is for creation..

And the creator-
made an authentic being.

Asylum mayhem

Walking the mad man hallway.

Lighting struck and thunder shrilled,
as the hailstorm ravished outside.
Doctors and nurses,
were busy sipping coffee,
and I was trying to run from 'me'...

I was alone in the hall way-
lonely yet happy,
conflicting and tripping
like a switch being toyed with.

("Aaaah, aaaaah!@#")

I dragged my hands over the wall,
and my feet on the floor.
lighting struck again!
"Aaaaah, aaaa...!"
Belittled by my "flaws,"
I was barely grounded-
weakened by their drugs,
so I struggled to reach the door.
"Aaaaah, aaaa...!"
The light bulbs seemed to flicker,
but my uncertainty made me doubtful...

I slurred as I barked to myself-
in bitter-sweet silence.
'GET YOURSELF TOGETHER...'
As thoughts ricochet loudly off the walls-
of my damned brain like bullets,
I ducked and started to shiver,
till I realised the flickers-
were mere lighting...

"Aaaaahh, aaaaaah!"

The nut jobs kept screaming!
pushing over my sanity barricade-
yet the war in my mind's sphere,
encompassed me like a lunar halo...

"He-he-he...
I'm not crazy," I comforted myself.
Banging my head on the door,
uttering vignettes scripts,
from the canvas of my dark mind;
a black beret of a crazy artist-
seeking peace in abstract forms,
out of norm to the naked eye...

"He-he-he..."

My hands were tied to protect me from me,
yet to me, my mind was fine.
Even if my "insanity" battled my sanity,
as skrillex music in my head-
made me bob like crazy,
distorting my chain of thoughts...

("Aaaaaahh, aaaa!")

There was no light ahead,
but I kept dragging alas,
the door was shut when I reached.
Locked like I in my straitjacket,
so my hope steadily escaped,
yet from myself I had to escape...

("Aaaa,aaaah!@#!")

The path way glittered like sun lit hay,
the storm toned down to drizzles,
and I slid my back down the door-
to bench and find comfort on tiled floor.
as I imagined I was sitting on a cloud,
and despite my asylum confines...
I smiled and saw beauty in my
hopeless situation; heaven in my mayhem..

"Muhuhahahaaa,
I'm not crazy..."