It was 1st of June 1989,
When we met first at a funeral,
Of a village Chief, Nyanga Oburofa,
The man whom everyone revered,
But also feared,
Before death did him part..
It was romoured,
He took the last breath, still lamenting,
His orders had to be followed.
This, world at times goes hollow..
One has to follow,
Calamity allowed..
No tears and flowers,
Behind his funeral concierge,
So he willed.
Except his dogs, the Kakwisi’s that wailed,
Echo, reverberating,
Down Karyeza valley,
We replied in unison as kids,
Ululating and challenging the hounds.
That night, we danced the moonlight dance,
To celebrate, the life of a village chief.
The bright shy moon, had a ring around it,
Symbolising the demise of the village chief,
Then the elders like Sirumani,
Ryeza, Matiyansi and Zaaki,
Had the elders talk,
Installing the heir,
Before the evening would arrive.
There was a girl with threads of thick black hair, growing up to her face, piercing eyes.
She used cow ghee,
And hot steel,
To treat and straighten her hair do,
It shone bright as she shook her waist,
Carelessly, caring less..
As though from that part of West,
Her aroma, was again of mixed herbs,
And cow ghee, not samona.
Boys in the village yearned to have a go,
Eeeegoooo…
And dreamed of her as Nalongo..
Like Kafiti, the Village Wag