Today, like when I was a child,
I got the urge of extended sleep,
The sleep where you open one eye
And sleep with the other,
When all the noisy neighborhood,
Is quieted by the rains,
The music from the rustic roofing sheets,
From the neighborhood nourishes the mind…
Then, and then, the rooster too forgets to crow,
Except this He goat
,
It never rests or sleeps,
Perhaps, I should make a bed for it…
A bed for the goat, and the goat will have a bed,
People may wonder “ why a bed for the goat
“?
So a person can sleep…
Sleep, is like a thief , who steals without harm, or hurt, from your hut
It takes your heart
and soul,
Then the dreams begin,
Like the persona fighting with bees
When he needed thier honey,
And all they had was wax…
Wax, is the word for Kafiti, the village Wag,
Who, during the rains,
He visited the village queens
,
Wagging and wagging,
Waging the wars,
He couldn’t sustain,
Neither would he maintain..
Every fight, like climbing the mountain
,
Yes, the mountain of life,
That, which we all claim and collapse..
Collapse is the word, admired,
While at Kyankwanzi for military drills..
Getting intrigued,
In the military fatigues,
Before being besieged..
The Rains are back,
The grass will grow…
ON THE PULPIT