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Poems By Poet David Yobby  9/2/2014 6:33:22 AM
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Bringing Her Home

Play the isukuti, Bumala!
I am bringing her.
Here she comes
From the land of the mountain
That is surrounded by forests
That give birth to rivers
That criss and cross
In search of my beloved

Ha! You should see her, Ibanda!
You should see her hair..
Soot is not darker!
You should see her eyes..
The moon is neither whiter
Nor more beautiful!
Her behind, Babere..
It is an African behind!

She is not too fat
That I will struggle to feed her
She is not too thin
That I will be accused
Of being mean

Her skin is smooth, Ademba!
My beloved is smooth.
You should smell her, brother!
She scents like 'obuoba' does
When you are hungry
I am bringing her, brother,
I am bringing home my beloved.
David Yobby



A Luhya Funeral

Crying, but no tears flow,
It is only the sound,
And painful words,

'Wanga, you have not,
Paid my debt'
'Wanga, why have you gone,
without telling me? '
'Wanga, we had agreed,
to meet on the market day,
why are you being rude? '

Osundwa the drunkard,
Is pulling out all the grass in the boma,
With his bare hands,
Atsango paces the compound,
Chanting Wanga's name
And incomprehensible words
Akatsa has arrived.
She rushes to the coffin,
She rolls on the ground,
She cannot be controlled,
She hears that tea is ready,
To be served,
Then she stands up calmly,
And makes her way to the kitchen,
Greeting fellow mourners,
With a bright smile

'Wanga cannot be buried,
next to his sister,
fill that hole,
and dig another,
next to his father's grave'
'Shut up, drunkard,
Wanga had already married,
His sister was a virgin,
he cannot be laid next to her'

And while they dig the grave,
Someone steals all the meat,
From the pot,
And leaves the soup,
Someone steals,
All the spoons,
And leaves the forks

Clouds gather,
People gather,
And sings songs of transition,
And dance the dance of the clan,
Brandishing branches,
Round the grave,
Round the boma,
And in the middle of the driest month,
The clouds give birth,
A sure sign,
That one of the rain-making clan,
Has fallen.
David Yobby



Ah well, Life Goes On

Ah well, life goes on,
Not every fruit in the basket
Is sweet,
Not every word you hear
Is dear,
Not every person you meet
Has wit.
Well, life goes on.
Ties get severed
And others mended,
Friendships get forged,
And we learn some are forgeries.
Well, life goes on.
Hearts get broken,
And egos trodden,
Prayers of penance chanted,
Hands get held again
Albeit this time
With a fainter grip.
Ah, well, life goes on.
David Yobby



The Mouth

The mouth sucks
And whatever is left
In the straw
Goes slowly back into the pot

The mouth talks
-before it sucks again-
Of how the youth are problematic
Of how the politicians eat
Of how the harvest failed

The mouth talks
-after it sucks-
Of how the chief is getting fat
Of how the wives always fight
Of how the son is so bright

The mouth talks
-and sucks yet again-
Of how his household is disciplined
By his good old bamboo rod
Of how his wives jump
On hearing his bark
From afar

The mouth talks
And sucks
Whatever is left in the pot
Then it sings
Of his dwindling wealth
And the waiting hungry mouths
At home
David Yobby

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Poems By Poet David Yobby