Kampala


Kampala here I come. After a break of four odd months languishing in the villa’, I am ready to let go, a bottle cold Bell Lager in my hand is all I need. Ready to live life and handle the small matter of reading towards a University degree, that is if I don’t lose the plot along the way.

I must say I have missed the place seriously; the yucky tasting matoke and groundnut sauce on beans and queer tasting banana juice is imprinted on my mind, weirder women and rare chaps. Yeah I miss the life.

That isn’t to say I haven’t enjoyed Kenya, somewhere in the middle of my attachment job, a weekend in Nairobi lies hazy, blurred by a hangover and covered in smoke. Its memories fleeting.

I have thinking about my writing, particularly the poetic side of myself. This is because words had dried up. Was I going to be a unborn poet, with rhymes stillborn in my mind? But all is good now slowly I’ve been regaining it and plodding towards the heavens, one line at a time. I’ve now found out that it is very easy to call yourself a poet but very hard to be one.

But I am going to be one or die trying.