A poem by the isms
PRAISE OF THE BULYANHULU:
Once we were told of the Shingwengwe
We never thought it would be you, Bulya.
Blown our minds with the worst nightmares
And enormous fierce day dreams
At your welcome party you swallowed
Our thousand energetic, innocent and poor indigenous kinsmen
To us, you brought a thick layer of poverty
Whilst grant us a gift of their bones grinded chalks
By the bulldozer, the surface sweeper
And the iron welded bloom
Spear-headed by our idiot, ignorant kinsmen
You mean nothing to us, and that is what you are
You ignored the accusation of stealing the souls of our brethren
Blinded us by repairing a pseudo-gravel road
And a couple of unfulfilled sweet promises
For your ticky hundred years in my motherland
By blackmailing our careless contract holders
Along the golden belt you are, is where our mute ancestral spirits lay
Who fought for the same red-coloured dust
The dust that blinds our eyes
That grants us a gift of endless dry cough
That kisses our diaphragm with a beautiful pneumonia
At the corner near the shore you lay
The shore of the great beautiful lake
The lake that was baptized after the name of the queen
The queen of the industrialization era, of the mid-Victorian
The age that gave to them the name great Britain
Yes, I see you, just with endless lights
And the smoking chimneys and the roaring plant machines
After hours of my journey from Korogwe
Welcomed by the mushrooming dust of the red soils
The dust that has eagerly destroyed our life span
Looking up the blue skies, without even the nimbus
And the shining stars with the beautiful full moon
In the mid-night polluted air by the chocking smokes smell
And the alarming crazy motor cars and noises of drunkard men
The professional alcoholists and sexually administrated pussy
Accompanied by the plant machines; the non-stop producers
The dead enthusiastic teenagers board buses to the site
Others to the centre; for an hour of rest and seven for liquor
To relax of the fierce deadly underground walls
Red-eyed with a pidgin of decayed manner
Drunkards, smokers and snuffers
Desperate for overwork, underpay and valueless for their poverty
The morning singing birds and the zoom of adulterers awake us
The so called workers take the staff busses, and we, the daladalas
To the main gate to wait for the call of Manyani
We take caution money, for the system is give to be given
Job given is to I, so new and I dont know Afrikaana
Then they chase me away like a homeless bush-dog around the pit
I march to the labour office, but they are bought too
I work to the underground and paid low due
I slapped by the kabourou, I work with no rest, I go to the labour office
Says he; is busy, and so I suffer;
In the underground of no sunshine and air
In the poisonous gas and endless blasts
In the ground full of carcasses and death at hand
Oh! Bulya, in your huge stomach we all lay,
The stomach that swallows a million people, by once or shift
We drill your ribs to pave the way deeper
We blast your stomach to get ourselves out
We flash your ileum, but never say you, nay
We crook till you die and leave us in misery
A cage, to host monsters, a monastery of ghosts
You flesh taken to them after a hundred years of exploitation, a carcass left to us
We suffer with our walking dead bodies
We drill by hands those dampers couldnt
Till we all lay dead inside your stomach, a cesspool be!