Sunday, December 23, 2007

Not a Polite Kampala

I wrote this yesterday. Was standing in the KPC car park, looking out over Kampala Road, past Equatoria Hotel and the valley, to the vast bulk of the New Mosque on Old Kampala hill and further back the dimmer outlines of Namirembe hill and the Cathedral (St Paul's).

The sun was dipping to the west, unclear. I could look right into its golden disk, something inadvisable, I know. I found it odd. I found it interesting. A beauty round the setting that combined to move me to write this. A fairly impolite poem, I am afraid.

Not a Polite Kampala

I had never seen a smog,

now I recognise it nascent

in the hollowed hills my birth city,

Kampala’s hallowed valleys.

Strange to see the sun so bright,

but dimly, like through a huge window-

stained glass dome overhead;

a hazy smoke always, twixt me ‘n sun

like wrap around dirty goggles, I’ve posed to wear

To feel sun rays so brightly false,

watery like to more temperate climes

that such a sun hunger to see in the depths of winter.

Greedy me, I’m overused, knowing only

a Kampala air crisp, and clean, pure ‘n cutting

not a pea soup haze, inedible stuff.

Kampala, my beautiful Kampala,

you’ve farted onto yourself.


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