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Poems By Poet David Yobby  7/24/2016 1:28:26 PM
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We The People

One day, Mr. Politician, sir,
When the burden of your impunity,
Becomes too heavy for our backs,
We will lay it down,
On Parliament Road,
On Freedom Park,
On State House Road

One day, Madam Politician,
When your mini-skirt reveals,
The thighs of your corruption,
We shall cover you with a blanket,
And wish you goodnight

We, the people,
Are watching
We, the people,
Are ready

We shall go without food,
We shall go without warmth,
We shall bear the bruises,
Of police brutality,
We shall shed no ones blood,
For we are one,
Our voices will be heard,
Underneath the bang of gunshots,
Our voices will be heard,
Underneath your propaganda,
Our voices will be heard,
Even if we are locked up

And when silence settles,
Our will will not be broken,
Our resolve will not be shaken,
Until this revolution brings,
The promise of tomorrow today

We the people,
Have spoken
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



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



Do Not Forget Our Promise

When I breathe in my last breath,
And my heart ceases to serve me,
When my soul rejoices its freedom,
From a body lying so cold,
When my body's wrapped in white,
And you adorn yourself in black,
Socius, do not forget our promise.

When the hearse comes round,
Its wailing siren drowning out your cries,
When my presence is felt no more,
By those who truly loved me,
When my potraits are removed from the wall,
And stuffed in the old family box,
Socius, do not forget our promise.

When the dirge is sang,
And tears come to your eyes,
Tears of joy, tears of sorrow,
A great waterfall, they flow,
When my final journey begins,
And you mourn my fall,
Socius, do not forget our promise.

When my coffin is gently lowered,
And cries fill the air,
When people tear their clothes in grief,
And want to jump in with me,
When the last heap of soil,
Affirms my departure,
And the pounding of feet above,
Waves my final goodbye,
Socius, dear Socius,
Do not forget our promise.
David Yobby
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Poems By Poet David Yobby