It was approaching evening, hazy,
The time, when darkness sets-in
Chasing, with entensity, the shy sunlight,
Like the moon peeping at the
sun,
Both saying “kiss me goodbye..”
Some humans too, do..
The evening where, it’s possible to spear,
Your own, mistakenly, Orweitabaabo…
When Waringa, the stubborn harbinger,
Displays itself as an apparition, chasing you uphill with strength…
Breathlessly, you must run
!!
The old man had stayed away in the wild,
All day long, tending to cows
The stubborn long horned Ankore herd,
With Bihogo often breaking away,
To forage in the neighbour’s millet garden..
Cows too love millet, that about to sprout
The aroma is like that, out of the mingling
Pot, with burnt millet-bread,
Underneath its charred stomach…
We ate,
We gnawed the pot-burnt bread …
It was time to make the fire
, in the kraal,
After wrestle,
Burning the dry cow dung,
The smokey aroma,
A form of animal aromatherapy,
As cows begun to regurgitate..
Endlessly,
We played hide and seek,
Behind the kraal,
And within the herd..
At times receiving some kicks.
Only that, our hound, Kakwitsi followed,
To reveal, your antics to the mate..
Rest In Peace Kakwitsi,
You fed us the geneafouls,
As you ate the
bones!
Then came that evening,
The evening with the death of a herdsman..
Like Kafiti,
The Village Wag..
ON THE PULPIT