Rushed meals behind termite curved doors
Bread crumbs on tasteless porridge
With a little margarine to help it down
Silver fish lunches oiled up in tomatoes
Tried to wash my feet though.
Not a grain of promise anywhere in the room
Just our yesterdays and the gloom.
Fights fueled by regret and fear
Of becoming what we already are
Mama made supper any way.
Sea sick but there for the fish
Which bought the occasional road side snack
We split in countless halves for a taste
And later shoved down with our dirty fingers
It felt good to afford something.
We never waited on the future
We knew we had none
There was today and what might be
How and when questions left to chance
Somehow we still had chakala in the evenings.
By Jamil Mugabi
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