There’s the impatient man stomping the time away, And the kid pushing the buttons that raise the hair And temperature, and voice of his parents,
You know that one thing that rents your mind space like a blink, The tornado of meaning as predicted by feelings and yards of ink
The waves quietly pat the boat where the sheep jump the gates, the clouds float away, the squeegee mops away at the drowning noises of
11died today at #kolofata..but who cares?
I’m looking at my wall decorated with frames of different sizes, colours, Most of eyes smiling back at me from years I have long forgotten.
This is what I learnt from working for the white man: The rainy season will come each year, and so will the dry