It was at the tail end of 1987,
After Museven,
Like Baseveni,
Had ascended to the throne,
That my brother got the mighty Hitachi..
The two speaker music bazuuka,
That made village girls vegitate..
Dancing endlessly to imitate,
Like, Keki, the village queen,
Without a crown..
At home, it was under that key-less lock,
That every weekend,
We carried the bazuuka for village dos’
Whereupon we charged some fee for the feel,
Making folks wriggle wiggle through the night, some dancing really tight!
Some, walz, some body to body squeeze!
That evening, we played PJ Powers,
And powered the whole lot,
With lyrical music magic,
Bazuuka would never relent..
As i would dispaly some ghostly strokes..
“This is your DJ, the only and only hot DJ,
Right from K.a.m.p.a.l.a … i bring you love
Knews…h….ooooo…l…don babie…”
So i nuanced, causing a stampeed!
Among village folks!
Then a brownie came to and for me,
Long wild hair,
Long face and white teeth finesse,
A black gum shining through the dark,
Her name was Vanesse,
It was a one night vanity affair!
The first move, i stepped on her toes,
With my maradona shoes,
For which she mistook for a move,
Holding her waist,
She, plainly laid her hands on my shoulder,
Making me shudder!
Gazing, through the lantern light,
Hanging over the sooty wooden window,
Sweat begun to drop,
As i sighed confusedly,
To disguise this malodrama move..
Then Jose, played “ Burn-nout”
And the lyrics were ephameral
“ Iam gonna hold you till you cry”!
That night, that morning,
We closed without a warning,
Yearning and yawning,
With Kafiti, the Village Wag!
