J. Penn de Ngong - The Black Christ of Africa

The Black Christs of
Africa
A Bible of Poems
By J. Penn de Ngong
Above all, I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and
the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity. Wilfred Owen, British Poet
The Black Christ of Africa
Chapter x
The Prologue
If you do not want to be forgotten as soon as you are dead,

Do something worth writing or write something worth doing.
A handwriting on the wall by one Uganda LRA rebel Colonel O, quoting an

anonymous saying in 1995, and copied in 2005 from the wall of my former
P3B classroom in Palotaka, S. Sudan. *
It is all very well to be able to write books, but can you waggle your ears?

J. M. Barrie (1860 - 1937)
British playwright and novelist.
* It is all very well to be able to write books, but can you waggle your ears?

J. M. Barrie (1860 - 1937)
British playwright and novelist.
John Penn deNgong 2

I
Dedication
My
Over 333 poems
By
Over 333 pages
In
Over 33 chapters
By
Over 33 year-old
In
Over 3 years of writing
By
Over 3 months of printing
Are
Dedicated
To
Emmanuel J. Christ
He or she or it
That is lain
And slain
For free
For me
John Penn de Ngong 3

II
Table of Contents
Chapter X
The Prologue
I. Dedication: To Emmanuel J. Christ
II. Table of Contents: Detailed with Chapters and Titles in a Point Form.
III. Table of Contacts: The Dotcom and Copyright Message in a Poem Form
IV. Table of Contexts: Glossary of Younique and Pennique Terminologies
V. BBC Breaking News: The Return of the Black Christ!
VI. Prophecy Full-Filled? The Announcement of Pronouncement against Cush
VII. Forewording Note: The First Word
VIII. forwarding Note: The Signpost: Dear Ready Reader
IX. Forewarning Note: Aluetluet Editors, Go to Hell!
X. Preamble: Over A Hundredfold SaysPages DaysAges
Chapter Y: The Opening Prayer Chapter 2: LettersofConciliationandConsolation

XI. Add me more days 20- Obama Invites Osama
XII. Or let me see that day 21- Open the Windoor of Peace
22- To Tutu Kuku Kuwa
Chapter 1: Heroism and Nationalism 23- To Mister Sinister Minister
1- The Black Christs of Africa 24- News to the Pensioner
2- The Blood Donors of Africa 25- An Interview with Comrade Colonel O
3- Mother, what's your real name? 26- Happy Birthday to Gen. Kalashnikov
4- St. John Garang 27- Another USA on Earth?
5- Nailson Mandela 28- In court with Gods lawyer
6- Martin Luther King II 29- A VoicE-mail to Emma J. Chris
7- The Lion of Jubah 30- Letter in the afternoon
8- Of our Holocaust 31- Later in the halfternoon
9- The Gangs of Hollow Wood 32- Merry Christmess!
10- In The Battle of Holy Wood
11- In the Noon Moon Chapter 3: The Horror of Terror in the Era of Error
12- The Moods in the Woods 33- Croco-dialed Tears I: Tribute to P.W. Botha
13- Goons of Boons 34- Revelation IX & XIV: Sad-damn Hussein
14- Lullaby for my nation 35- Death from above
15- Our Nation-all Anthem 36- Sheltering in a coffin
16- Freedom Anthem 37- Horror Hollow Cylinders
17- Freedom Rosary 38- To Whom It May Concern
18- Our Dead Line 39- Mr. Shadow
19- Don't Dis my Ability 40- Of Terradditional God!
41- Poor Inno-sent Killers
42- Battling Platoons of Cartoons
43- The Speech by the Emperor of the Empire of the Vampire
John Penn deNgong 4

Table of Contents.....
Chapter 4: The Poly-tricks of Politics 76- On Compulsory Ramadan

44- Afrocracy 77- The Rapefugees and the Kiboko ya Mungu
45- The Tower of Power 78- My Breath Cancer!
46- Of the Sahell Republic 79- They are R. Organ
47- They are Crostitutes! 80- Gen. Bens Benz
48- Judas versus Jesus 81- Condemned to Debts!
49- Uncle in the Hot Seat 82- From Source Africa
50- Successors' war on Ancestors 83- Born to Bear
51- Married to Mr. Amerika 84- Summary of the War
52- In Confucian Confusion
53- Common Mistakes on English Chapter 6: Despair and Repair
54- The Game on Fool Table 85- Will we really reach there?
55- Cheer-man for Chairman 86- Yeah We Can!
56- War of the alpha-bets 87- At our Harbour of Labour
57- Why I edited the census form 88- The Void Voice in the Black Box
58- Stop Debating us, start de-baiting us 89- I ain't Me!
90- To hope is to have
Chapter 5 :Memorandum of Referendum 91- My Nirvana at Havana
59- The Referendum Agendum 92- From Doom to Boom
60- The Route to the Root 93- The Tycoon in the Typhoon
61- Out of Egypt at last!
62- When a single hand claps Chapter 7: The Eruption, Irruption,
63- The Season of Reason Interruption and Disruption
64- Petition for Partition of Corruption
65- Petition to the Government of Neitherland 94- It should be defined
66- Printing in colour separation 95- Our National Foodbowl Championship
67- The Trouble Permit 96- Croco-dialed Tears (II): Tributes to the Nile
68- Chiefdom of Militialand vs. Crocodiles
Kingdom of Civiland 97- Paupers with Papers
69- Dear Cartoons in Cart-tombs 98- Dining and wining at Menue Venue Hotel
70- When I vote, I voice 99- Mosquitoes for our Land
71- Saving enough tears for that Day 100- Pregnant Forever
72- We're gone! 101- Conductors or Con Doctors?
102- Officially Licensed Thieves
Chapter 6: Suffering and Oppression 103- The kinship with a kingship
73- The Black Cries of Africa 104- Of the Demographic Republic of Copyland
74- Punished for being poor 105- In fake London
75- The two-legged tortoise walking 106- Hi Bishop, Let's Prey
Konyo-Konyo 107- Congratulations, our Guilt President!

Chapter 8: Health Best, Wealth Rest 140- The Vulture of the Future
108- Food-and-Mouth Dis-ease 141- The manky monkey
109- The Lethal Penisillean Injection 142- We're inno-saint
110- The WWW III 143- The Biscuits Recruits
111- Countdown to your grave! 144- I wish I were that Obama's Puppy
112- Our Moneyfacturers 145- It is Juba-Nile Delinquency
113- We're their cash-ualties 146- Like my dear dead dad
114- Mammoth Mammon 147- Chols Choldren
115- Money, money, where are you? 148- The need for a seed
149- Boys of atomic toys
Chapter 9:Tender Addenda in 150- The Bride Tribe
Gender Agenda
116- Choice for Joyce Chapter 11: Literacy, Illiteracy
117- On the wing of the wind and Ill-literacy
118- Very Fanta-stic Chic! 151- Illiterate or Ill-literate?
119- Nunu is Lulu! 152- Let literacy make us a little racy
120- Monique, you're Younique! 153- Booked by Books
121- My Laptop 154- My Goalfriend
122- My Queen Elizabeth of Africa 155- The Prudent Student
123- Why I wedded not in the Church 156- Ghost Fever
124- The Part B of a lover 157- My Artificial Blindness
125- Followers of flowers 158- A fellow gone fallow for 20 years
126- Eve versus Ewe 159- Land of Double Desert
127- Mr. Rubbish versus Mrs. Rough Bitch
128- Hon. Chloroqueen versus H.E. Kinkong Chapter 12: It's Immorality in
129- Our babes, how do we eat them? its Immortality
130- Wuman Beings 160- Niggers in knickers
131- The wasted union money trans-affair 161- Barred Manners
162- An Auntie Corruption Commission
Chapter 10: Childhood and Parenthood 163- The Deputy Husband
132- My baby, welcome to this world 164- Love Extravaganza
133- This is my beloved Son 165- Sex Bonanza
134- Mama, what is this? 166- Our Beautyfool Ladies
135- I'mama 167- Born for sale no more
136- My Old Gold 168- BBA in Action: Babes on Auction
137- An Open Tomb 169- Gaynaecologists from Gay Colleges
138- The Sabbath for Mama 170- Ministry of Sexual Affairs
139- O, Dear Dry Father! 171- Mrs. Matatu Matata
John Penn deNgong 6

Chapter 13:From Workaholics Chapter 16: My Selfistory

to Alcoholics 199- Borify Me
172- Beer 200- I'm Pennique, You're Younique
173- Mr. Keg 201- From Mat to Mattress
174- The Bell in his belly 202- My Metamorphosis
175- The Battle of the Bottle 203- My May Day
176- The Dinka Drinka 204- My PPPP Dream
177- Dear Dinky Dinka 205- My Bachelor's Decree
178- From Workaholics to Alcoholics 206- My Black Crime of Africa
207- My Letters of Fetters
Chapter 14: Nurture, Nature and 208- My Penn Pals
the Environment 209- My Negative Relative
179- By Genetic Lottery 210- Daniel's Denials
180- In Search of a Wombman?
181- When will our men deliver? Chapter 17:My Selfography
182- Our Explosive Potatoes 211- My Horrorscopes!
183- Citizens of Planet Hell 212- My Penn-killers!
184- Global Warning 213- My Success Card to Death
185- Lake Big-Tour-Eerie! 214- My Cool Tool
186- We are in the lifebrary 215- HellO, Leave me Alone!
187- Earth, our Universe-city 216- Wounded by Rumour Bomb
217- Master Refuge 'G'
Chapter 15:My Theolosophy 218- Prescribed to be proscribed!
(Theory + Theology = Philosophy) 219- You tempered with me
188- Human Being 220- My Black Male's Blackmail
189- Talent is Latent 221- Poets Die Poor
190- The Weird Word 222- Just been to Hell!
191- The Weird World 223- A Quarrel with God?
192- Inventing Virginometer 224- Back from Hibernation
193- Todays World of Witchdom
194- What'll hell bell tell? Chapter 18: Acknowledged-men
195- Heading Hellward 225- Signing the IoU MoU
196- Belief for Relief 226- Ugakenya, my Home, too
197- Godisnowhere: True or False? 227- Thanks
198- Three Gods in one Shrine
Chapter 19: The Leftovers
(A Book within a Book):
By Isaac Abu-Izaach

Mini-table of Contents
Theme A: Intro 256- To borrow tomorrow
228- Isaac Abu-Izaach 257- Best wishes by worst witches
258- The First the Last
Theme B: Love 259- With 'em I fly
229- Torch Me 260- Cancer
230- Photocouple 261- Airtime
231- In Babylon 262- Why star?
232- Lurve Curve
233- My Eyes Cream Theme E: Covertly Poverty
234- With love glove 263- Mr. Paupular
235- From Sugar to Salt 264- Broke and broken!
236- Fall into Love 265- Very loanly!
237- My Sylph has a self 266- Arrested!
238- The Better Fly 267- Where is Ni-mule?
239- My Woeman! 268- Economix
240- Likened to Lichen 269- In the Die-as-poorer
241- Vuvuzela 270- My Daybook
242- Diana, Princess of Wails!
243- Mrs. Ruth-less Theme F: Death
244- This Thin Tin 271- Automagically!
245- My Brother-in-love! 272- On the Podium of Odium and Opium
246- For Chris's Sake! 273- Thy Permanent Firmament
274- Death, the Ruler
Theme C: Terrorism
247- Salaam Alaikum Theme G: Corruption
248- Terrorists vs. Tourists 275- Parasites in Paradise
249- Born in Satanistan 276- The disease of the deceased
250- Freedom of Explosion! 277- Bullet in the gullet
251- Nairobbers! 278- Immunity by Impunity
252- The atmosphere of utmost fear 279- Bluetooth Development
253- Very Darfurious! 280- Miss-Management
254- The No-Fly Zone! 281- Metropollutant City
282- Qualification or Qualifiction
Theme D: Injustice 283- The West Wastes the East as the East Eases the West
255- Garang for granted 284- Cereal Killers on Rampage!
John Penn deNgong 8

Mini-table of Contents cont....
285- Our Reap-frees 316- Wow, they stink pink!
286- Unless you dollate 317- The Narrow Gate
287- Homo-copiens
288- Brain Drain Theme K : Politics
318- Politics, Poly-tricks or Pa'tricks?
Theme H: The 'For $ale' $eries 319- Statutes by Statues
289- Noise for $ale 320- Africa in the Egg
290- Tears for $ale 321- Of Despondent Respondents
291- Love for $ale 322- Politically Stung
292- Life for $ale 323- That's why I'm Order-less
293- Lies for $ale 324- Because I'm used less
294- Land for $ale 325- The rift between
Theme I:The Basics of Ethics 326- MP vs. PM
295- Tame Time 327- Our Euro Eunuchs
296- Forgiveness 328- You must expire
297- Stinking Thinking 329- I can see
298- Your Horny Moon in Thighland 330- So Bor is a Bore?
299- Investors from Thighland's Islands 331- Democracy robbed, roped, raped, rapped
300- It's aimless that's nameless
301- Wo/man Rights? Theme L: Acknowledgement
302- Fire in the Cheeks 332- Congratulations, to me!
303- Bookworm 333- Debts of Gratitude
304- Lo, smoke without fire!
305- Our Agri-culture Chapter Z: The Epilogue
306- Jesh Ahmr IX- CPA in the Bible:
307- One and a half man (a) Countdown to the Sabbath Year
308- 1 + 1 = 1 (b) Cush and Israel Equated
Theme J: Racism (c) Repatriation and Reparation
309- The bastard seed
310- The Black Prize of Africa X- Closing Prayer
311- Master Brown Deliver us from Eve-ill!
312- Black Towers XI- Conclusion
313- The Maverick (a) How to Read It
314- No LCM nor LCD (b) Bibliophilia Versus Bibliophobia
315- We're Back to Black

III
Table of Contacts
The Dotcom and Copyright Message in a Poem Form
Online, I was summoned by the president of Cyberia,

And drilled on my netizenship of the cyberspace.
I am not just a cyber gangster,

I confessed, I am a cyberian star:
I am an internetional denizen,
Yahoo! a netizen from Cyberland,
A resident at penngong@yahoo.com
Working at ustazpenn@ustass.com
So write to penndengong@gmail.com,
And skype this dotcommer at jonnpenn1
Face and book me at www.facebook.com/penndengong
You tube John Penn into your addresses at youtube
If you also twitter, then twit me at Jonnypenny
Climb higher upto the 5th level at ustazpenn.hi5.com
Let me blink and you will see a book,

Opening and closing like a butterfly, bling bling
With bookish opening and closing of the eye lips.
To book this book, do not hook, just look.
For me, potent terminology is patent technology.
If you copy my poems, you copy my rights,
For mine is in that word, phrase, verse, stanza, poem
Since I am a poetician, poenovelist, poessayist, poemusician,
Anything from that list is a potential title
To my future poem, novel, essay, play, song, album
It's my right
to write.
All rights reserved.
John Penn deNgong 10

IV
Table of Contexts
Glossary of Unique and 'Pennique' Terminologies
Black Christ: explained in the "Dedication to Emmanuel J. Christ" as he or she or it/that is lain/
and slain/for me/or we.
The Black Christ of South Africa: a crucifixion portrait of an Anti-Apartheid fighter in the form
of Christ by a South African Artist, Ronnie Harrison. See "BBC BREAKING NEWS:The Return of
the Black Christ".
Younique: Something unique according to your own way or your own judgment, especially the one
you think it is not appropriate or it is eccentric in this book.
Pennique: Unique in John Penn (this author)'s way and thoughts.
Pennic: Anything characteristic of Penn de Ngong, a personal adjective exclusively used for this
author.
Pennicism: (Ngongism) Penn's style of literature or of literary criticism.
Aluetluet: a Sudanese native bird of the weaver family that pecks a every peg in a garden or a cat-
tle camp and seems to suggest, Were I here or there, this one would not be here or there.
Paupular: a popular pauper, in other words, a talented sod.
Poemusician: a musical poet: one who recycles his/her poems into lyric music (a poet's own word)
Poemagician: a magical poet (a poet's own word)
Poetician: a political poet, Poenovelist (poetic novelist), poessayist (poetic Essayist), etc.
Tabanic, Oryemic(ally), Lugalaic, Eiffic all attributed to individual literary styles of Taban Lo
Liyong, John Oryem Onguti, Victor Lugala and Dan Eiffe.
Cush: a biblical name said to be for modern Sudan, also referred to as Nubia and Ethiopia
Delilah: A biblical betraying wife of Samson, applied in this book as a beautifully snaring woman
working with men of substance.
Selfography: study about (my)self, a poet's other term for autobiography.
Selfistory: the life history about (my)self.

Table of Contexts.....
Theolosophy: the theological philosophy found in this book only.
Bibliophobia: poor reading culture or strong dislike for books.
Bibliophilia: an abnormal love for books.
Bibliophile: bookworm or book lover. The opposite is bibliophobe (only in this book).
Souldiers: Any spiritually oriented fighters.
Soldiers: mercenaries or soldiers sold, bought, hired or bribed to fight for money.
Inno-saint: Innocent and pure sacrificial lambs. Refers to children in the poem 'We're Inno-saint.
Inno-sent: innocent but sent to victimize or be victimized.
Crostitute: a political prostitute who crosses between or crisscrosses among parties (Poem ).
Un/fortunately: a short hand of writing fortunately and/or unfortunately (only in this book).
Terradditional: a new term coined up from three different words terror + traditional + additional
(found in 'Of Terradditional God').
Harmnesty: an amnesty whereby victims are deceived, received, disarmed and harmed.
Choldren (found in Poem: Chol's Choldren): a corrupted spelling of children to indicate that
they are characteristically Chol's.
Herod: a Roman emperor who wanted to kill Baby Jesus at birth for political reasons. Any one who
does that (in this book).
Judas: one of Jesus' 12 Disciples who turned into a villain and betrayed Him. Anyone that does that.
Sad-damn Hussein: Saddam Hussein, former Iraqi president, especially after he was condemned to
death.
Nailson (Man-dela): a deliberate misspelling of Nelson Mandela, done so to highlight two impor-
tant words in his action against apartheid nail + man (nail's son & man dela).
St. John Garang: This refers to late Dr. John Garang de Mabior and his fellow political saints mar-

tyred at the African Calvary.
Ruralia and Urbania: Twin republics juxtaposed by their economic rural and urban statuses as
reflected in their names found in the "Petition for Partition" (back cover and poem 22).
Eatducation: Comprising two words of 'eat' and 'education', implying that one eats through educa-
tion, especially for those educated in a corrupt way.
Moneyfacturers: Business moguls who have come to manufacture money, not commodities, only
in Southern Sudan.
Cash-ualties: A corrupted spelling of casualties, implying those victims of cash corruption.
Go-bin-men: A corrupted spelling and pronunciation of government by the vampire, meaning Go

and bin the men.
Bonk account: a ridicule of 'bank account' as pronounced by the vampire. A sarcasm for bank
account run for pervert and covert purposes such as prostitution.
Ministry/Monster of Hells: a satire of Ministry/Minister of Health according to the vampire's

mispronunciation.
Ministry of Sexual Affairs: A corrupted spelling of Ministry of Social Affairs as advocated for by
homosexuals.
Giantallmen: monster gentlemen (vampire)
Wailcome: wail + welcome, meaning come while wailing (vampire).
Signtease and philucifers: scientists and philosophers who are Lucifer's (vampire)
Halfternoon: half of the afternoon as used in the appointment haggling with Mr. Death.
Poly-tricks or Politricks: variety of political tricks
Metropollutant: polluted metropolitan city
Jej Ahmr: an Arabic word literally meaning 'Red Army', SPLA minor units that existed during
the Sudan's second civil war, always ridiculed by critics as the 'nursery bed' for the Jej Aswad, its
opposite.
In other words, the Jesh Ahmar was a Sudanese group of adolescents who had had their adult les-
sons in a wrong course for a right cause, at a wrong time in a right place.

Table of Contexts cont.....

Aluta Continua: A Portuguese phrase for "The Struggle Continues", used as a war cry during the
Frelimo (Mozambique) liberation struggle, and by many African countries that were shedding off
colonialism.
Thighland: A land where all focus and development take place in the thigh, not in the brain.
Croco-dial(ed) tears: a corrupted spelling of crocodile tears. To shed tears not from the emotional
feelings but conditional feelings. To shed tears like dialing a die or a phone number. Crocodile tears
are fake tears, as observed on the face of a crocodile that carries or 'cries' tear-like pimples or dimples.
Anaemia: (Literally) Blood deficiency: a blood condition in which there are too few red blood
cells or the red blood cells are deficient in hemoglobin, resulting in poor health. Literarily, a weakness
caused by lack of courage or vitality.
Leukaemia: blood cancer: an often fatal cancer in which white blood cells displace normal blood,
leading to infection, shortage of red blood cells anemia, bleeding, and other disorders (according to
Encarta Dictionary).

Literary application of anaemia and leukaemia in this book: "That is why you will find this
slogan not sung with anaemia but with leukaemia of words, totaling to about or above 66,000 in this
poetic volume, just as many as in other writings of my fighting." (Page )
Watchington: Barack Obama's watching city or Washington (Found in 'Obama Invites Osama',
page)
Dollate: to donate using dollars strictly (found in 'Unless you dollate'. Page)
Brother-in-love: A satirical response given to a brother-in-law who proposes gay love.
Ill-literacy: This, in other words, is ignorance, or evil application of education.
Darfurious: When Darfuris go furious, picked up their arms and fought for their rights in a suicidal
war against the Janjaweed with a genocidal war in the west of Sudan.
Satanistan: A land where a Satan or Terrorist is born.
Terroristan: A country run by terrorists
Photocouple: A couple that looks like photocopied from each other.


V
BBC Breaking News:
The Return of the Black Christ!
It hung in the cathedral

but later toured the UK and Europe
where It raised millions for the victims of apartheid.
It was considered blasphemous and subversive

by the South African government,
which tried to have it destroyed.
But when the South African authorities realised

the Black Christ had left the country,
they arrested Ronnie Harrison
and repeatedly interrogated and tortured him.
He was stunned when he heard

the Painting had been found again.
"It was so emotional to be reunited with this Painting.
I really believe divine providence saved the Painting."
The Black Christ disappeared for 30 years

The Black Christ remained undamaged.
The Painting returned to South Africa in 1997.
The Picture has an extraordinary history.
The Return of South Africas Black Christ

BBC News/Africa, 2004.
(Abridged)

VI
Prophecy Full-Filled?
The Announcement of Pronouncement against Cush
Woe to the land of whirring wings,

Along the rivers of Cush,
Which sends envoys by sea
In papyrus boats over water;
Go, swift messengers,
To a people tall and smooth-skinned,

To a people feared far and wide,
An aggressive nation of strange speech,
Whose land is divided by rivers
They will all be left to the mountain birds of prey,

And to the wild animals;
The birds will feed on them all summer,
The wild animals all winter.
A Prophecy against Cush

Holy Bible; Isaiah 18:1, 2, 6.
NIV.

VII
The First Word
John Penn de Ngong is surely launching the youngest and latest pioneer author of pure
literary works into the post-war Sudan. He is one of the war-child generations pet-named
Jesh Ahmr (Red Army) on the southern side of the Sudanese civil war. This was an age-
set of unaccompanied minors that the Sudan Peoples Liberation Army/Movement, under
their bush literacy project, once taught under trees.
The SPLA officers-cum-teachers sometimes used their bush war survival skills to teach
with their AK47s on their backs, pistols on their waists, charcoal or cassava chalks on
their fingers on chalkboards carved out of cooking oil cardboards or animal hides. This
creative stone-age style of educational background and war survival skills have a great
deal of influence in Penns penmanship in particular and craftsmanship in general here
and elsewhere in his works of art.
Penn de Ngongs writing talent came to the Sudanese national spotlight as a widely read
humor columnist for the first ever war time Sudanese English newspaper, The Sudan
Mirror, circulated in the war affected areas of Southern Sudan, Nuba Mountains, Abyei
and Southern Blue Nile.
When The Sudan Mirror hired him in 2004 as a columnist and reporter after sitting
his final secondary school exams, he had already made name in Uganda after winning
the most coveted national essay prize worth a million shillings, besides other nomina-
tions and awards, while still an Ordinary Level student in Gulu High School (northern
Uganda), 2001.
In 2004, I wrote a letter to the editor, published by The Sudan Mirror, asking John to try
his hand at writings, arguing that I saw in him a great writing talent that could put Sudan
on the map of world literature. When he sent me the manuscript of this book in the last
quarter of 2007, I was glad because I saw the book as an answer to my request, as well as
that of many of his readers who had asked him to do so.
This, apart from being friends since childhood, explains in part why he finally settled on
me to write this foreword, an honor which I could not afford to turn down even though
I had initially advised him to ask one of the well known people in literature in South
Sudan to write the foreword for him.
Ngongs poetry talent did not come to me as a surprise. Since our childhood, I discovered
something unique with him he has been poetic in anything from conversation to how
he has been thinking and acting. His poetic ability was first demonstrated to the public
during our earlier grade school days (grade 1 in 1989) in the village in his song that was
aimed at inspiring many of the village parents to send their kids to schools.
The song in Dinka prophetically says in part, This country of ours, we will negotiate it
through the barrels of Kalashnikovs (AK47s); we will negotiate it through the barrels of

pens, and if we fail, it will split into two His poetic endowment later continued when
he recently engineered the Little Doves Choir, a group of talented child-musicians leading
in Southern Sudan.
Ngong has also demonstrated his multi-talent by converting a good number of these
poems into musical lyrics making up his twin albums, Noise for Sale and Tears for Sale.
This complexity has subjected him to a critical eye from his contemporaries, making him
confess:
That a friend once gave a compliment in a complaint of my being complex, so is my
work, complex in the sense that no single theme is addressed in it, and complex in that no
definite title could befit me.
So if asked, I am neither a poet nor a musician, call me a poemusician, and not a politi-
cian but a poetician as far as socio-poetry is concerned. Therefore, my critique as a critic
through the spectacles of a journalist and a columnist, a preacher and a teacher, an artist
and an artiste, an actor and a director, has revealed to me one principle: to pamper the
boiling ego of a politician, flatter him orally; to tamper with it, clatter him morally.
One of the publishing companies in the United Kingdom had accepted in 2007 to publish
this book which then contained only 100 poems written in 100 days, but Ngong changed
his mind and added another 200, because he preferred this first edition to be experimen-
tally and solely in his own creation. Since he was experimenting new styles in literature,
he feared publishing companies could modify his literary fashion, hence kill his literary
passion.
He cares about every single style in his manuscript to be preserved and published the
way it is and that has been why he has chosen to design and print this first edition solo.
According to him, his styles, which constitute the nutritious parts of this book, may be
perceived as errors by editors. Hence making him warn in his introductory poem, Aluet-
luet editors, go to hell:
And if by any means edited

In the manner of money audited,
The intended insult
Will become an extended result
Of someone elses mental digestion an excellent excreta,
From bitter fact to better fiction.
Ngong writes with a purpose of not creating a name by duplicating styles and tones of
some prolific writers in the history of poetry as it has been a tradition with some poets,
but he wants to pass his message using his own unique (Pennique) style and tone, some-
thing his potential critics would view as unconventional.
His themes cover anything from the evil parts of humanity to its good parts, how villain-
ous or heroic humans could become in the name of common good. His choice of who he
either portrays as a hero or a villain can prove controversial among his universal readers.
Nevertheless, he is an activist who writes with a free mind from which he judges the
subject matter based on how it has either negatively or positively affected fellow human

The First Word cont.....
beings. Everything about his style, process and purpose of writing is clearly stated in the
introduction of the book.
Un/fortunately, I may not have the right adjective but I have the right objective, I may
not have the right verb but I have the right verve, I may not have the right grammar but
I have the right drama, or I may not have the right synergy, but I have the right energy to
exploit in the quest, as in the request, for my eventual ride to intellectual rite; the right to
write,he writes.
As for any reaction this anthology may generate, Ngong puts it in a nutshell, For this
and other reasons, I beg not to be accused but excused in the process of cyclically eating
myself or psychologically easing myself, into this book, of my mental debris accumulated
undistracted during the Sudanese protracted war of more than two decades of decadence.
Ngongs work is a documentation of painful memories of the brutal 21-year war in Sudan,
including his own ordeal.
He was once kidnapped and stabbed twice while he was editor of The Southern Eye news-
paper in Kampala, Uganda, in 2006 and 2007, respectively. With his trademark disarming
humor, he has turned what could be described as sad and bitter memories of war into sto-
ries that can be source of humor to his readers. He narrates his thought-provoking themes
in deep humor and sarcasm rarely found in a many works of his fellow poets.
Like any poet who wants to create his own unique position in poetry history, he identifies
himself as an Afro neo-classical poet, caring not whether it is Classical or Romantic. He
does not want to be burdened with strict conventional rules of the Shakespearean sonnets.
As seen in his last third of the anthology, he creates his on pseudo-sonnets. He clearly
projects himself as a Sudanese literature missionary or a new Sudan visionary as we like to
call each other in our circles.
During one of our exchanges, he put it that any poetic restrictions such as on style and
ethics remind him of the odd old muzzles on his freedom of speech in Sudan. So he wants
to write with a free hand, free verse, free voice and free mind. He told me, as he has also
demonstrated it in the book, that his stylistic devices are not only rhetoric but also
historic.
He admitted once that he is not literally literary but literarily literal, that is, creatively
plain but not plainly creative in the thinking and composing of his art work, something
that some of his readers will find as an element of truth.
Unfortunately, those readers who turn their pages very fast will only understand his
words, not the underlying meaning of his works. He delights not only in ethics but also in
aesthetics; he values styles over rules.
As I leave it to the literary critics to judge his work and place it in any category, I may
humbly but arguably declare that The Black Christs of Africa, an anthology of 333 poems
on over 333 pages of over 33 chapters by a 33-year-old former boy-soldier, is a birth of
new literary era in Sudan as a cultural entity, and in Africa in its political entirety.
Nhial Tiitmamer Nhial
Canada
VIII The Black Christ of Africa
The Signpost
Dear Ready Reader,
What is poetry?
I am giving you a rare book, a real book of surreal news. Of course, sure real news is not
when a dog bites a man but when a man bites a dog. So is poetry.
Paradoxically and parodically, it is when a person (teacher) turns a dog into a god by
reverse 'goth' spelling, or when a parson (preacher) turns a God into a doG by adverse
gospelling.
Analogically and logically, poetry is to pottery, or a poet is to a potter as a poem is to a
pot; you can notionally mould itit can emotionally maul youinto several amoebic
shapes and heaps.
Poetically and politically, it's a practical game. Just as pottery is all about peeling and
moulding the mud, poetry is all but feeling and moulding the mood.
Literally and literarily, it is like poverty pinching, pitching, itching or eating its victims.
It is my professional confession that as a pauper can make a good pot, the poor can make
a good poet.
For example and by sample, confirm this confession from Mr. Paupular (popular
pauper)'s Poem 233, and a poor man's Poem 97: Money, Money, Where are you?
Painfully but gainfully, these poems reported themselves to me while I was in hiberna-
tion, that is, by the time personalized insecurity and synchronized poverty put me under
house arrest. For a project to stop gainfully, it must start painfully.
A one man's show or juvenilia? I did dub my authors note The Signpost not that I want-
ed to guide you in a detailed tour through my mental workshop so that you read in your
literal manner my literary manna; no, I just wanted to be unique in my Pennique critique
in response to my funny fans and unique critics, the sample readers, who approached my
impolite Pennicism with their polite criticism.
Surely and purely, John Oryem Onguti, the man supposed to be the editor of The Black
Christs of Africa if my introductory warning poem (Aluetluet Editors, Go to Hell!) might
not have been obstructively instructive, humbly put it that he just wanted to deal with me
on my back; in other words, on the back of my book a typically Sudanized definition of
the phrase 'back up'.
Therefore, he e-mailed, The poems carry your traits of Ngongism; a unique presentation
that sets you apart. The titles are not only musical but also magical, and acquiring them
(or enquiring them) demands a mans brain.
In addition, I was not only compelled, I was also propelled, to amplify Victor Lugala's
cry for penmanship in Southern Sudan, "so that we can have a variety of controversial,
radical and even eccentric ideas on art, literature, culture. So, this e-mail is a cry for you

The Signpost.....
(John Penn and others) to send me a poem, a short story, excerpts from a novel (if any),
essays, creative non-fiction pieces, book reviews, epigrams etc.
Amplify the cry so that in the final analysis we can have a moving feast, to borrow from
Hemingway. Create more!", he emphasized. So here you are. And more will be created as
more calls pop up every day in my electronic box.
For the magical part of the titles hinted earlier on by a Rev. Father, a Rev. Sister in a
bookshop in Juba during my hunt for a publisher insinuated to me that no publisher of
Catholic affiliation would ever accept such a blasphemous work unless endorsed by the
Pope! Why?
One, not only have I used the words 'Rosary' and 'Christ' without spiritual permission and
for no spiritually par mission, but also have used for my own objectives the adjectives and
nouns like 'Black' to describe Christ, and 'Christ' to qualify Blacks. Two, that the poem
number 4 carries the title 'St. (John Garang)' without a sanction and sanctification of the
Holy Father, the Pope, the only one who confers the title of 'Saint' and confirms the status
of Sainthood.
To her, not only was this a sacrilege but also a misnomer; calling a politician 'Saint' is
more or less like a native 'doctor' crowning himself 'Pastor'. My attempt was not fertile
but futile enough to let her believe that literature nomenclature (naming system) applied
in and for this book, such as 'Black Christs', is poetic just as 'St. John Garang' or 'Freedom
Rosary' is a connotative jargon, a political mumbo jumbo, which has a lot of nothing to
do with the denotative meaning of the mother words. This, among others, being the case,
I retorted no more on punishing myself with psychologies and resorted once more to pub-
lishing by self with apologies, but not without a little go-ahead-boy sort of back-patting
from Prof. Taban Lo Liyong.
Dear John Penn, he wrote, one way of publishing is self-publishing. That is, if no publisher
has accepted to publish your book as part of their publishing business. You prepare your
manuscript by yourself and they print it as they receive it. In this case, you pay for the
printing to a printer. And then please he advised check what your manuscript looks
like; and who your publishers or printers are. If they want you to pay, then you may not
yet be ready to be received among writers. Then call it juvenilia. And write another with
greater skill. Which comes out of reading, much reading. Young 'nephew', youth is on
your side. When a real publisher of books has accepted your manuscript, then ask them to
request me for a foreword.
However, what I found out during my three years of a hide-and-seek game with a 'real
publisher of books' was but a real publisher of names; of names of those who have already
published books. Since I did not have any name yet, to be published and sold, I just
landed on a printer handy, a real publisher of words. In the truest sense of words, this is
the real publisher of books; one who looks at the book of a writer and not the writer of a
book. Therefore, if I were a president of the Republic of Literature, I would make that a
decree to publish not the literary pedigree but the literary degree in every manuscript.

Let note not be taken for granted that printing bureaucracy is the only hindrance to writ-
ing democracy. There is the side B of this injusticefunding. It took me barely three years
hunting for 5,000 dollars to print this work as it takes my fertile-ground colleague merely
three months to bag 500,000 dollars to buy a hummer and other vehicles and fly to Palm
Island (Dubai) for vacation with a girlfriend.
One lunch time in a Juba restaurant, I eavesdropped one of such characters audibly
broadcasting, "Ya zol, they want 5,000 dollars for the tyre of my hummer!" This poked
me to jump up silently, "That exactly is what they want for 2,000 copies of my poetry!" In
the process of building the nation, the Phase II of our liberation struggle, I compared the
values, in terms of public consumption, of his rubber wheel with that of my book and just
bled in the heart.
Where really do they get this money? With this question, I was poised by another ques-
tion a friend posed to me, "Where really do you get all these words?" He wondered of
about 77,000 words in this anthology. Of course, there is no twofold gift, literal wealth and
literary wealth cannot knock at one's door hand-in-hand, one must usher in the other.
Following those inspirationally electric mails, like the Oryem and Lo Liyong's electronic
mails, which became my stylistically tectonic nails, plus the Sister's sinister complaint,
I was tasked (as I was asked again and again) to ask Victor Lugala, Dan Eiffe, Taban lo
Liyong, Atem Yaak Atem, or their likes, to forward me a foreword. Since writing a book is
not a one man's show, I appreciated the idea but pondered and wondered if it was ideal: if
my work might not be too rude or too crude for such select men of intellect.
For this senile reason, and only in this juvenile season of my career, I hail Nhial, my com-
fortable boyhood playmate, now my compatible manhood penman, to whom my juvenilia
(amateur premature writing) may not matter for that matter. To be pennically jealous, just
as I would not want Juba defined and designed with Sheik Zubeirs architecture, I would
not want my pages pasted and passages plastered with Shakespeares literature, neither
would I want my messages massaged with Achebes achievers flavours, nor my torturous
tales tailored with Tutuola's tutorials. Yet again, if this is not understandable,
Then, I mean John Donne of the 17th century was purely anglicized whereas John Penn of
the 21st century is poorly anglicized say, surely Sudanized in terms of age and sage. Or
since Art is not a handicraft, but the transmission of feeling the artist has experienced
as Leo Tolstoy still believes it in his grave, I suppose, we must re-invent in this Millen-
nium of ours the additional wheel of art dynamos and circumvent the traditional will of
literature dinosaurs.
That is to say, no copying and pasting for the modern literarily literal gentlemen from
the mediaeval literally literary 'Gentile men', whose descendants are dependants upon
the pleasures of plagiarism, even today, in the name of conventional writing. It should
be noted, however with positive rebellion, that as scientists are struggling freely clued to
golden indicators of their scientific art, artists are straggling strictly glued to olden dicta-
tors of their artistic science. In the all mighty name of the creator of creativity, this repute,
I dispute, I refuse, I diffuse. Amen!

The Signpost..... The Black Christ of Africa
Bitterly in this mandatory motion, I dispute this predatory notion in the name of Poetry,
which is automatic, not mathematic it has no formulae; like the war-time roads of
southern Sudan, seemingly impassable to drive on but not impossible to deliver on. Of
course, as from my mental computer through my metal computer onto these pages, poesy
is supposed to flow, to flow from the conscience of the transcendent paths of the poemusi-
cians of the present day; it is not supposed to follow, to follow the transient paths of the
poemagicians of the ancient past.
To recap it, a poet, as from Latin 'poeta', French 'poete' and Greek 'poietes', means maker
or creator; in other terms, a producer, not a reproducer. A remote creator, like God who
just called, "Let there be a world, and there was", a poet just calls, "Let there be a word, and
there is." That is why I tuned down many voices of reason like Prof. Lo Liyong's recom-
mendation to first read other poets before writing my own.
I was aloof to implement this complement because a poem is an internal eruption against
external irruption; an emotional vulcanicity that I can only feel from its velocity, that I
cannot define with felicity, and that I cannot derive from complicity by duplicity, a mod-
ern hidden literary complication of duplication.
Therefore, much as Fr. Oryem feels that editing my styles may make them Oryemically
oriented, I harbour the fear that my literati uncle, Taban lo Liyong, could turn my tabloid
taboo terms Tabanic, while Atem's decades of penning experience has its own literary
totems very atomically Atemic. Similarly, I thought, Lugala might be tempted to go
elaborately Lugalaic on my deliberately lugubrious literacy lunacy which, to me, is a
leguminous literary legacy.
And chances are such that if Eiffe was to work on my epic, things might taste Eiffic,
however terrific they turn in their traffic motion through the reader's emotion. Here,
Mr. Penn, this pencil penner, is discussing style, which is as unique as a print of a human
finger or an imprint of a human figure.
Thence, should one in accordance with stanza 1 of Poem VIII misguidedly think I am be-
ing critical and cynical of my mentors mentioned, one would not find any direct expres-
sion of impression or knowledge of acknowledgement for them elsewhere in this volume.
Both my cattle camp and bush school experiences taught me that, for boys, appreciation is
cocooned in bullying just as teaching in teasing. Prove it herein.
All my attitudes; including both gratitude and ingratitude, aptitude and fortitude, recti-
tude and certitude, solitude and solicitude, and the rest of -titude attributes, are spo-
radically but economically, politically but poetically, socially but emotionally sprinkled
throughout the book, especially on chapters like The Horror of Terror in the Era of Error,
The Leftovers, Acknowledged-men, My Selfography, My Selfistory, My Theolosophy, Tender
Addenda in Gender Agenda, and everything of that kind.
However, on the one hand, I owe a sincere apology that a great number of the poems, plus
their introduction which you are now reading, may not make sense to a great number
of readers, not to mention of leaders, especially those Sudanese brothers; those browsers

who turn their pages very fast: either of course they have not got used, or because
they want not to get used to today's world standard of reading culture, especially this
written Afro-culture.
On the other hand, they owe us an apology that they are unwilling to resort to reading
agro-culture, whose economically returning toil is in turning the soil very fast by burn-
ing the oil very fast. Disguised idleness, be it in digging with metal tools or rigging with
mental tools, is as sinful as an adulatory act of adultery, if not idolatry. Just this, Apostle
Paul seconds in his epistle to Corinthians and Christians that greed and idleness are
forms of idolatry, and to Thessalonians, "If anyone will not work, neither shall he eat" (2
Thessalonians 3:10). Similarly, to the 'salonians' (salon or saloon idlers), if anyone will
not read, neither shall they reap.
And now, according to chapters 11, 12 and 13 of my 'Bible of Poems', the so-called era of
information technology has given birth to an ill literate generation of adultolescents, aged
somewhere between adolescents and adults, whose social career is in adolescent games,
and whose physical carrier is in adult lessened frames. What beautiful frames allergic to
physically taxing engagements!
My great regret is that we, the few enlightened Sudanese, have begun our intellectual lib-
eration movement by putting the cart before the horse. I mean what our over 80-percent
illiterate population wants at once their priority number one at the moment is not the
leisure and pleasure from the postwar anguish to read or ride through many books and
papers, it is the labour and flavour in the anti-war language to read and write many true
books and papers.
The Message thereof, Satanic or Satiric? The said chapters marking the altitudes of and
making my attitudes, like most of the other chapters of my attributes, seem to have
barred or marred Martin Luther King Jr.s appeal to "let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for
freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred."
That coincidentally explains why my Christian friend, Diane Beltran of Texas, USA,
wrote to me, I think they are very good, only that they are very deep. I know that many
of the things you have said needed to be said, but I worry a little about Satan attacking
you through bitterness. Dead right, she is!
They are very deep, deep but in the sense that they do not necessarily call for the inter-
vention of a reactionary, save of a dictionary. And, of course, there is bitterness; bitter-
ness for the better-ness of my writing, if not of my fighting, and for the betterment of my
countrymen.
By the way, that is not through Satan; it is through Satire, satire from the sad times of my
bitterly battered background. Therefore, it is noteworthy that my literary Satanism in this
case can also be my literal sarcasm or liberal cynicism in another case. Let note not be
taken in a wrong way.
For doth a fountain send forth both bitter and sweet water at the same place the same
time? wonders The Holy Bible (James 3: 11). Supposing the now-defunct industries,

The Signpost.....
like the Upper Talanga tea factory on the slopes of Imatong Ranges of southern Sudan,
were to rejuvenate today, imagine the first waste they would cough out through their rusty
chimneys after more than two decades of decay.
That said, for our mouth to ingest and upload fresh meals, our stomach must digest and
offload its old filth first. Having, therefore, acknowledged the fact that when I am writing,
I am rioting, why then would Mr. X or Mrs. Somebody not allow me to write bitter this
time in order to write better next time?
Un/fortunately, I may not have the right adjective but I have the right objective, I may not
have the right verb but I have the right verve, I may not have the right grammar but I have
the right drama, or I may not have the right synergy, but I have the right energy to exploit
in the quest, as in the request, for my eventual ride to intellectual rite; the right to write.
For this and other reasons, I beg not to be accused but excused in the process of cycli-
cally eating myself or psychologically easing myself into this book of my mental debris
accumulated undistracted during the Sudanese protracted war of more than two decades
of decadence.
Verify this fact in my feeling towards Aluetluet, our local solitary winter bird, familiar with
its familial weaverbird, that pecks at every peg or anything standing erect, pointing with
its beak as if commenting (in Bor proverb), If I were here, this one would not be here; if
I were there that one would not be there. Symbolically, it refers to that prejudiced critic,
that victim of what I can call 'bibliophobia', that wannabe editor that pecks every fact into
fiction, and every fiction into fact.
Though these poems were and are not edited, I am not referring to genuine editors, fault-
finders; my constructive critics, I am referring to my constrictive critics, my 'general audi-
tors', fact-peckers; not fact-finders but fake finders, when I protest and warn in advance in
Aluetluet Editors, Go to Hell!:
Behold, and beware!
My words are but bullets,
And my soft spot a target of a boy-scorpion,
But it isnt you, and if you, be it you, then.
Bully, reading my bullets from my bulletins,
Thou shall sniff into thy mind enough snuff,
Yet to thy soul sniff the stuff, enoughs enough.
And hate me for it for nothing,
And hit me for it with nothing.
The negative impact positive effect notwithstanding is anticipated as hinted on the last
two lines. Like my other despondent respondents, oblivious of my malicious correspond-
ents, suspicious of my previous ordeals of starving and stabbing, stumping from their
obnoxious deals of kidnapping, billowing from my obvious ideals of whistle-blowing,
the third representative reader, my spiritual mentor, Rev. Nathaniel Bol Nyok, is as well
concerned.

Ive read a few of them, especially the one about apartheid (Croco-dialed Tears: Tributes
to P.W. Botha), and found out that a mob of such characters are among us spread, and
hardly a few of them are spared," worried, he warned, "Hence the need for your con-
sciousness.
True! Like each chapter, page, verse, or word in any book of The Bible, every chapter,
poem, stanza, line or word in this book of the Parable has its own target. For instance,
the point you are reading on this page may tend to hurt far away from you, but the poem
your counterpart is reading on the other page reflects, without any minus error, the real
you in his or her minds mirror, as it does him or her in yours, me included.
On mere charity for more clarity, try for me this one-minute experiment of experience.
Point at this page. Having pointed, observe the result as follows: the forefinger pointing
at me in my book, the thumb pointing away, and the three fingers pointing back at you
(meaning what?). Meaning that criticism is the mother of editing. So this is the riddle in
the art of criticizing.
To Mr. Aluetluet*, Chinua Achebe re-affirms in his Anthills of the Savannah, "Writers
don't give prescriptions. They give headaches." If so, then I shall have achieved the main
aim of this book: written to hurt; to give heartaches and headaches to whom it may con-
cern! Ironically, it can also give heart 'eggs' to whom it may console. Since my work does
my readers both service and disservice as much as such, to discern what concerns one
calls for the employment of one's sixth sense.
That a friend once gave me compliment in complaint of my being complex, so is my

work, complex in the sense that no single theme is addressed in it, and complex in that
no simple title could befit me. So if asked, I am not only a poet or a musician, I am a
poemusician, and not a politician but a poetician as far as socio-poetry is concerned.
Therefore, my critique as a critic through the spectacles of a journalist and a columnist, a

preacher and a teacher, an artist and an artiste, an actor and a director, has revealed to me
one principle: to pamper the boiling ego of a politician, flatter him orally; to tamper with
it, clatter him morally. Either but the latter is well catered for in this book. This is to
let you watch out, lest you are washed out by their rabid emotions in their rapid motions!
From words of war to war of words: Having gone through bitter experience upon my
mysterious disappearance and reappearance, my wife, Elizabeth Nyiel, and my brother,
Job Anyang and cousin, Michael Alith Ngong, teamed up and directly modified my
friends' concerns and pastors cautions into questions. John, are you aware of the men-
tality of our criticism-allergic folks? she asked, and he reinforced, "Do you know why
most African writers publish their books abroad or while abroad?"
To me, the answer is this question: come on, guys, during your times as liberation com-
mandos, had John Garang de Mabior or any of your frontline commanders ever com-
manded you while sitting in Boston or Bolton?" Of course, no. And if so, then, it needs a
series of serious gallant Garangs of various capacities, home-based and hope-based sacri-
ficial lambs, not scapegoats, to convince the whole world to understand what is wrong in

The Signpost.....
and with this southern half of our Sudan. Of course, to my varied worried readers, if you
sense villainy, call me a rebel, not a devil; but if heroism, call me a daredevil, not a hero in
this book.
However, their questions stung and stunned me like the bees that dispersed the Sudan
Peoples' Liberation Armys Jej Ahmr (Red Army) battalion in their ambush between
Torit and Juba in 1993, and like I was asked, back in Omere Minors' Camp in 1994, how
safe I would be on my way to and from the reconnaissance. Such reactions towards the
advancement of my career pose a great deal of conflicts in me in one way, and repose a
great ideal of confidence in me in the other.
So should I buy into their idea to quit writing, and sit writhing with emotions till I grow
up and grow old? If so done, this will make me 'grow down' and grow odd. And not me
alone but along with my budding daredevils of this unique generation. Like a firefly that
flickers on and off in the dead of the dark, I don't just want to 444glow and go, I want to
glow and grow.
In order not to execute those cautions, excuse me to dispute those questions. I have
discovered, therefore to conclude, and, wherefore to include, that though the Sudanese
political and intellectual renaissance is a nonsense to our successively autocratic cliques, a
nuisance to our excessively aristocratic colleagues, it is a nuance of sense to our obses-
sively artistic colleagues.
However, there is one vile virus to this revolutionary rebirth: it is dread, cowardice, fear,
phobia, or any relative to those terms, traumatically instilled in the minds and dramati-
cally inscribed on the souls of our people, by atrocious wars that have raged on under
brutal regimes that have reined in, and under dictatorial leaders that have reigned over
them time immemorial.
To cure this ghostly malady, call it ghastly malaise, it would save a lot more to desist from
asking a warrior, a daredevil patriotically critical and superficially sacrificial as such, how
secure he or she is in the forthcoming head-on collision, for which some political whores
and economic Judases, the crostitutdes according to Poem , are sweating flood and
blood to turn into our national coalition through their personal collusion.
Those questions or cautions, to me and my likes, are not only utterly demoralizing but
also entirely demobilizing. For the same point, from the same poem quoted earlier on,
remember:
Im a retired boy-soldier,
Disarmed of my gun an old AK47,
Re-armed with a pen my new AK47.
It is said, the pen is mightier than the sword.
My word my s-word, a double-edged sword.
For rather I would shout with my tongue or pen,
Nor me neither I would shoot with a *tong or gun.

*Tong means spear or war in the Dinka syntax, or a secret criminal society in the Chinese
context.
Since it is inevitable to stop the idea whose timing has matured, I see it our moral duty in
the Sudan to replace the swords of war with words of war, in order to displace wards of
war with wards of wares. Yes, but yet, we must not be only drifting or sifting, but wholly
lifting and shifting, with shrift and thrift, from words of war to war of words, as we forget
the past and forge ahead past the present , through this favourite slogan: Aluta Continua
the struggle continues.
Since Sudan has been suffering hard but is now hardly recovering from cancer of wars
through ulcer of words, I, the expressively ulcerated Sudanese, am suffering from cancer
of words. That is why you will find this slogan not sung with anaemia but with leukaemia
of words, totaling to about or above 66,000 in this poetic volume, just as many as in other
writings of my fighting.

The Literal Message for the Lateral Massage: Eventually, it is my prayer and hope that
The Black Christs of Africa preaches not the usually poetic ghost spell but the hugely
prophetic gospel to you as it has done to me (Poem : My PPPP Dream). Actually, the
me I felt earlier on Day 1 with Poem 1 is different from the me I felt later on Day 333 with
Poem 333 in the 3-year long anthropology of this anthology. From my personal experi-
ence, Literature, especially poetry, is about the daily atmosphere inside and outside an
individual, that is the mood; but the moods in my poems are themselves a mild stage of
the wild state of the stress in Sudan in particular, and the distress in Africa in general.
Precisely, my readers are commonly those who feel or those who are filled with the
spirit of humanity; and rarely those to whom and for whom the poems appeal with the
spread of nationalism.
Actually, having punctually squeezed the first 100 poems into the first 100 days of the
marked deadline between 07-07-07 and 08-08-08, later extended to 09-09-09, I cannot
hoot my own horn that my speed and speech of composing these poems were due to my
having been well groomed in the classroom. No. It was due to having been well confined
in the clash-room; from the clashes within the world within me and within the world
without me.
I was just able to literally find and divine not yet able to literarily divide and define the
moods, tones, themes and styles in me as in the poems. Therefore, you will find most of
the elements in form of songs or lamentations therein, as cited and recited in the samples
of my twin music albums of 'The For $ale Series': Noise for Sale (Poem 100: vii, a) and
Tears for Sale (Poem 100: vii, b).
For instance, when I am rationally dormant, the style is irrationally dominant; when I
am emotionally possessed, the result is a refrain or repetition, and when sentimentally
dumb-founded, you will find rare stylistic devices such as tongue twisters. This is seen
on Chapter 3: The Horror of Terror in the Era of Error, and Chapter 4: The Poly-tricks of
Politics, and so on as you soar on.

The Signpost.....
Do also watch out for brain-twisters, brainteasers or brain-teachers, indicating the

personas direct confusion or indirect confession, especially in the later chapters of my
emotional outpour. Physically, I have gone an extra mile to visually convey the message
in convex curves such as in poems namely, 22 (Sudan map) , 25 (Xmas Tree), 50 (alarm
bell), 54 (grave), 71 (bottle/lady shape), 86 (descending into hell) and 93 (cup/glass of
thoughts), 202 (love curve), etc.
Sometimes, I could step out of my own self and view the world in the lenses of a distant
dissident or independent bystander, for example, with compliments or complaints in the
name of Isaac Abu-Izaach (Isaac, the noisemaker) as seen on Chapter 19, which is a series
of short but sharp poems from my afterthought.
Thus bringing me to this conclusion, one may as well call it confusion, that being in
freedom with everything means being at random in anything. This, they call meddling
or muddling. And that, exactly, is my style here; peddling my own feelings by paddling
my own canoe, the real definition of democracy, or the surreal exhibition of 'demo-crazy'
according to Afrocracy (Poem).
To my readers, freedom of mis/interpretation is granted even if it makes some chapters,

poems, stanzas, lines or words seem to sound egocentric, ethnocentric, eccentric, etcen-
tric. Well, they may neither be formal nor normal as such, but caution! if you bump
your eyes on any errors in many areas in this collection, do not dump them; hump them
along, for these are mine, typically Pennic to say: personal, intentional and conventional
to my approach.
Look, for instance, at harmnesty (Poem 5), Of Terradditional God (23), Inno-sent Souldiers
(24), Chols Choldren (68), and My Theolosophy (Chapter 13), plus new words smuggled
into English Language such as poemusician, poemagician, poetician, Pennique(-ic), etc.
Subject matter by Chapters

This book, already blasphemously dubbed by my friends, 'Bible of Poems', covers a wide
range of themes and subject matter, which are spread on over 30 chapters of over 300
poems on over 300 pages, tackling differing stylistic devices. However, there is no clear
distinction of the thematic distribution between the consecutive chapters. Some chapters
either overlap or run on to each other thematically and systematically.

Chapter X
This chapter, also known as the Prologue, explores the diversity of introduction and
exploits the advantage of having been the first and the last to get written. Its the biggest
chapter of the book and comprises 10 articles, the first being a dedication. Others include
the table of contents, the table of contacts, which include a copyright and contacts of the
author presented poetically in a dotcom style. Another one is the table of contexts. This
is a glossary of Pennique and younique (unique) terms used in the entire book. Pennique
terms are those concocted by the author whereas younique terms are those viewed by
you, the critic, as eccentric.
The BBCs breaking news announces the arrival of the Black Christ to (South) Africa,
an Apartheid picture depicting a black chief being crucified. It is by historic coincidence
the historical antecedent is but not from which this title was derived. Likewise, the
prophecy against Cush as part of this introduction examines whether the oracle has come
to pass or has to come to pass.
The two consecutive essays, The first word or the foreword and the authors note, The
Signpost, which you are now reading, are the largest poetic discourses in the book, while
the real poems of this chapter, Aluetluet Editors, Go to Hell and Over Hundredfold
SaysPagesDaysAges, tell more about the exegesis and the genesis of the poems in
the collection.
Chapter Y and Z:
Unlike Chapter X, chapter Y, followed by Z, is the smallest chapter in the book. It is just
a poem designed as the opening prayer, composed on my hospital bed after surviving a
week-long ordeal of kidnapping in Kampala, negotiating with God to add me more days.
This chapter corresponds with the last Chapter Z, The Closing Prayer, put at the back of
the book, asking God to deliver us from eve-ill, the evil that may arise from the public
reaction to the content of this or another book, or the one that has befallen us in South-
ern Sudan, Sudan, Africa or the world in that order.
Chapter 1: This chapter is the brainchild of this book. It comprises 18 poems, proceeded
by the title you first saw on the cover of this book, followed by a similar one, and then the
similar ones. It tackles the most complex theme of heroism and nationalism, which are
the order of the day in Sudan in particular and Africa in general.
Chapter 2: An extension of Chapter 1 but in a different genre: letter format, this chapter
blends politics of nationalism with peace, justice, history, religion and nature. It calls
upon political stakeholders of this world to replace confrontation with reconciliation,
conciliation and consolation from the political conflicts resulting into or from civil wars
and terrorism of the contemporary era.

Chapter X.....
Chapter 3: The third chapter tells it all in one rhythmic heading: The Horror of Terror
in the Era of Error. The first two poems attributed to two key dictators, P.W. Botha and
Saddam Hussein, and their accomplices sampled from the shadow of the contemporary
politics of our current world, seem to say against our African perspectives on death,
serves you right.
And the other seven poems following reflects the opposite, the imposition of horror and
terror from bad politics or leadership, and the opposition thereof. Chapter three is pre-
sented in speeches, biblical versions and visions, victims monologues and soliloquiesgo
to page . and attend and watch. Watch out! It is pure politics! You may take side!
Chapters 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20
Why no acknowledgement? Finally, if I made a mistake of including the word Acknowl-

edgement among the titles of Chapter X: herein known as The Prologue, I would be
condemned, like Africa; condemned to debts/sentenced to debts penalty/to service debts for
eternity (Chapter 5: Poem 39). This is because I am heavily indebted to everyone. Over the
last 20 years, I have been under a certain fate supervisor.
In other words, a faith survivor mysterious I have been totally dependent on God, and
Mama Nature. Thanks to the plants of green leaves, the trees of wild but succulent fruits
and roots of the bushes of southern Sudan and northern Uganda. And thanks to people,
people whose list alone needs another book like this. Gracefully and gratefully, these
poems are due to:
Emmanuel J. Christ
He or she or it
That is lain
And slain
For free
For me
Sincerely, I cannot tamper with the too many individual names of such Emmanuels, the
(f)actors who (in)directly invested either meagerly or majorly in my head, now being
harvested with this and other, and another book. I can still recall names such as my
mothers Keth Bathou, the first to sacrifice her all and last savings, which is the first and
last contribution to my school fees from my family member or family income, a coin of 10
Sudanese Pounds, barely a tenth of a dollar then, for my pencil.
This 10-pence budget, which I won for my inspiring pen , was initially debated and betted
for buying one loaf of bread for my younger brother, one leaf of ostrich feather for my
elder brother or one leaf of tobacco for my elderly father in 1990. More names are in my
debts gallery, like of Dan Callery, a solitary American businessman who, for God-knows
reasons, came to Africa during the times it rained fire and brimstone on Sudan, just to

lose thousands of dollars of his business fortune to education-thirsty lost boys wander-
ing in South Sudan and East Africa, among them me.
The names are too many to mention. That is why, in advance, I regret excluding names of
my friends in deeds and my friends in needs. For this reason, if I mentioned Peter Atem
Ngor of Rhino Stars, Philip Makhor Majak, Nhial Titt Nhial and his colleagues of the
New Sudan Vision news website, then all the rest who contributed in either funding or
founding my latent talent may feel cheated.
For all the names I have regrettably excluded in The Black Christs of Africa, I hereby
pledge to incredibly and indelibly include in my Black Cries for Africa, (not The Black
Cries of Africa, poem 33 but) an anthology of names published in my best wishes and my
daily prayers to heaven.
God be praised, and
Long live the long list of my donors.

Long live the long lease of their dollars.
Long live the long list of my heroes.

Wrong live the long list of my Herods.
Your faithful donor

Of your fateful honor,
J.P. de Ngong
Juba, South Sudan
07-07-0709-09-09

IX Forewarning Note
Aluetluet Editors, Go to Hell!

Every book is edited; alright.
But this one of mine; oh wrong!
NO to *Aluetluets for poems of my poignancy,
Lest they omit something and admit nothing in its pregnancy.
To others my words are but insinuated insult intended indeed,
But how and who and why dare edit an insult intended for the heed?
And if by any means edited

In the manner of money audited,
The intended insult will become an extended result
Of someone elses mental digestion an excellent excreta,
From insult to result;
From bitter fact to better fiction,
Call it flat flattery unintended, though.
Why edit a boys voice?

The bush boys mind
Shant be subjected
To some bossy-boozy-busy neo-tra-lies-ed mind;
For the dotcom generation
Has the sitcom veneration.
Im a retired boy-soldier,
Disarmed of my gun an old AK47,
Re-armed with a pen my new AK47.
It is said, the pen is mightier than the sword,
My word my s-word, a double-edged sword.
For rather I would shoot with my tongue and pen,
Nor me neither I would shoot with a tong and gun.
Longing to be knighted tongue conqueror,

For they say, the tongue is the pen of the mind,
Or I say, my pen is the gun of my mind,
So let Mr. Gunner-Penner shoot, shout
Pick and speak his mind
While hot, why not?

Aluetluet Editors, Go to Hell!.....
Behold, and beware!

My words are but bullets.
And my soft spot a target of a boy-scorpion.
But it isnt you, and if you, be it you, then.
Bully, reading my bullets from my bulletins,
Thou shall sniff into thy mind enough snuff,
Yet to thy soul sniff the stuff, enoughs enough.
And hate me for it for nothing,
And hit me for it with nothing.
To keep off my heat,

Keep off your head,
Your heart,
Your art,
From my areas of errors.
A grammarian is to my word,
As a sectarian is to my work.
He whod ever tampered to audit bullets from my AK.47s barrel

Would neer be tempted to edit bullying from Master Pens quarrel.*
* * Aluetluet is a Sudanese native bird of the weaver family that pecks every peg
in a garden or a cattle camp and seems to suggest, Were I here, this one would not be
here.
Reviewers are usually people who would have been poets, historians, biographers,if
they could; they have tried their talents at one or the other, and have failed; therefore they
turn critics.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 - 1834)

British poet.
X Preamble
Over Hundredfold Says...Pages...Days...Ages
Over triple hundred poems,
In over triple hundred days,
With over threefold hundred says,
For over threefold hundred years:
Aware that the word written

Is older than the world ridden,
All my words,
All my works,
Are hereby scripted
In my gospel, manuscripted
Of thrice a hundred poems;
Aware that an available occasion

Is the most valuable possession,
All my says,
All my pays,
Are therefore consolidated
In the shortest time dedicated,
In over thrice a hundred days;
Aware that a poem has a lifespan,

Equals the expiry date of a human,
All my points,
All my poems,
Are therefore annexed
For a generation next
Of one hundred years:
For I know not now

What our evolving society of the 21st century
Will be involving societally in the 22nd century.
Actually, having punctually squeezed the first 100 poems into the first 100 days of the
marked deadline between 07-07-07 and 08-08-08, I cannot hoot my own horn that my
speed and speech of composing these poems was due to my having been well groomed in
the classroom.
John Penn de Ngong (The Signpost: Author's Notes, The Black Christs of Africa)

Chapter Y
The Opening Prayer
A.S.K. as an acronym of:

Ask, and it will be given to you;
Seek, and you will find;
Knock, and it will be opened to you.
Matt. 7:7

XI
Add Me More Days
If I could,
O Lord of life,
request you
to lend me alive
some few more days,
for some free mere says;
Since a day
means a poem,
a day a point,
a day a posit,
a day a post,
in my lifetime;
Please, let me borrow

a thousand more days
from the age
booked for me
either in hell
or in heaven;
To write
a thousand more poems,
a thousand more points;
to put right
a thousand more minds,
a thousand more souls.*
* God, Let me fall sick so that I know who is closest to me.

Dinka (Bor) Proverb. (The above poem was a prayer on my hospital bed after the
kidnapping in 2006 and stabbing in 2007).

XII
O let me see that day!
When politicians often say,

The end justifies the means,
I say, does it justify the ruins?
O Good Lord of Lords,

Lo! I'm among the hordes;
Struggling to survive I dare,

But will I really reach there?
O dear, let me see that day.*
* I do not want to die...until I have faithfully made the most of my talent and
cultivated the seed that was placed in me until the last small twig has grown.
Kthe Kollwitz (1867 - 1945)

German artist.
Diaries and Letters

Chapter 1
Heroism and Nationalism

I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!
Patrick Henry (1736 - 1799)
American statesman and orator.
Speech to the Virginia Convention
The Hero can be Poet, Prophet, King, Priest or what you will, according to the kind of
world he finds himself born into.
Thomas Carlyle (1795 - 1881)

Scottish historian and essayist.
On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History, "The Hero as Poet"
And for our country 't is a bliss to die.
Alexander Pope (1688 - 1744)

English poet.

Poem 1
The Black Christs of Africa
You, O saviours, I salute,

With due honours absolute
To you, whether here on earth,
Or who weather there in the hearth.
No vain salvation with blood.

We the heirs of your vein flood
Believe our crises have been atoned
By you our Christs that have been stoned.

Being black is not being blank.
Our Herods crucified our heroes,
But their Bloc cant block the Black.
Hail Jesuses, to heaven your souls sail,
But Hell Judases, to oven your souls sell;
As we, here in Africa, err,

Remain heir in a free care,
Our Martyrs, its you we owe,
Our murder land, its we you awe,
Our Motherland, its you we own.*
* I dont mind if my life goes in the service of the nation. If I die today every drop of
my blood will invigorate the nation.
Indira Gandhi (1917 - 1984)
Indian Prime Minister.
Said the night before she was assassination

Poem 2
The Blood Donors of Africa
The donors of blood

Are redeemers of life
Of patients who cry flood
In bitter search for sweet life
Till they breathe lastget floored
On their earth deathbeds, they strive.
He who drains a vein

To irrigate your dry life
Is no daring saviour in vain.
Our land is a hospital of strife,
Where bloody bannered war van
Is burned with a million donors of life.
Bloods the cocoon of life

And they that offer blood,
Donate with it their own life.
The rivers and floods of blood,
With multitudes of Christly life,
Have redeemed our beloved Bilad
El-Sudan.*
* The struggle for black freedom has been tied to their history by cords of anguish
and rivers of blood.
Vincent Harding (1931 - )
U.S. historian.
The Other American Revolution

Poem 3
Mother, what really is your name?
You gave birth to me,

You gave me a name,
And you gave death to me,
But, Mother, what's your name?
They think you're an Arab Republic of Sudan,

We think you are an African Republic of Sudan.
Nay, I do know you existed here not all of a sudden,
I do believe you're an original constituency of the Eden.
For millennia, they know you by the original name of Cush,

Hence, for centuries, we have been trying to pull and push,
To bring you back to your first biblical fame of Ethiopia,
That, we deadly believe, will be our ideal state of utopia.
Finally, we beseech Her Majesty, Queen Candace

Of the fossilized Kingdoms of Meroe, Mankuria, Nubia, so that
She pleads with God to bring back our stolen Grace,
To install in the land of whirring wings the virgin 'Republic of Sudd'. *
* My vision is to derive a formula to define whether the country I am envisioning is

peopled by Arab-Africans or African-Arabs. I am not a pastor but I know The Bible (Genesis
2:8-14) bears witness that Sudan is part of the Garden of Eden. That even means the Garden
might be located somewhere around a small place called Wankulei in the Sudd region, where
I come from.
Dr. John Garang de Mabior,

Quoted by the author in a Public Lecture after the signing of the Sudan Comprehensive
Peace Agreement organized by Pan African Movement, February 28, 2005, Hotel Equato-
ria, Kampala, Uganda.

Poem 4
St. John Garang

His name is John,
Who baptized us with blood,
Fire and spirit of nationalism
In Red Sea, Nile and Mount Senile.
A practical Pastor,
Who preached the message of unity
And peace on the podium of rigidity
In the stadium of dignity.
A dogmatic Doctor,
Who prescribed medicines of freedom
Against injustice and serfdom
With our own toil on our own soil.
A firm farmer,
Who sowed seeds of prosperity,
And self-determination for posterity, Against illegitimate inheritance of our
With a nuclear tractor. Mother.
A gallant General, St. John II is whole alive,

Who led a resistance against the wall of For heroes ne'er mortally die,
Jericho, They into political hibernation dive,
And felled it down, And in historical metamorphosis lie
With a hundredfold armies by a thousandfold In an actively fossilized volcanic ambush,
enemies. To erupt into another hero in arms and
The Black Christ of Africa: he is bush.
Prophet Moses II, Saint John Garang,

Martin Luther King II; A political martyr and missionary,
He is John the Baptist II, The Sent, John Garang,
Beheaded for being big-headed A historical revolutionary and visionary.
Sudan will never be the same again,
Said John Garang.
Amen!-?
*
* That new saint, than whom nothing purer or more brave was ever led by love of
men into conflict and death...will make the gallows glorious like the cross.
Attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882)
U.S. poet and essayist.
Referring to John Browns execution.
Poem 4
Nailson Mandela
Abandoned, the Blacks became abundant and
Redundant. He saw them resorting to their socio-economic
Idol worshipping as they were damn
Idle. Yet their miserable life that had
Cordoned them off into their health-gagged ghettos (was)
Condoned by their overwhelmingly wealth-gagged geckos.
Reasons, as such, made him braved

Prisons, where he met his comrades
Rot for the very cause. Of course, hed
Not surrendered to the racial abuse (of)
Apartheid, whose architects political
Appetite was the Blacks gaping abyss.
Nelson Mandela was the native African

Nail sown under the oppressive, suppressive, exotic cushion.
Because he was annoyed with the unholy spread of Afrikaan racism,
Of course he was anointed with the oily spirit of African nationalism,
Rust or rot never destroyed his vision and mission in captivity as he did
Trust not the harmnesty from the faces of the fascists and the racists.
Downloaded his roles from our African Dinosaurs

Nailson Man-dela
Uploaded these roles to our African die-innocents:
Hail Samora Michel.
Hail Garang de Mabior, and all the
Black martyrs of Africa, (the)
Black Christs of Africa.*
* I will never ask for amnesty. Not now, not tomorrow, not after tomorrow.
PW Botha, June 1999, Truth and Reconciliation Commission (of South Africa).

Poem 5
Martin Luther King II

Martin Luther is King.
Hes not a losers king.
The seeds of freedom he has sown,
The seat of reformation he has shown,
Like the white Martin, Luther I,
Who filtered Protestantism from Catholicism,
The Black Martin Luther II,
Fostered protectionism against Racism.
It was from his footstep

In 1955 that Rosa Park,
Of Southern USA, Rose not to pack
For a white passenger.
Turning into a wild messenger,
She defied the white man
And defined the black man
In the history of mankind in America
With the story of man coming from Africa.
It was from her footstep

That women put their fullstop
To mark their marginalization,
To make their realization
In the world all of a sudden.
Like Katipa Banat of Southern Sudan,
Since 1955, the women battalions,
Warrior wives of battle lions,
Who played their roles in the fights,
Paid and paved the way for their rights. *
* It is better to be the widow of a hero than the wife of a coward.

Dolores Ibrruri (1895 - 1989)
Spanish politician and journalist.

Poem 6
The Lion of Jubah

In his days came*
The Lion of Judah,
Armed with armistice and justice,
A lawyer-cum-liberator of Judah,
To lift off the yoke of law
From adulteresses on the list of stoning, From the wilderness of Jordan,
To see free his people John the Baptist came again
From the spi-ritual yoke of slavery. To the wilderness of Sudan.
Though unto the earth his sole was nailed, His vision and mission,
His soul unto heaven was hailed. Our chronic drunkenness,
His mission today we enjoin, Refueled by spirit of nationalism,
His vision tomorrow well enjoy, Championed by our Joshua,
Continued by his flag bearer, Gen. Solver Key.
The Holy Guest.
In the Israelites days lived
But before came a Lion of Israel, Other lions of Judah,
The great liberator-cum- prophet, On the obverse side of the coin,
Who roared in the face of Pharaoh, With the adverse side of the toil.
And offloaded the boulders of pyramids Those Judases of Judah,
From his people in serfdom in Egypt. Once furnished with flakes,
He led them across the great Sea of Reed, Were punished with plagues,
Into the Promised Land of freedom in Israel, Or the Promised Land of Canaan opened her
Though his body crashed on Mount Carmel, mouth
His vision, his mission rushed in his people, And them were swallowed
Furthered by his flag bearer, Joshua. Before they opened their mouths
In our days existed And have Her swallowed.
The Lion of Jubah, Lo, Judases of Jubah,
The Lion of Nubah, Armed with teeth of injustice,
The Lion of the Nile, Once furnished with cornflakes,
To relieve his people And punished with conflicts,
Of the buckets of human dung, Behold and be warned,
Of the yoke of slave trade, Shouldnt you shut your mouths,
To batter serfdom with his knife, The Promised Land of Canal will send her
To barter freedom with his life. moths.
With the message of salvation
* Ultimately a hero is a man who would argue with Gods, and awakens devils to
contest his vision.
Norman Mailer (1923 - )
U.S. novelist and journalist.
The Presidential Papers

Poem 7
Of our Holocaust
Hello, hero,
Hello heroine,
Never yet give in.
Let's fight on, on, on
Pick not that hot money,
It won't buy us that honey
For which now we are dying,
leave behind everything lying,
For should we err and give up,
We'll drink bitter the Wrath's cup
Of the holocaust of our hollow cause.*

* I herewith commission you to carry out all preparations with regard to...a total
solution of the Jewish question, in those territories of Europe which are under German
influence.
Hermann Goering (1893 - 1946)
German Nazi leader, July 31, 1941.
Written order sent to Reinhard Heydrich, deputy chief of the SS.

Poem 8
The Gangs of Hollow Wood

Gang-gang-aha-a-a!
Snigger they,
The sneaky niggers,
At them sleazy cowards,
Who dive in holes with moles and rats.
Rat-a-tat-tat!
Fire they,
The hot gang,
At them too timid,
Who lie in burrows with rabbits.
Rap, rap-up, rip off, hip hop!

Rap they,
The holly gang
Of our hollow wood,
Who dies for us for our paradise.
Hail our commando,

Led by John Commander,
The best actor and director,
Of the holly gang of hollow wood,
For the saddened peoples libation armistice,
Or the saddened peoples' libation moment.*
* I dont know what effect these men will have on the enemy, but, by God, they
frighten me.
Attributed to Duke of Wellington (1769 - 1852)
Irish-born British general and prime minister, 1810.

Poem 9
In The Battle of Holy Wood
The Elephant Grass,

Mowed down by foe's sickle,
Withered but did not waver;
They fell were felled for us,
In The Battle of Holy Wood.
The Giant Ebony trees,

Hewed down by foe's axe,
Did it and became the weaver
Of a Freedom Palace for us,
In The Battle of Holy Wood.
The Gallant Scapegoats and Rams,

Sacrificed on the Altar of Justice,
So that today, after today and forever
We survive budding in their chorus,
To further on The Battle of Holy Wood.
The virtuously insane Saints,

Crucified at the Calvary of Slavery,
So that today, after today and forever
We build our Secret Sacred Shrine,
With their pallid, solid, hollow wood,
Fetched from The Battlefield of Holy Wood.*
* For all have not the gift of martyrdom.

John Dryden (British Poet, Dramatist and Critic of Literacy, 1631 1700)

Poem 10
In the Noon Moon

When our men got annoyed
By the spirit of racism,
They also got anointed
With the spirit of nationalism,
With which they got drugged
To the extent of betting by their land,
Allowing their valour to have them dragged
Like termites into the swimming parlour of fire.
We owe Bul Koch and the rests who risked for our land,
For which they braved the grave and swore by bonfire,
That they licked as it licked them in the noon moon.

Long live the Anya-nya gallant warriors,
That got drunk
Against the spirit of serfdom.
They stood up to dunk
Their might in the spirit of freedom.
Addicted to national alcoholism,
They challenged rains of fire,
In search of liberty in colonialism.
They spent the simmering summers of the noon,
Enjoying the African heavenly fire
with the romantic feeling of a noon moon.*
* Once plagued with a tragic sense of inferiority resulting from the effects of slavery
and segregation, the Negro has now been driven to reevaluate himself. He has come to feel
that he is a somebody. With this new sense of somebodiness and self-respect, a new Negro
has emerged with a new determination to achieve freedom and human dignity whatever
the cost maybe.
Martin Luther King, Jr.
The Testament of Hope.

Poem 11
The Moods in the Woods
When we deserted our town,

And laid our serfdom tool down,
And rushed for our freedom tickets,
In our own native impenetrable thickets,
The machines jangled in the jungle of Jonglei,
With the epic poems of the jungle by jongleur,
Ringing thr'out the vastness of the Africountry.
The war cry and freedom bell of the century,
Rung by the biblical tall and smooth-skinned
Folks, feared far an' wide as wrath-skilled.
The men that then transpired fire
And perspired scarlet water
on faces making kids falter,
had the moods of doom,
in the woods of boom.
Lo, as if out of tombs
With their bombs,
They dared death
And saved birth.
They saw blood
like the flood
that swept
all bereft
of their lives
and their hives.*
* The object of war is not to die for your country but to make the other bastard die for
his.
General George Patton (1885 1945)
Poem 12
Goons of Boons
Yes, go ahead; push me,
Load onto my head even three,
Only when doing it for my good.
Even if I'm working with no food,
As I'm trudging on bare foot,
Yes, kick me with your boot.
Unlike them I won't call you goons,

For them you are my fellow baboons.
Though I'm damn sweating,
I know my future is awaiting,
Only that you later destroy it not by spoons,
Thence will I call you my goons of my boons.
"Alah! arah, move! Boy, you are too young to ask why and know where you are carrying
this. Soon you will," said a Sudan Peoples' Liberation Army's freedom fighter of the Lion
Battalion to this poet as he was being herded and loaded with boxes of explosives from
his village in 1986. Four years later, he was able to know and join them in the bush.
Poem 13
Our Nation-all Anthem
O God, the Almighty Creator,
Who had us shown how to own this world,
Having us sown into the southern half of the Sudan,
We adore you who adorned us with flood of blood,
For which we priced our piece of earth out of hearth,
Hail our gallant freedom fighters!

We praise thee whose veinal flood
Irrigated our soil on which we toil
To excavate the spoil fossilized into oil.
We commemorate and celebrate your rivers of blood
That cleanses our wills and cleanses the ills of our pharaohs.
We eventually arise to arouse

The energies and synergies of our posterity,
Exhume and instill in them the hibernating Kingdom of Cush,
And invoke our ancestors and provoke our successors into prosperity,
We ask the God of our land to lend us liberty we'll all together push,
Push Cush into eternity, and never ever again retreat or surrender.

Poem 14
Freedom Anthem
Donkeys and monkeys,

Dogs and ducks,
Cows and camels,
Chickens and sheep,
Kick, O ye like unicorn!
Keep off ye in unison:
Nets off necks,

Bags off backs,
Heaps off heads,
Boulders off shoulders.
Dockers and porters,

Conductors and truckers,
Contractors with tractors,
Builders with bulldozers,
Shoot, O ye in uniform!
Shout oyee in unison:
Boulders off shoulders

Boulders off builders,
Heaps off heads.
Chiefs and chefs,

Serfs and servants,
Messengers and passengers,
Women and war men,
Shoot, O ye in uniform!
Shout oyee in unison:
Bags off backs,

Boulders off builders;
Sleep ye watchmen and wash-men,

Boycott ye turn-boys and town boys,
Malinger ye drivers and deliverers,
Native citizens: O third class denizens, Shoot, O ye in uniform!
Squatter residents, be ye first class dissidents, Shout oyee in unison:
*
Boulders off shoulders.
* Brute force, no matter how strongly applied, can never subdue the basic human
desire for freedom.
Dalai Lama
Poem 15
Freedom Rosary
Jesus Christ,
pray for us sinners.
Mother Mary,
pray for us toddlers.
Prophet Moses,
pray for us liberators.
Martin Luther King,
pray for us slaves.
Pope John Paul,
pray for us believers.
George Washington,
pray for us leaders.
Mother Theresa,
pray for us orphans.
Rosa Parks,
pray for us heroines.
John Garang,
pray for us heroes.
Fr. Saturino Lahore,
pray for us martyrs.
Nelson Mandela,
pray for us prisoners.*
* There is in this world no such force as the force of a person determined to rise. The
human soul cannot be permanently chained.
W. E. B. DuBois

Poem 16
Our Dead Line
Our dead line

Lies somewhere there
In between
Them and us.
Our dead line

Has lain dead
For ages and ranges,
Marrying them into us.
Our dead line

Is our death line,
With millions of lives
Donated to retrace it.
Our dead line

Is not our dead lie,
For it has a deadline
By which well redraw our date-line.
Let them withdraw their dead lie,

Of turning into their history our ancestry line,
The Ngok chieftains, all Nine; Nuba Hills tribes, ninety-nine,
All mine: plus the major Beja, darling Darfur, southern Blue Nile*
* The truth for which we are killed is this: the salt of our land, soil like salt
We are not sojourners pillaging a foreign land/ we are the real owners of the country.
The soil which has taken our blood, will mend our wounds/the land will come to our rescue;
Is there a soil which does not know its owner?/The country resembles us
Let us call upon God to join us on earth/God who created human kind and gave each their
own land,
And created boundaries upon the earth/so that we become free by ourselves/now and forever,
and ever.
A revolutionary hymn by Mary Aluel Garang,
Translated by Rev. Marc R. Nikkel (1955 2000)
Dinka Christianity (Paulines Publications Africa, 2001)
Poem 16
Poem 17
Why dis my ability? Saving enough tears for that Day

Mock me not,
While bragging Save not many money,
With your fattened lamb, Save your tears for years.
While dragging Waste not for me your joke,
My flattened limb, For I will not shed a drop.
While blinking Wield not your tormenting whip,
My shrinking eye. For I will not drop a tear.
Call not a clan to console me
Not that I was amputated Upon my father's death news,
For pickpocketing or shoplifting, Too premature to let go my wail and tears.
Neither was my bone mutilated So I've locked my high lips and blocked my eyelids,
In a motor accident, In both scream for pain and scream for gain.
But in a mortar incident; Be it for victory or defeat, I will cry, cry, cry
For your child and mine. Cry my voice hose, cry my eyes dry,
Cry the Niger and the Nile of tears that Day:
Though visually disabled, The day I was born forthe day I will die for,
Im all virtually enabled. The end of my serfdomthe advent of my freedom.*
My heart doesnt limp,
My spirit isnt bent,
Only the limbs limp.
My practical disability
Isnt my technical inability.
Give up this joke,

Give us this job.
I cannot jog,
But Im upright,
Straight inside, * Weeping may endure for a night, but joy
Though crooked outside. cometh in the morning.
King James Bible, Psalms 30:05
I lack agility.
I luck ability.
So never dis my ability.*
* The only disability in life is a bad at-

titude.
Scott Hamilton

Chapter 2
Letters of Conciliation and Consolation

It is forbidden ever to make peace with a monarch, a prince or a people who have not
submitted.
Genghis Khan (1167? - 1227)
Mongol ruler and conqueror.
The stupid neither forgive nor forget; the naive forgive and forget; the wise forgive but do
not forget.

Thomas Szasz (1920 - )
Hungarian-born U.S. psychiatrist.
The Second Sin, "Personal Conduct"

Poem 18
Obama invites Osama

January 20, 2009.
Dear Mr. Osama,
I am Mr. Obama.
Come out of the bush.
I am no longer Mr. Bush.
My other names are Hussein Barack,
My other aims are not in the Barrack,
Alternatively meaning blessings or Baraka.
But watch out, it also sounds like barracker!
I wanna walk my talk

From the American town of Omaha,
I'm gonna talk my walk
Upto the Japanese town of Obama.
Just imagine, Mr. Bin Laden,
Why the human race has been laden
With every condition that is problematic,
Simply because this era is Osamatic.
Oi, dude, the world is gonna be automatic,
Since America has now gone Obamatic.
While the news headlines still read:

"OBAMA INVITES OSAMA",
"OSAMA INCITES OBAMA";
Before they otherwise turn to read:
"OBAMA INVADES OSAMA",
"OSAMA EVADES OBAMA",
Please, let's give the earth the peace
That we have been keeping apiece.*
In the Holimighty Name of Godallah, President Barack H. Obama.

Yours obamatically, Oval Office, White House,
Watchington, USA.
E-mail: blackman@whitehouse.com
* The problem for Al Qaeda is not that Obama is just like Bush. The problem for
terrorists fomenting hatred toward the West is that Obama, born to a Muslim father and
schooled in a Muslim country, is popular in the Arab world.
Johanna Neuman, L.A. Times.

Poem 19
Open the Windoor of Peace
Yesterday, I watched a child,
In an IDP clinic, running amok and wild,
With stunning noise from running nose,
With no nurse to diagnose,
Sniffing and sneezing in vain,
Pressure bulging his eyes and jugular vein,
Breathing through his lips, agape
Like a chick choked with a grape,
His nostrils plastered by gummy stuff,
Panting for a helping hand of any staff,
To open one door of life into his lungs and heart: Please,
please, open the window of peace!
Another one squatted yonder,

But nothing dropping under.
Having been fed on water lily and weed soup,
The evening before she joined the weak group,
Now pushing her bowels out with constipation,
Culminating from the rampant ration confiscation.
The minor next to her had his eyes sealed off
By an excruciating blindness, caused by flies of
The garbage, from where he scavenges for his daily bread,
Having been forced by the have-nots' hunger widespread.
Groping for a helping hand to open one door of light to his soul: Please,
please, open the window of peace!
Yesteryear, a steel angel of death spread its fiery faeces,

Throwing up the husk of the earth into our dreary faces,
As we groaned and groped out of our artificial blindness,
We received not in kind any act of kindness.
'Twas as if the smoke from the pit of the abyss darkened
The whole world, that turned us deaf ears, instead of having harkened
To the lonely cries of the innocent toddlers that were acting Christ
In the mercy of the marauding mujahedeen's Operation Iron Fist.
We wallowed in, and swallowed, the impenetrable smoke.
The only word all this group of sufferers and survivors spoke
With their open hands and hearts to authors of war and peace: Please,
please, open the wind door of peace!*
* If I was the head of a country that lost a war, and I had to sign a peace treaty,
just as I was signing Id glance over the treaty and then suddenly act surprised. Wait a
minute! I thought WE won! Jack Handey
Poem 20
To Tutu
My dear friend, Tito Tutu,
Where is our bro, Kuwa Kuku?
Now, I do share my tukul with Tuku,
And so do Dudu and her brother Duku.
Remember how nostalgic and strategic the hills of Kakwa and Kuku!
Did you hear? I crossed to the immediate land of Juju and met Tuju.
I can't recall but regret why and how we parted,

I can't remember where and when you departed.
What I know is you were led all the way from Nuba Mountains by Emma Tong,
To join me in 1990 in a course for a cause in the darkly bambooed Imatong.
Do you know how and when the ranges of Nuba and Juba will ever meet?
Me, I do, in/after 2011 by means of ballot or bullet the duo must greet!*
* We need a common enemy to unite us.

Condoleeza Rice,
Former US Secretary of State.
Poem 19
To Mister Sinister Minister
Dear Honorable Minister,
Congratulations! I no longer refer to you,
Like during the bush, as my dear horrible monster.
From the Diaspora, I am being forced to write to you,
Enquiring if your internet invitation is no longer sinister.
I can hardly believe that all that you say in the media is true!
Have you ever been bothered by all you made us passed thru?
I went there last year, but could not duly to your office enter,
For I would behave like we were still in the training center.
Or if I did, I would be forced to ask, "Where is my sister?"
Remember, before you became this sinless minister,
Remember the treatment you used to administer,
You or your men took my only sister, spinster!
Now that you've come back in a big way,
Where is my sister, anyway?*
* Think no more of it, John; you are only a child who has had evil counsellors.
Richard I (1157 - 1199)
English monarch.
Said at his reconciliation, at Lisieux in May 1194, with his brother John, who had at-
tempted to overthrow him while he was held prisoner in Germany (1193-1194).

Poem 19
A Social Interview with Comrade Colonel O

Hell, Commander O
Pleasure meeting you!
Since we parted in
Hello Jesh Ahmr,

Correction: Im now Comrade Colonel O,
You still live there? Those are those days
Of Commander Channel O of Commando,
Cdr Chl O, now Cde Col. O.
Congrats! Cde Col. O!

Shake my five upon your five stars.
You remember now?
Of course, Cde Jesh Ahmr,

But Correction again:
Shake my five upon my six;
I am not a lieutenant colonel,
I am full!
Oops sorry
For the demotion!
Col. O, do you recall me?
Oooo! in my class!
Red Army with AK47 in your left,
And the AK48 or pen in your right,
A class monitor and a platoon leader.
I was your history teacher.
Exactly, Cde Col. O,

You remember when you entered the class
With a pistol in your left and a chalk in your right?
I remember Sgt. Monitor,

In 1991 Palotaka B ran out of chalkboard,
And your class carpentered it out of cardboard,
I remember when we began our lesson with charcoal
On chalkboard cut out of cooking oil carton!

A Social Interview with Comrade Colonel O.....
There youre, Col. O!
We knew you by Commander Channel O,
Now Cde Colonel O, whats your real name?
I used to enjoy Vietnam war movies

And Music like Channel O at Hai Cinema
Till I joined this war and my colleagues named me so,
Because I also enjoyed artillery cacophony like I do music.
In full, Im Charlie Olweny, born during Anya-nya I at Owiny-ki-Bul.
Those memories, indeed!

So you in 1966 were like Thilony,
My 8-year old schoolmate of Marekrek Coy,
Who in competition against a platoon of same eating brads,
Bent over and found himself among the beans
in the simmering bottom of the cooking drum taller than him.
With his feet almost cooking, he cried out for reinforcement,
Malangdie! Malangdie! meaning My spoon! My spoon!
Which in the struggle had shot the other side over the drum.
My History Teacher, tell me any bitter fun of the sort.
Ah, youre a traumatizer!

Well, in the offensive of Jebbelein,
Between Juba and Ashwa, I had a smoking comrade,
Who was sent on recci at Aru Junction for seven days.
While on sentry, he smelt it from his enemy counterpart.
Tempted, he crawled to him and begged, raising his gun butt,
Ya Kui, kuplei lugma bas mn khashmek!
Lah, mushkilatna de mn siyasiin!
Meaning Hi Bro, just puff at me one of your cheekfuls,
Nay, this war of ours is from politicians.
He got it and came back breathing bhangi.
Great! Those are heroes of our peace.

Comrade Col. O, tell what happened then?
I heard you defected, why?
Ah, Jesh Ahmr, mind your words,

And your business as well.
You said defected?
I was just infected
To join the Ikuat Area Defence Forces.
Poem 20
Happy Birthday to Gen. Kalashnikov
Congratulations, Gen. Mikhail Kalashnikov,

For upgrading Cocktail of Mikhailovich Molotov,
The fiendishly friendly crude gasoline bomb-bottle,
Into AK47, first used by our Christs in our freedom battle.
Do you know? As your birthday clocks ninety

On a death day of a nine-year-old among ninety
In Sudan, where your AK47 was fatally mine when I was 11,
That your invention complicated our convention: both of 1947?*
* As innocent civilians are enduring a man-made hell in Southern Sudan, a 90-

year old Russian veteran, Mikhail Kalashnikov, who invented a necessary curse on earth,
the AK-47 (Kalashnikov assault rifle made in 1947), is enjoying his man-made paradise in
Russia, writes
John Penn de Ngong.
The Younique Generation Magazine,
January February, 2010.

Poem 20
The Trouble Permit
To whom it may concern
This is to certify
That the Sultan of Militialand,
And all his men of valour,
Have been issued with this permit,

To pass through any territory
Without delay or hindrance.
They have also been armed

With all types of guns and ammos,
To shield off any aggression,
While executing their mission.
Any reinforcement offered to them,

Shall not be interfered with.
And if done so, it shall be regrettable.
This orders come From Above.
Designed and Signed by

General Doubletrouble,
C-in-C of the Sultanate Armed Forces.*
* When a King has Dethrond himself and put himself in a state of War with his
People, what shall hinder them from prosecuting him who is no King?
John Locke (1632 - 1704)
English philosopher.
Second Treatise on Civil Government

Poem 21
Chiefdom of Militialand against Kingdom of Civiland

To H.E. Gen. Dr. Al Hajj,
Protector-General of the Chiefdom of Militialand.
Your Ex-cellency,
RE: AGGRESSION BY YOUR COMMANDER-IN-THIEF
With due honour,

We hereby write to you
Condemning the horror
Your installed Commander-in-Thief
Of the Armed Forces of the Chiefdom of Militialand
Is unleashing on the people of the Kingdom of Civiland.
We have the names of the commanders of mischief,
And the atrocities thereof, sent in vain to US, UN, EU and AU.
Your Ex-cellency, mind you,

This letter is the last in our series of complaint,
And this marks the beginning of the end of warning,
Not forgetting the news that our forces are warming,
Warming up against any proxy war with zero restraint.
However, for Your Ex-cellency's info, this isn't that time
You used your Commander-in-Thief to administer a dime,
To partition our nation into Chiefdom of Militialand against Civiland.
Finally, restrain your marauding stooges

Before they undergo the wrath of this Land in stages.
From Commander-in-Chief,
The Armed Salvation of the Kingdom of Civilland.
Cc. General Doubletrouble,

C-in-C of the Sultanate Armed Forces.*
* The great battleground for the defense and expansion of freedom today is the
whole southern half of the globe...Their revolution is the greatest in human history. They seek
an end to injustice, tyranny, and exploitation. More than an end, they seek a beginning.
John Fitzgerald Kennedy (1917 - 1963)
U.S. president.
Supplementary State of the Union Address
Poem 21
Out of Egypt at last!

Sudanese Christians crammed into hell:
"To all the countries except Israel",
A Sudanese passport is rubber-stamped,
Even that held by Bishop Garang!
To those in the north forcefully camped,
Are you aware of the boomerang?
If you in the north live in despair,

Here is your last chance for repair.
For your endless suffering's reparation
Is the ongoing drive for separation.
Why then are you now desperate
When you are able to be separate?
Now we have all the findings.

Just for your last glad tidings
From the very mouth of Gabriel,
To pack your bags back to modern Israel!
Or are you no longer able to accept
That you are at last out of Egypt?
Time, time up for treason

To be committed without prison.
Here, hear we're free to shout
Poem 22
Without being told "shut
up before you are locked up"!
like in a football club
on
our sabbaoths are teaming,

e as
teeming up with ecstasy beaming,

eR
beaming to throw in cards,

th
cards marking the end of the yoke of carts.

for
We're in the bush no longer monkeys;

son
We're in the town no longer donkeys,

For we own the door keys for eternity,
S ea
And modernity and prosperity of our posterity.

The
By voting for secession in succession,

We are putting to an end our oppression,
The end of suppression by the beginning of separation.
We are doing this in the season,
The season now ripe for our reason

Poem 22
Petition for Partition
We, the auto-government of the Republic of Ruralia,

Voicing the will of the democratic public of Ruralia,
Are writing to your Theocratic Union of Urbania.
Our grievances are on the following discontentment:
Firstly, your purely autocratic Government of Urbania,
Has solely dishonoured and condemned the document
That we all signed and codenamed "Bible of Peace".
You've violated its gospel, the cause of our fatal disagreement;
Wealth: You're feeding our autonomous nation with ration apiece.
In your annual tour, compare our city Metropollutant of Ruralia
With its posh sister city of Urbania, proudly dubbed Metropolitania.
All our resources, on our watching, are consumed up in Urbania.
Our intellectuals and workforce are abundant but redundant.

Henceforth, right here, we demarcate to be independent!

You are busy strategizing to turn Ruralia into Somalia:
Yourselves landlords, creating warlords, tribal militia,
And bribing our politicians to speak out your voice,
And turning our villages into large ghettos of slum,
And our own towns into large cities of Islam.
With these experiences, we've no choice,
But t' ask, demand, fight for our voice.
They oft' say the end justifies the means,
We, Ruralians, must reform all our ruins;
The first option: thru the ballot,
Last action: bullet!*
* If a man should rob me of my money, I can forgive him; if a man should shoot at
me, I can forgive him; if a man should sell me and all my family to a slave ship, so that we
should pass all the rest of our lives in slavery in the West Indies, I can forgive him; but if a
man takes away the character of the people of my country, I never can forgive him.
John Henry Naimbanna (1767 - 1793)

Sierra Leonean son of King Naimbanna.
Poem 23
Petition to the Government of Neitherland

Poem 24
Dear Cartoons in Cart-tombs

I know you do not know
That you are still in Egypt.
That's why I invite you now
For an exodus to in masses exit.

That you are the wall of the great Jericho,
The human shield around that blazing snow,
In which you do not hear any external echo.

That the political geckos cram you into social ghettos,
In tomb-shaped structures like terraces of potatoes,
Easier for indoctrination with their Shari'a law.

That we have already resolved in the South,
To part way with those turbaned cartoons of the North,
Who force your women to dress like our war widow.

That in their class lists you fall third row,*
That they make you in your homed cartons
Live like animated Cart-tomb's cartoons.**
* How about those people? How about those guys? How about those ones? How
about those other guys I see with their heads wedged among aliens? How will they be? Will
they not have their testicles sliced off like the proverbial man who had wedged his head into
the elephants (carcass) stomach? Better, better the elephant hunter, for he avenged himself
with his sharp spear? How about you, what will you avenge yourselves with? Eh, count me
out if!
Akutkuei Music Group.
How About Those Ones? (Translated from Dinka by the author).
** Is it possible that my people live in such awful conditions?...I tell you, Mr Wheat-
ley, that if I had to live in conditions like that I would be a revolutionary myself.
George V (1865 - 1936)
British monarch.
On being told Mr. Wheatleys life story.
Poem 24
Another USA on Earth?

From African readers
To African leaders
P.O.Box 1,
Metrocity,
Africountry.
Your Ex-cellencies,

Re: Reaction to the project United States of Africa

We do not attend your chronic Africa summits
With you in the conference halls,
We do attend 'em in camera holes,
And we know every idea each politician submits.
As we follow up your mission,

We have come across your vision,
Of the United States of Africa,
Like the United States of America!
What a big dream,

That can make one scream,
Another USA on us on earth!
Well, will it put death to dearth?
Be it by birth,
Or be it for berth,
No one, amongst us,
Wants to be a citizen of US.
Maybe in America,
But not here in Africa.
Can a man, Dinka, marry a Mandinka?
Or an*
Abdalla be a vice president to a Dandala?
* The multitude which is not brought to act as a unity, is confusion. That unity
which has not its origin in the multitude is tyranny.
Blaise Pascal (French Mathematician, Philosopher and Physicist, 1623 1662)

Poem 25
In court with Gods lawyer
Dear Heavenly Father,

Are You aware of deals going farther;
That a man claiming to be your lawyer,
A man famous as an acclaimed liar,
Is condemning me to hell on earth,
That I brought life out of wrong birth?
Are You aware of the Final Judgment going on here?

Dear Almighty father,
Are you aware of his all mighty feather,
A crown with which he coerces the crowd,
In the name of Your Law into a fire cloud,
Of the early judgment into earthly hell,
May you please check the powers of his spell?
Are You aware of the Final Judgment going on here?
Dear Holy Father,

Are you aware that he has gone further
To bring all but me to book,
While it's clear from my book and his look,
That I blasphemed not against my God's,
That I committed this sacrilege against his Guts,
Are You aware of the Final Judgment going on here?*
* In any country there must be people who have to die. They are the sacrifices any
nation has to make to achieve law and order.
Field Marshal Idi Amin Dada (1925? - 2003
Uganda soldier and politician (Dictator: 1971 1979).

Poem 26
A VoicE-mail to Emma J. Chris
Dear Emma,
Am writin 2 u 2day,
Coz u r ma buddy,
Not socially,
But spiricially.
U r da son of Godfree,
And Mr. Goddy is da Dad
For dat and dis
Nigger, Mzungu & Jallabba alike.
So Hes ma daddy,
And U r ma bro,
Not biologically,
But biblically.
Hello Emmy,
Am writin 2 u dis very day
Cos of da mobs of probs,
A damn lynch mob against me.
Am in shits 4 scool fees,
Am damned dead with petty jobs,
Bitches are sorts of cheatin witches,
Am f***ed up with dis lyfe.
Wazzup with u, guy?
Do somethin 4 me, man.
Yo buddy is gonna kick da bucket!
Wha can I do? *
Come on Chris,
Am writin 2 u every day,
Look how wacky da world is:
Like magnetic poles attractin @ other,
Lis-bitches licking @ others,
Gay guys aiming @ each others hole
* Ali asked me to look for an angel to head the Abyei Commission. I gave him
Michael, he refused, I gave him Gabriel, he refused This time, I may give him a Lucifer,
instead!
Dr. Riek Machar Teny, Vice President, Government of Southern Sudan, complaining to a
Norwegian envoy about the relectance of NCPs Ali Osman Taha on the CPA implemen-
tation. May 10, 2010.
Poem 26.....
A VoicE-mail to Emma J. Chris.....
In da so-called holey madtrimoney,

At ur Dads altar, imagine!
Bullies with pot-bellies,
Mugging away our wealth,
Viruses, bacteria with bloated vectors,
Making away with our health.
Do somethin man,
B4 da hell wins da world.
Wha ca we do?!
Bye-bye Bro-buddy,
Your friend, Biggie Pennie,
Is penning off here.
But b4 I quit dis page,
The last request:
Pliz, 4give me,
And 4get not me,
Either in hell here,
Or in Para-dice there.
Yours sinseverely,
Joint Pain de Ngong.

E-mail: jonnypenny@heavengate.beg.come.in
Mobphone: 144 666

Poem 28
Later in the halfternoon

Dear Dr. Untimely.
Please, read this letter not in the night or the noon,

Neither should you read it by the light of the moon.
I've recognized your appointment,

But then realized that it's a disappointment,
Because it will make my people mourn.
Of course, I am in my life's morn.
Just as early as now,

I have to let you know
That I am still very busy:
First, I have to marry Sussie,
And then love and live.

Second, I have to relieve
My mind of all this national load,
Before I hit your natural road.
So I still have a say

That am not ready to meet you at midday,
Nor in my early afternoon.
Please, come after my late halfternoon.*
* Its not that Im afraid to die, I just dont want to be there when it happens.
Woody Allen

Poem 28
Merry Christmess!
I,I,I
this
Xmas
am thus
at this end
glad to spend
not, but to send
You this fruity tree;
I am sending for free,
In the name of The Big Three.
Reminder: this is called Christmas,
Be very careful lest you call it Christmess!
As others go to church, others go to maze or mess.
Get set for a holy mass on the birthday of Jesus Christ.
Whoever shall use or misuse it will in a big way be surprised!
Come such is a big day by which you will in any way be recognized.
In other words, I insist, not by Christmess you enter my feathery heart.
In other worlds, I intercede that by Christmas you enter my Fatherly Hut,
But not without prior warning lest on an opaque mind thou shall be hurt!
This is the season in which every creation puts their neck in the noose;
when from the year's toil trying to snooze
Or from the year's spoil trying to booze.
But the magi will think of a special gift;
Then, of their age, a balance of the shift.
Oh, the world is rocking us by age adrift!
To my dear Christlets, I wish you a very Merry Christmas.
To my busybodies, I wish you all a very cheery Chris' mass.
To my boozy buddies, I wish you all a very cherry Christmess.
Alas! And of course, for your souvenir, it's just happing near here.
At last, to all of you brethrens in the Lord, Amen a very Happy New Year,
With a permanent firmament over a firm foundation that henceforth shall never shear!*
* It was deemed a disgrace not to get drunk at Christmas; and he was regarded as
lazy indeed, who had not provided himself with the necessary means, during the year, to get
whiskey enough to last him through Christmas.
Frederick Douglass (1817? - 1895)
U.S. abolitionist, writer, and orator.
Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave
Chapter 3
The Horror of Terror in the Era of Error
After all that has just passed all the lives taken, and all the possibilities and
hopes that died with them it is natural to wonder if America's future is one
of fear. Some speak of an age of terror. I know there are struggles ahead, and
dangers to face. But this country will define our times, not be defined by them.
As long as the United States of America is determined and strong, this will not be
an age of terror; this will be an age of liberty, here and across the world.
Great harm has been done to us. We have suffered great loss. And in our grief
and anger we have found our mission and our moment. Freedom and fear are
at war. The advance of human freedom the great achievement of our time, and
the great hope of every time now depends on us. Our nation this generation
will lift a dark threat of violence from our people and our future. We will rally
the world to this cause by our efforts, by our courage. We will not tire, we will
not falter, and we will not fail.
George Walker Bush,

Address to a Joint Session of Congress and the American People,
September 20, 2001

Poem 28
Croco-dialed Tears I: Tributes to PW Botha

Adieu, Of uniform colour and intellect.
Your Ex-cellency! But he created us differently.
To you, Intellectually, we are superior
O, Old Crocodile,
Wild Brother, Its our strong conviction,
PW Bother, That Black is the raw material
I try to shed For the White man,
My tears dry So lets join hands to fight
From one eye. Against this Black devil.
The raining tears, Youve seen that Blacks
From your reigning years, Cannot rule themselves.
That you shed Give them guns
To late Stevo, And they will kill each other.
To let Madiba They are good at nothing
Behind bars. But making noise,
Dancing,
Every dog has its day. Marrying many wives,
Today is your pay, And indulging in sex.
Yours alone,
Yours, a loan, The Black man is a symbol
Your Ex-cellency. Of poverty,
And its Mandelas turn Mental inferiority,
To dial his eye-lips Laziness,
As I irrigate my chapped cheeks And emotional incompetence.
With mo tears of laughter, Isnt it plausible therefore
With no fears of slaughter. That the White man is created
To rule the Black man?
Your Ex-cellency, Come to think
Ive aurally dedicated Of what would happen one day
To you this eulogy If you woke up
In my Black South Sudan, And on the throne sat a Kaffir?
Because you orally defecated Can you imagine
To me this ideology What would happen to our women?
In your White South Africa, Does any one of you believe
As your likes here copy and paste it That the Blacks can rule this country?
Onto my face in their Red North Africa. Hence, weve good reasons to let them
Out of your Boer presidential mouth All the Mandelas rot in prisons,
Came as if to me, Bor residential moth this; thus: And I think we should be commended
For having kept them alive.
The fact that Blacks
Look like human beings I appeal to all Afrikaners
And act like human beings, To come out with any creative means
Do not necessarily make them Of fighting this war
Sensible human beings. I wish to announce a number of strate-
Hedgehogs are not porcupines, gies
And lizards are not crocodiles, That should be put to use
Simply because they look alike. To destroy this Black bug.
If God wanted us to be equal, We should use chemical weapons.
He would have created us Priority number one,

Poem 28.....
Croco-dialed Tears I: Tributes to PW Botha.....

We should not by all means, White young men and women
Allow any increase of the Black popula- To produce children.
tion We are also investigating
Lest we be choked. The merits of uterus rentals.
For the time being,
Ive exciting news We should also engage a higher gear
That our scientists have come To make sure that Black men
With an efficient stuff. Are separated from their women
I am sending out And fines imposed upon married wives
More researchers to the field Who bear illegitimate children.
To identify venues I have a committee working methods
Where the chemical weapons Of inciting Blacks against each other
Could be employed. And encouraging murders.
The hospital is a very strategic opening. Murder cases against Blacks
The food channel should be used. Should bear very little punishment
Weve developed In order to encourage them.
Excellent slow killing poisons
And fertility destroyers. My scientists have come up with a poison
That can be smuggled into their brews
Secondly, To effect slow poisoning results
Most Blacks are vulnerable And fertility destructions.
To money inducements. Ours is not a war
Ive set special fund That we can use the atomic bomb,
To exploit this venue. So we must use our intelligence.
The old trick of divide-and-rule
Is still valid. As the records show
Our experts should work That the Black man is dying
Day and night To go to bed with a White woman,
To set the Black man Here is our unique opportunity.
Against his fellowman. Our Sex Squad should go out
His inferior sense of morals And camouflage with apartheid fighters
Can be exploited beautifully. And quietly administer the chemical weapons.
And here is a creature White men in the squad should go
That lacks foresight. For the militant Black woman
There is a need for us And any other vulnerable Black woman.
To combat him Weve received a new supply of prostitutes
In long term projections From Europe and America
That he cannot suspect. Who are desperate
To take up the appointments.
My special department
Is already working to come out My latest appeal
With a long-term operation blue-print. Is that in the maternity hospital
I am also sending special request Operations should be intensified.
To all Afrikaner mothers We are not paying those people
To double their birth rate. To help bring Black babies
It may be necessary too, To this world
To set up population boom industry But to eliminate them
By putting up centres From the very delivery moment.
Where we employ and support My government has set aside special land

For erecting more covert hospitals
And clinics for this programme.
Money can do anything for you,

So, while we have it,
We should make the best use of it.
In the meantime,
My beloved White citizens,
Do not take to heart what the world says,
And dont be ashamed of being called racists,
I do not mind being called
The architect and King of Apartheid.
I shall not become a monkey
Simply because someone
Has called me a monkey.
I will still remain
Your bright star.
Alas! Your Exilency,

The Bright Star,
King of Apartheid,
Because you had imposed
Your apartheid on Africans,
Of course, death has exposed
His appetite on Afrikaner.
Fare thee well, Your Exilency.
Get ready to face Stiff Biko.
Be ready for Samora Matshell,
Warm up for Jgiant Garang de Mabior,
And other African die-nosaurs down there.
May your soul RIP
Rust in P-i-e-c-e-s.
Ha-A-men!*
* Footnote: Excerpts from The Daily Monitor, Uganda, November 28, 2006,
As adapted from Sunday Times, South Africa, August 18, 1985.
By any sensible standard, this war should be stopped, Hamdi agreed. Personal and political
greed is all that stands between us and peace. John Garang doesnt want to settle for the
south. He wants to be the supreme leader of Sudan. But the politics of this country will not
allow him to be the supreme leader, for the same reason the minister smiled confidently
that Jesse Jackson will never be the supreme leader of USA. He sighed again. But the
southerners will not admit this. They have a dream which blinds them to the situation, and
they just go on fighting against all the odds. Well, some of them know better. We are talking
to them. John Garang does not have everyone in the south. There are the Nuer.
Deborah Scroggins
Emmas War (pp. 212 213)
Poem 99
Sad-damn Hussein They will not flee from death, but
(Revelation IX & XIV) Death will flee from them
Fallen, fallen, fallen! (Yes, in their suicide attacks
Shouts the doom angel In the name of God)
Fallen, the great city of Babylon The God that is not inscribed on their fore-
That seduced all the nations heads
And made them drunk The One that is prescribed on their false head
With her passionate immorality. The One that they subscribe to with their
falsehood
Alas, Saddam Hussein!
Its no surprise Do you remember watching the day?
From the day I saw The date the locust was unleashed?
The forever idolized statue, The metal battle horses:
The maneuvred monument - gold-crowned
Of the Great King of Babylon - human-faced
Grumbling, crumbling face-down, - woman-haired
The day I saw the long foretold vision lion-toothed
Live on the tele-vision, iron-armored
The day I read that biblical stanza: chariot-winged
scorpion-tailed
The fifth angel blowing his trumpet of terror torture-oriented
The star falling to the earth from the sky destroyer-minded
And opened the bottomless pit
Where forth the smoke poured out That is the first terror from the fifth trumpet
As though from the huge furnace Then the sixth angel blew his trumpet,
When the sun blurred blood-red Instructed to release their four comrades,
And the moon smiled scarlet Bound at the great River Euphrates,
And the wind blew soot Timed for this hour, day, month, year,
To kill one-third of the population
When the locust from the soots With an army of 200 thousand thousand
With desert boots and dark suits mounted legion
Or maroon marine suits Besides the horse riders;
Descended on humanity Armored:
And stung a scorpion sting fire-red
Not only on glass and grass sky-blue
But strictly on people: sun-yellow
People with no God in their words And their horses had lion heads;
People with neo-God in their worlds Spitting:
People with new God on their swords - fire
Not to be coffinned forever, but - smoke
To be scorpioned for five months. - sulphur
They will seek death, but From their mouths and their snake-head tails.
Death will not see them Saint Johns spiri-vision versus Penn Johns
Says the Holy Book, tele-vision features,

The grid system of arrows, of errors of war
Horses - chemical weapons
Locusts - front line cross fire
Battle field - missile
Horse riders - soldiers or troops
Star - Iraq or earth
Fire and smoke - War planes
Sulphur - War wagons, tanks
Trumpet - Thunders of battle
Now is the day,
The day I say
Fare thee well,
O Sultan the Great,
But will I forgive you, oh no!
Ill neer ever forget you
Saddam Hussein
Sir, damn you, saint.
Who, How, Why, forget the day?
The day I and Salva sniffed the sulfur
Made in Tikrit,
Mailed to Torit.
We know you were the gunrunner
Of the tanks, the landmines, the gunships.
Saddam, our sad dam
That blocked our freedom of new Sudan.
Because with your all lies,

You warned your allies,
Our exotic brothers in Sudan,
Who dare lose the Garden of Eden?
The garden of eating hidden?
Of course, even the Bible knows
That where there is a Nile,
Where there is a Gihon,
Where there is a Pishon,
Where there is a Euphrates,
There lays the Garden of Eden hidden
From the conned-damned in-herb-itants
Of the fossilized Kingdom of Kush,
Hibernating in but ephemeral eternity.
As you dive into the earth in Iraq,
We resurrect erect
And announce to the whole world
That the Kingdom of Babylon
With her allies
And her all lies

Poem 99.....
Sad-damn Hussein.....
Is a theatre of woes of wars,
Hosting whores of wars
On horses of wars
Against Sad-damn His-saint,
A sad, damned, insane Insan.
Lo, devil-sent saint,
The terror-stricken world watch
You in your hide-and-find game
With Mr. Bush
And Mr. Blair.
You hid in the bush
Youre hit by Bush
You lay in the lair
With glare of Blair.
You were:
Smuggled into the dungeon
Smoked out of the dungeon
Prosecuted in high dudgeon
Persecuted on gullible gallows
Banked in your abuse abyss
To give away your demon-crazy
To give a way to our democracy.
Adieu and bye Sultan

With the bile of Satan.
Though I remain,
Ive been
laden
with worries of Bin
Laden.*
* Footnote: Excerpts from two chapters of the Holy Bible, Revelation 9: 121; 14:8
For the time being, Sudan was forgotten. But Khartoums decision to side with Saddam
Hussein was to have far-reaching consequences first for Southern Sudan, then for the rest
of the world. For several years the Sudan government has been openly calling its war on the
south a jihad. At a conference held on 21 April 1991, Turabi invited Islamists from Around
the world to join him in attacking the wider Crusade Zionist Conspiracy. Veterans of the
anti-Soviet war in Afghanistan began pouring into northern Sudan by the hundreds. Bin
Laden had been flying in and out of Sudan on his Gulfstream G-8 jet since 1989. In 1991 he
left Saudi Arabia for Khartoum. Turabi welcomed him with a lavish reception, announcing
that the great Islamic investor would henceforth be a member of the NIF (National Islamic
Front). Bin Laden reciprocated by announcing a $5 million donation to Turabis party.
Deborah Scroggins
Emmas War.

Poem 30
Death from Above
Earth and Heaven
Are far apart.
Death and life
Hate each other and part.
Death is the Earths son
Life is the Heavens daughter.
They do no intermarriage.
Somebody from Heaven,

Tried to bridge the divide,
To reconcile both extremes,
By just diving into the earth
And spending only three days
Doing his mobilization down there,
And escaped up in full,
So that we do likewise.
But we do it otherwise.
My father and siblings,
Are still in their eternal sleep deep down.
Never like Jesus have they resurrected all whole,
And said farewell through their firewall
On their way up one day.
One day I saw earth and heaven

And good and evil lock horns
In a bitter scramble for man.
Four years to the end of the 20th Century,
In Lobone displaced peoples haven,
Death came calling from heaven,
Carried by a metallic eagle,
That spread its fiery faeces
Over the scampering camp
And onto our cramping faces.
We joined moles in the holes

To look for life in the earth below,
Since death captured the heavens above.
Them who remained up
Met death from above.
A mother ,old, and a month-old,

Poem 30.....
Death from Above.....
Were shared half-half
Between death and life,
As we, having readily been buried,
Resurrected from our temporary grave
In a scene where death and life
And earth and heaven
Had been wrestling for human.
The trunk of the baby and her mothers breast,
Dangled from the trunk of a tree and hardly breathed,
Still screaming for the rest of their abdomens
That were kicking away a little gas of life,
In a hot hole smouldering from below,
An early abyss of the Sahell Republic.
Our end question was,

Did Christ reconcile the Earth and Heaven,
Forget life in the soil below,
Shed death off into the air above,
And carried his body into the paradise beyond?
Are we, the original inhabitants of Africa,
Being crucified child-and-mother,
Dismembered and scattered yonder,
Onto the twigs of our trees,
By Mujahedeens Antonov,
Just for being Black Christs in Africa?*
* Khartoum, she said, was bombing the refugees as they walked north-west of
Sobat river. Army plane had also bombed Nasir and its hospital on 14 May and again on
15 May (1991). Thirty-six people were dead. Dozens more were wounded
The whole air stank. It was just nothing like the only form of life was sort of buzzards and
stray dogs. And just everywhere were dead cows, dead people, people hanging upside down
in trees, Alastair later told me. They had to keep driving off the road to avoid all the bodies.
They saw three children tied up together with their heads smashed in. they saw disembow-
elled women. Alastair took pictures. At Bor, the huts were still smouldering. They had to
cover their faces to breathe inside the hospital where Bernadette Kumar had once operated.
A soldiers body was rotting inside, and the floors were heaped with the cattle carcasses.
Deborah Scroggins
Emmas War (Page 260)
Bor Massacres, 1991.
Poem 31
Sheltering in a coffin
Rain, from a sky cloudless,
Onto a camp not crowdless;
when it rumbled,
everything tumbled
over a mole hole,
a relief from the role
of burying them again,
for that was their gain.
Once the Russian-molded aluminum eagle

Tilted its wing at a death angle,
We, our children, our chickens, goats
All jostled and hustled into the bunker
As our earthly life banker
Heaped earth onto the holes
Of the ephemeral moles,
A relief from the chores
Of burying the scores.
Once a single-horned tortoise was seen,

Or a steel rhino rearing its dragon head in the scene
where the uniformed locusts were half-buried,
It meant everything had to be hurried,
Before the ground turned into a nuclear hearth;
Before onto them was leveled a burrowed earth.
Allahluia! They thanked their own God of Grace,
For letting the whole lot of the unwanted race,
Crammed themselves like playing cards into a coffin!*
* Dozens of children broke from their hootches to run in toward the focus of our
landing, the pilot laughing and saying, Vietnam, man, bomb em and feed em, bomb em
and feed em.
Michael Herr (1940-)
U.S. writer.
Dispatches

Poem 32
Horror Hollow Cylinders

A cylindrical snake,
Pivoted at a devil incarnate,
Silhouetting in a damn dawn,
Stretched its slender neck
That spat fiery venom,
Just to roast my poor father pale,
And dismember him for the scavengers,
And leave my mother legless;
And leave my cousin neckless.
Yet again their thunder rumbled down

From under the cloudless heaven at dawn,
And quaked the earth under us asunder,
Shuddered and shattered the hearts yonder,
Baked the green members to embers,
Spread our huts ablaze,
And scuttled and scattered our cattle wild.
Goddamn horror hollow dragons

Vomit flames and ignite the winds,
Which licks our granary blank
And licks the greenery black,
Leaving our millets in sooty frame,
To advertise the famine's fame,
The only way to broadcast my land abroad.
They drain clean blood from the lean veins
Of hundreds of kindreds
To irrigate those alluvial ashes
In our garden lain fallow for ages.
Oh, my old school, home of skunks,

And an accursed valley of dry skulls!
Need I visit the Golgotha
And why visit that vast cemetery?
To wash my old mans dry frames with tears?
To watch goats and leopards playing hide-and-seek with fears?
And warthogs with swines?
To swim in scarlet water with ducks and swans?
Bloody hollow cylinders,

Cursed are your makers.
Poem 32.....
Horror Hollow Cylinders.....
You prey on me
But none to prey on you,
And none to pray for me.
I yawn and yearn and yell,
In this personalized hell.
Lucky are my age-mates,
In that specialized paradise,
Where peace lies in wholes there,
Not in pieces and in holes like here.
What a misfortune,
To be born of you,
O! You cannibal Mother,
Infested with landmines
In their immortal hibernation,
Waiting, waiting for the limbs of my grandson.
Mad man-made cylinders,

I, confined to a survival commune,
With other fellow moving skeletons,
Am still waiting, waiting as if waiting for God,
But Waiting for Godot, Let there be heavenly super glue,
Waiting in solitude for solicitude, To reconcile the recovered bones with value.
For my beloved mum, Here alone have I survived with no agenda,
To resurrect from eternal sleep, Really in the north of Uganda
From that stagnant pregnant earth deep! Or in the south of Sudan,
Ever bulging as if to give birth to her again. Only to announce to the world of deaf ears,
Alas, never will she be expectant once again, That I am likewise ripe for but who hears
To compensate for my brothers and sisters, Being a raw material for the war:
Abducted to the other side of the border, Unless the makers,
Where they transpire and perspire fire. The senders,
There they expire.* And the operators,
Make,
Send,
Operate
Those bloodthirsty cylinders
Not again.
* Im proud of my invention, but Im sad that it is used by terrorists. I would prefer

to have invented a machine that people could use and that would help farmers with their
work - for example a lawnmower.
Gen. Mikhail Kalashnikov (on his 90th birthday; Nov. 9, 2009)
Russian Soldier, Inventor of AK47
Poem 33
To Whom It May Concern
Here reads the confession
Out of voluntary conversion,
Pinned up for every over-rover
By a lonely homing hover-over.
Watch out!
Of human weeds,
Pests, parasites
Ogres, ghouls, ghosts;
They take cannabis

And turn into cannibals.
They inhale herbs and heroin,
And boast like a hero and heroine.
They are out of the noose,

They are on the loose,
At large at random
To prey on our freedom.
Fathers, keep a distance from fatherless patricides.

Mothers, there roam your merciless matricides.
Parents, avoid these parasitic parricides.
Keep out of reach of children the infertile infanticides,

Hey, my brothers, mind your moves: furious fratricides!
Sisters, I saw you on the rape list of sorrowful sororicides!
To all families; keep indoors from homing homicides,

For they fake martyrdom in the name of suicides,
My community, keep an extra eye on genocides.
Students, leave not campuses to meet your studicides.

Traders, youre easy prey to marauding businicides,
And refugees should be saved from refugicides.
Leaders, you are prone to regicides.

Let the citizens guard against silly citicides,
And the nation close its doors to ethnocides.
The churches to fast and curse their clericides

The villagers to dodge and lodge not their villigicides,
All in all, save our economy from conning economicides.*
* The only defence is in offence, which means that you have to kill more women and
children more quickly than the enemy if you want to save yourselves.
Stanley Baldwin (1867 - 1947)
British prime minister.
Hansard, Speech

Poem 34
Mr. Shadow
Im the man, the man he dogs.
Hes the man which dogs me.
My forger is no man,
For he fakes me.
A man is that independent,
But a dog is thus dependent.
Even when am going to answer
Though he copies me, My natures call,
He doesnt cope with me. He dogs me there,
He vaguely photocopies me, But hes un-there
Using natural light, In the call booth.
For he dreads the dark side,
Of the world, When I am dogging my Heart,
Yet he threads the backside He is dogging me unto her in the fog.
Of me even if walled. Bogging our love down in the bog.
In all my wordiness,
Hes not my relative, Hes all but wordless,
Hes not my adjective, For hes under-tongued,
Hes not my objective, So Im his mouthpiece.
Hes not me, But hes not my mind peace.
Yet he yearns to be me. Only to me he attaches,
Never will he achieve me, And only me he touches,
For Im me, Yet I cannot touch him.
Or hes he. The man which dogs me
Is untouchable;
He dogs me in open places; Hes attachable.
Yes he lodges in open nests,
Yet he dodges openness. Will Mr. Shadow
Escort me to the grave?
*
* There is a ghost/That eats handkerchiefs;/It keeps you company/On all your trav-
els.
Christian Morgenstern (1871 - 1914)
German poet.
Gespenst
We were afraid of the dead because we never could tell when they might show up again.
Jamaica Kincaid (1949 - )
Antiguan-born U.S. novelist, short-story writer, and journalist.
Annie John
Poem 35
Of Terradditional God!
Die-hards in their herds
Are booked for paradise
For dying
In the mighty will
Of Terradditional God.
Hardliners in their lineages

Are sent to hell
For believing not
In the mighty name
Thousands are feared

To have disappeared
For interfering
With the mighty norms
Woes, wars, worries, and

Warships are unleashed to us
For joining not
In the mighty worship
Penners are beheaded,

Pickpockets arm-putated,
Adulteresses stoned, drinkers flogged
For abusing the mighty law
Of Terradditional God.*
* The introduction of religious passion into politics is the end of honest politics, and
the introduction of politics into religion is the prostitution of true religion.
Lord Hailsham (British Lawyer and Politician, 1872 1950)
Poem 36
Poor Inno-sent Killers

Once sent,
Theyre spent
In a multitude
Without gratitude.
Their senders
Fear the thunders
Of the fiery hurricane
That engulfs every hurrying Cain.
Pure innocent killers

Kill and are killed without healers.
Panic, misery and loss all the seasons,
But only to their masters are known the reasons.
The world is running amok,

With them there to cheer, jeer or mock
At both the murdered and murderers in legions,
For no obvious reasons other than regions and religions.
God,
forgive your soldiers.
Allah,
forget your souldiers.
God, please save us from your followers.

Car bumper sticker.*
* More people have been slaughtered in the name of religion than for any other
single reason. That, my friends, that is true perversion.
Harvey Milk

Poem 37
Battling Platoons of Cartoons
They come and go,

And come and go,
And come, and go, and go,
Singing Allah-u-akbar, Allah-u-akhar,
Holding keys inscribed Jenna,
So that hereafter and thereafter
They unlock their selves into shelves of eternity.
These turbaned termites wonder I

Jumping into the fire and firing life
Into ambiguous martyrdom,
Are misled and bled
In the name of non-omnipresent deity
For whom they blow their tummies up.
Even school kids are enrolled for the role

Of a God's army against God's enemy.
"Go open your classrooms in Jenna,"
The ideologue hands them keys,
For an elusive heaven that once was River Aswa.
In platoons they die like animated cartoons.
From Khartoum, sent to get buried in a cart tomb.

Poem 38
The Speech by the Emperor of the Empire of the Vampire

Up, up, Rice every body! My Prime Monster,
Here comes His Heaviness, Your Loadsheep,
In his majestic motorcade, The Harsh-Be-chop
Driven in a Humvee, Of the Die-o-cease of Cut-Tomb City,
Flanked by a Hummer, Dear distinguished ghosts,
Driven by a harmer, Horn-are-rebel guests,
Holding a hammer. Ladies under giantall-men.
Arice and salute the Emperor, My deer awe-dience,
The great thinker, Sorry, my private secret-tarry is upsent
World's renowned Pill-lucifer. With my written speech,
So bear with my miss-takes and spell-link errors.
Thank you Rev. Pasta, But you know as usual I am good at making
For preying upon us, Neutral speech with natural speed.
And blazing our awe-dience.
Before I sit done, So let me take this little offer-turn-eighty,
Allow me to take this offer-tune-eighty, To tell you the developmental police-cease
To in-bite our Ghost of Honour, Of our demoncratic Go-bin-men
To undress all of you, It's a de-mock-cracy of But fast off all,
Our invented guests. To hell with those who creati-size us.
I hope you half come along with I pit-tea them as they face the music of their own song!
Your invitation carts, Calling our entire Vampire Empire
Whoever was officially in-bited A van fire or detectorship is an addition of sedition,
Must have that thing, Which will not be axeplaned by giving us Apolo-ghee.
In order to enjoy this meating, Saying were very sorrow as usual isnt the soul-lution.
With our spatial Guests. To hell with the United Notions,
Hail the Great Philucifer, For enter-fering with our affairs in Dare-For region,
Who has insfired a great number Let them dare for any enter-vention with their fake reason.
Of signtease and philucifers Even in that so-called Enter-national Come-unity
In our vast Emfire of Vamfire. Are some of our allies who do act-knowledge
Mr. Guest of Horror, sore, That we conduct flee and fear illactions.
Comander-in-Thief of Vam-Fire Forces, Ours is an original demoncrazy,
Umpire-General of the lives and souls The paupular go-bin-men
In the Great Empire of the Vampire, Off the people,
Youre most wailcome Buy the people,
To undress this gathering. And pour the people.
It is for you, Your Heaviness. Indeed, go-bin-men
Weve already preyed. Off freedom;
Freedom off speech,
Thank you so mash, Mr. MC, Freedom off press,
For the best intoreduction. Freedom off association,
Youre a qualified Monster of Ceremonies. Freedom of all human rites.
Good mourning to you all: You see, my dear comeraids,
We are updated.

Poem 38.....
The Speech by the Emperor of the Empire of the Vampire....

Yet they say We have built host-pit-alls.
We are outdated, Monster of Trains-pot:
With the system dilapidated, We have built rods,
But we do axe-this, bridges and damns,
I repeat again, Ray-ill-ways and hairpots.
We really act-this, In the Monster of Eatducations reap-pots:
Oops sorry, I mean we do exist We have built skuls for all levels of learning,
In this more-den well, pry-mary and second-dairy skuls,
Rather, in this modern world. cull-ages, torturey institutions and uni-vast-
cities.
They are blind, For examfall,
To see our serf-vices. Glue Ice Cool,
Late me demonstraight to them. Poll-attacker Prime-marry-is-cool,
According to my Monster of Hells, Cut-Tomb Uni-verse-city, eatc.
For all their chilldrain to endjoy these new free-villages of my go-bin-men.

The reap-pot of my Monster of Oill and Minerals shows
That supper power nations have opened their bonk accounts with us,
But thats being tackled by my Monster of Illegal and Unconstitutional Affairs,
Togather hunt-in-hunt with the Monster of Insecurity and Deep-fence,
My Monster of In-formation gives you daily news peppers, rat-dues, TBs, weepsites, eatc.
to keep you offdated with daily in-for-mation,
Not mentioning the reap-pots of my other mini-stars,
That is what we half done for the deephellofmen of this Great Emfire.
I, the Emperor of Vamfire,

give you final blazings,
as I beat you this fearwell,
in this great General Assembly Hell,
wish you good lack
to every body.
Go in piece.
Aha, aa-a-a*
* But under heavy loads of trampled clay/Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood/
Their shrouds are bloody and their lips are wet.
W. B. Yeats (1865 - 1939)
Irish poet and playwright.
The Winding Stair and Other Poems, Oil and Blood
The British had no way of knowing it, but the candles and the soap were made from the fat
of rendered Jews and Gypsies and fa

Chapter 4
The Poly-tricks of Politics
Real politics...has little to do with ideas, values, and imagination...and everything to do

with maneuvers, intrigues, plots, paranoias, betrayals, a great deal of calculation, no
little cynicism, and every kind of con game.
Mario Vargas Llosa (1936 - )

Peruvian writer.

So if asked, I am not only a poet or musician, I am a poemusician, and not a politician
but a poetician as far as socio-poetry is concerned. Therefore, my critique as a critic
through the spectacles of a journalist and a columnist, a preacher and a teacher, an artist
and an artiste has revealed to me one principle: to pamper the boiling ego of a politician,
flatter him orally; to tamper with it, clatter him morally. Either but the latter is well
catered for in this book.
J. Penn de Ngong
The Signpost (Intro to this book)

Poem 38
Afrocracy
All dilapidated automobiles,
War wagons, buses, planes
are dumped here.
All outdated health products:
Aspirin, Chloroquine, syringes
are dumped here.
All updated technologies:
Astronomics, Electronics, hydraulics
are damned here.
The philosophy that African disasters

Are commanded by the Big Three
Is a big lie being set free.
Poverty is an artificial factor,
Ignorance is a natural vector,
Disease is no universal dictator.
African mortality is a brainchild of African mentality,
Thus christened Afrocrazy, with its policy Afrocracy.
Afrocracy is a symptom of the worlds ancient system.

All outdated brands of -cracy governance:
Autocracy, bureaucracy, theocracy
Are dumped here.
All archaic brands of archy governments:
Oligarchy, monarchy, anarchy
Are dumped here.
Africa is the Super powers political laboratory,

Where current politics reacts with recurrent history
To produce a hybridized legacy called Afrocracy,
With its unique incompatible grandchildren viz:
Ethiocracy not brotherly to Egyptocracy,
Nigeriocracy not sisterly to Nigierocracy,
Ugandocracy never neighbourly to Rwandocracy
All these types of Africanized democracies

Catch a virus that craves political craze
Such that we rule and are ruled crazy with Afrocrazy:
Congocrazy against Chadocrazy,
Sudocrazy beside Somaliocrazy,
Zambiocrazy versus Zimbabwocrazy.*
* Democracy is...a form of religion; it is the worship of jackals by jackasses.

H. L. Mencken (1880 - 1956)
U.S. journalist, critic, and editor.
The Vintage Mencken, Sententi
Poem 39
The Tower of Power

Ours is a story biblical
In history diabolical.
Once upon a time,
There was no dime,
Only nothing but love,
traded by one noble dove
Among a people of one tribe.
There was not a crime of bribe,
Not nepotism but mutual trust,
Not for money or honey was lust.
All were considered of equal folks,
Zero tolerance on more equal fox.
When they felt themselves firmly,
They said, look we're one family,
Come, let's build ourselves forts,
A citadel with bricks our hearts,
Be it called 'Tower of Power'.
But detractors saw power,
"Behold, oh, one lineage,
Speaking one language!
This is just their beginning!
Nothing will be impossible for them,
Come, let's go and confuse their language,
That they understand one another's speech as a babble."
So Lo-see-far scattered them all over the earth, failing the building.
There, because of this confusion, the project was called The Tower of Babel. *
* The Babelization of great capitals and their cultural relativism are to me the
unmistakeable sign of modernity.
Juan Goytisolo (1931 - )
Spanish novelist and essayist.
Poem 40
The War of alpha-bets
Man has two legs,

Which stride alternately.
English language has 26 legs,
And if they go alternatively,
They clash and crash like eggs.
When on others' way stands A,

B topples it unto C, sparing D,
The result is an insult: BAD!
When M avenges A,
Overthrowing B, sparing D,
The whole process runs like: MAD!
Any attempt to abandon the Antecedents,

And go for the Precedents,
Meaning toppling M,
Makes M crushes legs-up like this W,
Who substitutes D with its western neighbor, R,
Turning the whole reshuffle into WAR!
This woe is blamed on the power-hungry alphabets,

Among which A is a legal leader.
But when it involves middlemen, namely: L, P, H,
The A wins by majority votes,
And since he is the ALPHA
He bets for power with the leftist, the Omega,
And the arbitration culminates into an infinite wrangling
Referred to as 'WAR of the ALPHA BETS'.*
* One of the saddest lessons of history is this: If weve been bamboozled long enough,
we tend to reject any evidence of the bamboozle. The bamboozle has captured us. Once you
give a charlatan power over you, you almost never get it back.
Carl Sagan.

Poem 41
They are crostitutes!
From south to north,

From east to west,
From south-east to north-west,

From north-east to south-west,
They do cross,
And crisscross,
Confusing us between here and there,

Confusing them between there and here,
Between north and south,

Between east and west.
With this rate of political prostitution

By means of geopolitical crostitution,
They are not prostitutes,

They are hot crostitutes!*
* Whoever wishes to avoid becoming dizzy must try to find out the swings law of
motion. We seem to be faced with a pendulum movement in history, swinging from absolut-
ism to democracy, from democracy back to absolute dictatorship.
Arthur Koestler,
Darkness at Noon.
Poem 42
Judas versus Jesus
At last, our land is being nationed!

Alas, our wealth is being rationed!
Between their North Pole and our South Pole,
Between the East and the West,
By their North pals and our South pals,
The self-proclaimed magi from Eastwest.
Here, the dollar donor

from Midwest
counters the dinar donor
from Mideast,
wherefore the donor dinar
encounters the donor dollar,
whereby jealous Judas auctions genius Jesus

and brutal Brutus Junius is jealous of Julius,
The senior Caesar Julius, stabbed by junior Junius,
just in order to alter the altar of justice.
But who to blame for the game,

whereon we are not again the same?
We name and blame politeachers,
of the condemned feast codenamed politics,
wherein the West wastes the East
as the East eases the West.*
* Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas!

Would they make peace? terrible hell make war
Upon their spotted souls for this offence!
William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)

English poet and playwright.
Richard II, Act 3, Scene 2

Poem 43
Uncle in the Hot Seat
Uncle, you are sweating rivers,

Why dont you reverse
And surrender this politi-cull seat of heat
To another cold-blooded, baldy-oldy?
Oh boy, but Im just from fire to sweat,

Out of fire into frying pan,
Then into this flying pan;
From atomic heat to economic hate,
From hot temperature to hot temperament.
Unc-old, you seem not to be a temporal man,

But just a tampering man,
Why not tire?
Or re-retire?
Hey boy, I am the toughest tyre of the Movement,

I cannot retreat, I can now retread.
I better bake myself in this political heat,
Than beg for myself for the rest of my need
In that politicold seat.*
* It is only natural that old people would have to go, but the problem is that there is
a young man who is too impatient to wait for me.
Mahathir bin Mohamad (1925 - )
Malaysian prime minister.
Complaining about his chief political rival, young Tengku Razaleigh.
Straits Times (Singapore) Poem 45
Poem 45
Ancestors versus Successors

"the day of the handover!" I'd surely say
If asked what a hell is worrying Ngong.
That be my song on a resonant gong.
"And what do you lack at this age?"
I'd open the last century's page,
And pray so my hair were gray.
(In our generational warfare,

The aged's lifelong welfare
Is a fanfare called pension,
Until my son is Mr. Pennson.)
Successors' age is disease malign.

For with no gray matter I'm inferior,
Even if planted on the skull's exterior,
All is accessed unto that nature's favour.
Nowadays, no success is accessed by fervor.
Whereas the Ancestors' is but a disease benign.
Poem 46
Married to Mr. America!
Hi boys,
Touch me not,
Am old-ready married,
Married to Mr. America!
And since Mr. America
Is the policeman of all men,
The husband of all husbands,
I, I Mrs. Amer,
Wife to Mr. America,
Am the deputy husband
Of the supreme husband,
Of the interim husbands,
Of the wise wives,
Married not to America.

If America sneezes, the whole world catches the colds.
Old imperial adage

Poem 44
Of the Sahell Republic
We are waiting for sure real hell

In our early, artificial, surreal hell,
Whereby the northern hemisphere dry

Is qualifying to the membership of Sahel,
And the southern hemisphere wry,
Legitimizing it to the republic of Sahell.

We have, to put it right, to try
To divert the destiny of our souls from hell,
Where they await their turn to fry.
We get remote-controlled from the Sahel Republic

Into founding and funding a Sahell Republic.
For on earth rules the alternately powerful trinity:
Of God, of gods, of man: divinity of infinity.
We are immersed in a bloody political game

Attempting to co-own this republic given a name
That geopolitically exists akin to our skin.
That soil that has fossilized all our kith and kin
Has evolved from Sahara, to Sahel, to Sahell Republic.*
* Here it is that humanity achieves for itself both perfection and brutalization, that
civilization produces its wonders, and that civilized man becomes again almost a savage.
Alexis de Tocqueville (1805 - 1859)
French writer and politician, July 2, 1835.
Referring to Manchester, England.
Poem 46
In Confucian Confusion
Above, the giraffes are fighting.
Below, the grass is suffering.
Caught in between
Two ideological bulls,
Between bloc A and B,
In an ideological confusion
Of communism versus capitalism,
Of socialism versus fundamentalism.
Conned into the con-fusion-ism,

Of the modern Confucianism,
Between two superb powers,
Of todays suspicious Confucius
Robbing us of our privileges,
Roving eyes in our free villages;
Of our substance
For our subsistence:
Peace and freedom
Education and religion
Woe to us, the underdogs,
Of the Chameleon Kingdom.
The worlds top scoring soccerers,

The politically scorning sorcerers;
The despots like Pol Pot,
Iddi Arm-in Dada,
Robbed Mug-abe,
Mungistu Hell Miriam,
Mobutu Tsetse Seiko,
Sad-damn H-US-saint,
Slow-burden Milosevic,
Joseph Starlion,
Adolt Hit-ler...*
* I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.

Jack Kerouac (1922 - 1969)
U.S. writer.

Poem 47
The game of the Fool Table
On a pool table
Are four colours
For the six holed continental corners.
The Reds are shot,

The Yellows are fired
Into a dark tunnel.
The White is the missile,

For shooting in the Reds
And the Yellows in turn.
Once the White misses the yellow into the hole,

Or the Red lodges or dodges the White into the hell,
The White must revenge twice or thrice.
The Black remains put toward the end of the game:

To pass the final judgment and declare the final winner.
Sometimes the game ends prematurely with an accidental death
Of the Black by the Big Three or being edged into the dudgeon by the White.
The whole game among the Three is only about the Black,
About who will remain on the pool-table by the end of the tournament,
About who will prove powerful to control and shoot into the blank the Black,
So much so that the victor is the one to doctor all the affairs of the government.*
* Democracy has to be institutionalized and written into law, so as to make sure

that institutions and laws do not change whenever the leadership changes, or whenever the
leaders change their views or shift the focus of their attention.
Deng Xiaoping (1904 - 1997)
Chinese statesman.
Emancipate the Mind, Seek Truth from Facts and Unite as One in Looking to the Future
Poem 48
Poem 48
Common Mistakes of English

Do you know
What makes the word 'though-'
Not qualify into a complete 'thought'?
It is doubt.
It is doubt that makes the letter 'b' in debt
Pronounced dead.
In Grammar,
Of course because there is no law.
Everything is contrarily opposite.
Indeed, if the opposite of Con is Pro,
Then why conned to believe that Constitution
Is not the composite opposite of Prostitution?
In fact,
In English, we're so drowned in words and sounds
To the extent of pronouncing drawn drown
Or mispronouncing down dawn,
And interchanging draught with drought!
They exposed us to and imposed it on us;

They superimposed their profuse language
Onto ours to confuse our neo-Afro-culture,
Which formerly subsisted on agro-culture,
Not on this lingo poly-tricks for politics. *
* I probably wouldnt have a big problem, but the Mexicans come here with their
language you dont understand. I dont have no problem with foreign people come in, at
least (if) they talk right They should speak English or get out.
Mike Arnold.

Poem 49
Mr. Cheerman for Mr. Chairman
He is just a cheer man,

For the chair man.
He doesnt hold meetings,
He does bold beatings
With his musing bands,
With no music bonds.
When Mr. Chairman chairs a meeting,
Mr. Cheerman cheers the meeting
With his squad of sycophants

That squat for the elephants.
When Mr. Chair-leader coughs,

mr. cheerleader laughs.
When the boss sneezes,
The boy sniffs this.
When Mr. Chairman warns,
Mr. Cheerman mourns.
When the Big Man lies and dies,
The small man cries and dries.*
* I dont want any yes-men around me. I want everybody to tell me the truth even if
it costs them their jobs.
Attributed to Samuel Goldwyn (1882 - 1974)
Polish-born U.S. film producer.
Poem 49
Why I edited my census form

The form bears that and this about me to describe,
On condition that it's nothing to do with my tribe;
Nor has it anything to do with my own creed,
As, by my King Nebuchadnezzar, decreed.
As a nationalistically bias paper editor,

I'd to add tribe and religion on the paper,
So that I arrive at my unilateral consensus
With the sinister tsars of the national census.
Or, should I do what?

You can just guess that!
My form was mathematically nullified

Because I had automatically qualified.
Yes, qualified but not among the eight million.
That keeps my status quo as the eighth minion.*
* Then was Nebuchadnezzar full of fury, and the form of his visage was changed
against Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego: therefore he spake, and commanded that they
should heat the furnace one seven times more than it was wont to be heated.
King James Bible
Daniel 3:19

Poem 50
When I vote, I voice
Whenever I vote
In whatever I devote
Wherever I rejoice
In my choice,
I vote to voice
Out all my rights
Now rotting in my throat.
This time will ne'er be fought
For as ever sorted out in the fights.
Here and now, I'm to vote
For to what I devote.
To devote by vote to my choice
Is to divorce my boss with my voice.
Just let me choose
Between the cock and the goose,
With an agenda of gender on the gander,
To end their proper propaganda,
That I'm unable to rule myself
Regardless of my placing this book on their shelf.*
* The old South has gone, never to return again.

The Testament of Hope.
Poem 51
Stop debating us, start de-baiting us

It's our cynical shock or surprise
That we are your political enterprise!
That your parliament dedicates 50 per cent
Of its debating time to our autonomy's ascent,
Is unto your ominous assemblies a waste of time,
And to influence our ripe destiny is a waste of dime.
We know our poverty of property is for our weakness,

You know our poverty of erudition is from your wickedness.
We're your weaklings because we're dependently independent.
But now that we've got a vaccine to unleash on our leech,
Where else is your chance on our image to bleach?
Today, this is our very last message,

To be anchored unto our posterity passage.
We can now spell our fate, so stop debating us,
And now that we can smell your bait, start de-baiting us.*
* Let Blair and the British government take note and listen. Zimbabwe is for Zim-
babweans. Our people are overjoyed, the land is ours. We are now the rulers and owners of
Zimbabwe... Keep your Britain and I keep my Zimbabwe.
Robert Gabriel Mugabe, President of Zimbabwe.
Speech to ZANU-PF Congress, 5 December 2003.

Chapter 5
Suffering and Oppression
How many questions arise in this place! Constantly the question comes up: Where was
God in those days? Why was he silent? How could he permit this endless slaughter, this
triumph of evil?
Pope Benedict XVI

Speech: "This Place of Horror"
Auschwitz, Germany, 2005

Poem 50
The Black Cries of Africa
Twenty years of tears gone,
I visit my home town,
A ghost town torn
By war storm;
My vile village,
Popular for wattle villas,
Populated vainly by mild villeins,
Hunted and haunted by wild villains.
Who are they?

Eastern merchants?
Western missionaries?
Or northern mercenaries?
Or the Anya-nya?
The Maji-Maji?
The Mau-Mau?
The Mai-Mai?
The Janja-Weeds?
The Tong-Tongs?
The Kamajos?
The Ninjas?
The African black cries,

Not brought from the White lands
But brewed from the White hands,
Who do pretend to organize but agonize;
The black crises,

Based on crusades for Christ,
Movements for Mohammed,
Appeasements for outdated deities.
The black crises of Africa

Caused by vermin
And by famine:
All by fame.*
* The question tonight, as I understand it, is The Negro Revolt, and Where Do
We Go From Here? or What Next? In my little humble way of understanding it, it points
toward either the ballot or the bullet.
Malcolm X (1925 - 1965)
U.S. African American activist.
Comment

Poem 51
Punished for being Poor! Poem 52
Try me not; On Compulsory Ramadan
Cry to Christ:
Who once said, Very well, I know you know
That I am a Christian no question.
"He that has nothing Though I subscribe to your belief,
Will have his nothing I know you know I do it just for relief.
decreased,
I know you know
He that has something
Will have his something That I am a Christian,
Increased." But I am not ready for lent,
I am just ready for lunch, on rent.
So shall an office messenger
Get poor So why all the restaurants closed,
For working heated, And why bar me from the bar?
I know you know this duress
And shall an office manager
Get more, Will make me sick, very sick!
For walking seated.
Sick of hunger,
To our Hospital of Juba Or sick of anger,
Drive in and gain, Sick of hypocrisy,
Walk in and lose; And also of apostasy.*
To their Hospital of Cuba,
Walk in and gain,
Drive in and lose.
* Your habit of forcing me to follow
For one to become a candidate your religion; your own religion, by which
For the World Food Program, you sniff the earth this is bitterly detested
One must first become a candidate by the children of the land.
To the world food problem. Akutkuei Music Group,
Translated from Dinka: Kedun yin amac
For, for being poor,
You must be punished, yanhdu, yanhdun yin ke piny yoc acii mith
And for being rich, ke baai maan.
You must be furnished.
That's property elevation

Through poverty allegation.
That's poverty alleviation
Through poverty elevation.*
* A nation trying to tax itself into prosperity is like a man standing in a bucket and
trying to pull himself up by the handles.
Sir Winston Churchill,
Former British Prime Minister (journalist, soldier & writer).
Poem 53
The two-legged tortoise walking Konyo-Konyo

'Twas in the dusking evening.
I was squatting at dusty Konyo-Konyo.
I saw it passed, crushed into this one,
And continued and bumped into that one,
And withdrew no sorry and staggered along.
It carried it along, alone like Christ, no cries, nor tears.
But saline water, hot tears from scaly skin,

Meandering in fibrous rivulets down its rickety legs.
It was only the legs and its wet stripes I noticed
Walking to and fro, Konyo-konyo, konyo-konyo
It was only its motion and sweat that signaled life.
The whole turtle for your reminder: on two legs,
Was all shell, rugged, dry, sooty, powdery cocoon.
No head but thin forelimb sealed up round the shell,
Dragging on to sell, to sell in Juba's simmering hell.
From that sight, I called off in my head,

Before it cooled off on my shoulder,
The business plan I was brooding,
Of becoming a charcoal dealer,
A dung beetle with a sweat-powered roller;
Of a pedestrian driver,
Pushing one-wheeled engine,
Option: simple, I've no pen, no penny,
But I can liveI've the hoe,
The spread of free food soil
And the spirit of good toil.*
* You know your ship has come in when you get your name on your own garbage
can. And your own shovel.
Mike Rowe

Poem 54
The Rapefugees and the Kiboko ya Mungu
STOOP: POLICE CHOKE POINT!
Shouts the misspelt signpost,

That should legally say:
Stop: Police Check Point!
At the wandering life seekers,
Laden with bags on their heads,
And rags on their backs,
And bugs on their butts.
We are the rapefugees!
Our country is cursed.

Just see here in the book of Isaiah 18:
Written; God will punish Kush.
My name is even John Kuch Jonkuch.
Please, my son, keep our lives behind there,
And God will bless you and your nation.
We are the Kiboko ya Mungu,
The whip of God,

To implement the will of God, sindio?
Mzee, do you think, He, Bwana Mungu,
Can climb down from his Sky Palace
To beat the hell out of you, guys?
Else, God will blast me and my nation!
My son, God!
Wapi, which God again?*

Kaa chini,
Au toa kitu kidogo,
Dont you own these ears?
* Today, we call the People of Kenya to prayer and repentance. God is not happy with us.
We have sinned against God! The tribal hatred among us is at an all time high. We have neglected the
poor, the needy and aliens among us. We have oppressed the widows and orphans. Pride has replaced
the fear of God in our hearts. We have not loved our neighbours as we love ourselves. Instead, we have
despised and hated our neighbours
Kenya religious leaders message during the National Prayer Day, KICC, 19 Feb. 2009.

Poem 54.....
The Rapefugees and the Kiboko ya Mungu ......

I say, squat down,
Or give something,
Otherwise, kwenda huko
With your own cross,
Back to your hell-f**ed country!
Mungu, sorry, but I think

To cheat such a full fool
Or beat some coins out of a fool
Is neither a crime nor a sin, si ndio?
Poem 55
My Breath Cancer!
Like a mother lactating,

Dreading breast cancer,
I do loathe them dictating
On my breath their cancer.

Their fatal malignancy
Haunting my mental pregnancy,
Is aimed at scuttling my right to breath,
Making me the only one with the right to death.*
* States like these, and their terrorist allies, constitute an axis of evil, arming to
threaten the peace of the world.
George W. Bush (1946 - )
U.S. governor and president, January 29, 2002.
Referring to Iraq, Iran, and North Korea.
State of the Union address

Poem 56
They are R. Organ
The Bible warns us against hell,
Of one organ, that's, fire in the cheek,
Smouldering to set the whole body in hell.
But these arrogant hooligans think we're meek,
Just because we have been pacified by that Book.

This Red Organ, they use
To label and libel us into abuse,
To turn all our developmental agenda
Oftentimes into our detrimental propaganda.
With this R Organ they lick themselves clean brigand,
Yet the world under and yonder knows they are arrogant.*
* We cannot bring ourselves to believe it possible that a foreigner should in any

respect be wiser than ourselves. If any such point out to us our follies, we at once claim those
follies as the special evidences of our wisdom.
Anthony Trollope (1815 - 1882)
British novelist.
Poem 58 Orley Farm
Condemned to Debts!
We are damned,
We are dumped,
To debts, we are condemned,
Sentenced to debts penalty,
To service debts for eternity.
A jail without bail,

With foreign loans slung to us in bales,
Strictly for food and drugs,
Or guns and war trucks,
With the rate of refunding
Being twice or thrice the funding.
Ours is a zero grazing investment.

For perdition: our economic tradition
Is in the ICU life machine refreshment.
To my pocket, no personal addition.
Out of my six childhood killer ailments,
Poverty arrests me at puberty,
With more debt threats with death threads.*
* A debt may get mouldy, but it never decays.

Chinua Achebe
No Longer at Ease

Poem 57
Gen. Bens Benz
Beny Benny,
Excuse me,
Look at what
Youve done to me!
Correction:
Not me Gentle Ben
But my genteel Benz
Not to you
But to your clothes.
Beny, comrade in arms,

You used to know me,
Your platoon commander of commando.
This is my only personal overall
For the rest of my days labour here,
Now that Gentle Ben rather genteel benz
Has turned me into a spotted hyaena,
Where can I now see you
For a piece of soap?
Ah, see me! See me? Only on TV,

Too busy for such nuisance, nonsense.
To hell! Else, to my Headquarters tmorrow.
Hello, there, dare not me but my servant or sergeant.
First listen; watch out before you wash out
The black mud, your countrys soil,
The white Benz is your Benys car,
The mud porridge you fail to clean on this rotten road
Is your breakfast with your lazy likes.
You Ben Oops sorry your benz

Bends deliberately across my path.
I know no way to Hell, write me a Departure Order, please.
When I was ahead with the gallant fighters,
Your so-called headquarters was our tail-quarters.
You redirect our roads money to your benzes,
Remember in 1992, my stomach poured blood onto this road,
Now mingled into porridge of mud by your cars.
General, remind your Benz that the war is just on holiday.*
* John, be careful on this roads.

These peopo of Sudani, they come, they knock you down, they beat you up, they go.
Steve
A Uganda cab driver in Juba, 2009.

Poem 59
From Source Africa

I have this reason to be proud
That I'm a lad whose source is Africa,
Distraught with the draught of drought
And maimed by the famine of Africa.
A man from South Sudan

Mini-nation from Bilad el Sudan,
That originally sourced Africa,
The source of the war,
Which left bitter roots of woe,
In the mid horn of Africa.
If there are sources of resources,

Then they, the causes of recourses,
Will fall not upon our children's blood.
They are bygone with our heroes' veinal flood.
The source of all bad and good of a deed,
Of course, the source is Africa, indeed!*
Poem 60
Citizens of Planet Hell

Like a family under a holed roof,
which spells doom in the ensuing summer,
The Earth's folks have to wholly suffer their goof;
Their universe umbrella they perforate, so as to simmer.
While in the name of development this planet is skinned,

Others in the game of beauty skin their own bodies.
Pray that in a few decades, we're not killed,
By the very acts of our own hobbies.
* Negritude is the sum total of the values of the civilization of the African world. It
is not racialism, it is culture.
Lopold Senghor (1906 - 2001)
Senegalese president, poet, and intellectual, 1962.
Poem 61
Born to bear
Why I was born?
I was born to bear

To bear children
To bear responsibilities.
I was born to bear

To bear pain
To bear gain.
I was born to bear

To bear loads
To bear loss.
I was born to bear

To bear blames
To bear flames
I was born to bear

To bear praises
To bear graces.
Thats why I was born.*
* Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see the shadow. Its what sunflow-
ers do.
- Helen Keller

Poem 62
The Summary of the War
In the aftermath of our war-peace euphoria,

Sudan is reduced into a vast village of sudatoria,
Where conflict convalescents await their fate in sanatoria,
As Doctors vendor words of war in wards of war or auditoria.
Lifespan is equated to a quarter in Eastern Equatoria.
The epicentre of conflict lies in Central Equatoria,
And war has wasted Western Equatoria,
And worn out Western Bahr-el-Ghazal.
Death is nursed in Northern Bahr-el-Ghazal.
Warrap State is a war-rapped estate.
It is lakes of tears in the Lakes State.
Wells of blood swell wells of oil in the Unity State.
Its all up and down, upside-down in Upper Nile state,
And tons of skeletons jangle in the jungles of Jonglei State.
Grave mounts outnumber the Nuba Mountains.
It blew up into blue night in the Blue Nile.
Abyei, an abyss of abuse!
Darfur: impossible to dare for!*
* Sudan became just another example of a resource-rich country torn by war and
mass povertyanother case of natural resource curse (Stiglitz 2006). The resource curse
cannot be eliminated without a development process that combines growth with equity and
quality of life and without the appropriate structures to govern the development process. This
is more easily said than done in the case of Sudan.
N. Shanmugaratnam
Post-war Development and the Land Questions in South Sudan
Norwegian University of Life Sciences (UMB)
Chapter 6
Despair and Repair
This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we
will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we
will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony
of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to
struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that
we will be free one day.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

I Have A Dream:
August 28, 1963. Washington, D.C.
This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But
one that's on my mind tonight's about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She's a
lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this elec-
tion except for one thing: Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.
She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road
or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn't vote for two reasons -- because
she was a woman and because of the color of her skin. When there was despair in the
dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a
New Deal, new jobs, a new sense of common purpose.
Yes we can.
Barack Obama
This is your victory
Victory speech on Nov 5. 2008. Chicago, Illinois.

Poem 63
Will we really reach there?
The first answer to be given

By Tsars who want to reach rich,
The second solution to be driven,
By Sirs who want to arrive alive
At the end of the spiral tunnel
With their siphoning funnel.
Will we really reach there?
Against us the world conspires,

With our Herods who are our sires.
Due to our lakes of oil and minerals under,
Our legs over our soil have been thrown asunder;
Right to the south and left to the north in affiliation,
That will lure our drive for autonomy into humiliation.
Will we really reach there?*
* Depression always occurs within a social context. Relationships, work, poverty,

hopes, children, parents and so on, can all play some role in the generation of a depressive
episode.
Lewis Wolpert (1929 - )
British biologist and writer.
Malignant Sadness
Poem 64
Yeah we can!
This is our day of choice.

It is ours, a day to rejoice;
To shout, ululate and scream
A stream of tears of our dream.
It is ours, a day to rejoice;

To celebrate our vote, our voice,
To scum, skim our long awaited cream,
Our sweat harvest from our ancestral dream.
Now that we've had our debut access

To our century long sought-after success,
Negotiated in the first place by means of bullet,
Let's now sing our new hymn: 'Forever Free by Ballot!'
Congratulations, kudos to you men of the mud skin,

For gallantly lifting the yoke off our beloved kith and kin,
And by the very way by our will declare to the Republican,
A heart-generated cry of our very valiant leader: Yes We Can!*
* Youve seen that Blacks cannot rule themselves. Give them guns and they will kill
each other. They are good at nothing but making noise, dancing, marrying many wives, and
indulging in sex
Does any one of you believe that the Blacks can rule this country?
P.W. Botha
Former President of the Republic of South Africa
National Address Speech
August 18, 1985.
(See: Croco-dialed Tears: Tributes to P.W. Botha; poem page )

Poem 65
At our Harbour of Labour

We've been for centuries pregnant,
Like a mother, damn expectant;
Waiting, waiting for our hour of labour,
At our very own harbour of labour.
But not without construction for obstruction

Right at our port of delivery;
At our altar of justice and canal of procreation
Are legitimacies for slavery.
That we are unable to determine ourselves,

In South Africa King of Apartheid's order,
"Youve seen that Blacks cannot rule themselves.
Give them guns and they will kill each other."
Alas, the world's ill-legal standard of duplicity

Mars our rights by complacency of complicity.
But this, will severally be countered with fight,
A fight of a mother at her hour of labour plight.*
* The Black man is a symbol of poverty, mental inferiority, laziness, and emotional
incompetence
We are not paying those people to help bring Black babies to this world but to eliminate
them from the very delivery moment.
Pieter Willem Botha,
President of South Africa (from 1984 1989)
Poem 66
The Void Voice in the Black Box
The expectant mourners sit blackly,

Scan the faces of the witnesses blankly,
Eyes bulging, ears waggling at rediffusion boxes
Vending broadcasts far and wide by black foxes,

Their assortment of exotic investigators,
The pledged accomplices to agitators.
Announcements: The black box is blank!

'Twas an accident, sorry!
May their souls rest in glory.
Due Reparation: Take these cheques to the bank,

This blood money to the relatives
Must be distributed on my directives.
Due Retribution: A knight's assassination is avenged by flank,

A poetic justice with final judgment's link.
Nobody knows God's hidden objectives.*
* My heart burned within me with indignation and grief; we could think of nothing
else. All night long we had but little sleep, waking up perpetually to the sense of a great shock
and grief. Everyone is feeling the same. I never knew such a universal feeling.
Elizabeth Gaskell (1810 - 1865)
British novelist.
Referring to the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.
Letter to C. E. Norton

Poem 67
I aint me!
Am not me.
I dont feel
The real me in me,
Neither him in me,
Nor her in me.
I find nothing
In me nobody.
Im not what am.
Alone, Im non-present.
I feel not today even today,
I seek not tomorrow,
I see only yesterday:
Pushing thru the bushes,
Marching in the mashes,
Dodging bullets of the bullies,
Or getting bogged down in the fog.
When I am thinking,
Well I am singing and sinking,
Sinking into the abyss of yesteryears,
Thinking every dominating agenda a lot, aloud,
With each point nominated by my forefinger, and
Seconded by the silent nod, nod not from the heart,
For passersby to note with smiles for miles,
That Im only conversing, debating and quarreling with me,
But not peacefully converging with the entire, inner me.
When I retire at eleven of clock,

I am not in my bed.
I meet me in the village,
I loiter to them in town,
In all the scenes I had seen since,
In all the paths I passed in the past.
A nocturnal commuter with rats,
I walk the earth at night with bats,
But I discover me in bed at seven of clock.
Even in the classroom,

I do, in the class, roam.
Poem 67.....
I aint me!......
Am in the lectures with half-me,
With the other me all ready in the leisures,
Or fantasizing in my todays future:
Combing thru papers for seven-digit salaried jobs,
Or somewhere, after graduation, teaching another class
The very lessons being taught me in this class.
Or setting up a big, big busyness here and there,
Using the honours degree I attained thru this institution next year.
When I am in church,
I am not in charge, of the same self.
My prayers get preyed on by daydreams,
Blocking them from reaching heaven,
Locking them up in this hell-bound haven.
Come the time for the sermons,
Im delivering my own besides the Simons,
Already ahead of my fellow faithful,
Exploring the universality of paradise and hell,
All in my small university above my shoulders held.*
* Depression always occurs within a social context. Relationships, work, poverty, hopes,
children, parents and so on, can all play some role in the generation of a depressive
episode.
Lewis Wolpert (1929 - )
British biologist and writer.
Malignant Sadness

Poem 68
To hope is to have
Hope is to wealth
As happiness is to health.
Yesteryear I was hopeless.
Yesterday I was helpless.
Today I am hapless.
Tomorrow Ive happiness.
Last time I was poor.

Next time I am rich.
To hope is to have.
Lose all else but hope,
An eternal treasure
For internal pleasure.*
* When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw
a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs, a new sense of common purpose.
Yes we can.
Barack Obama
This is your victory
Victory speech on Nov 5. 2008. Chicago, Illinois.
Poem 73
The Tycoon in the Typhoon

She has survived by stealth
A 20-year Tsunami of health,
And found herself in life, brisk,
Skiing in the Tsunami of wealth,
But all of a sudden, it is a wreathe
To crown the queen a clown of risk.
She is being buried raw with spoons,

Whose real names are spade, by goons,
The pot-bellied on a wealth-making picnic,
Have raped her or ripped her into ICU clinic.
My Mother is a very naturally endowed tycoon,
Now risking being nationally widowed by typhoon.*
* Theres a certain part of the contented majority who love anybody who is worth a
billion dollars.
John Kenneth Galbraith
Poem 69
My Nirvana in Havana
Here I sigh high,
Draw nigh, say hi,
To my hard old days
Of menu of mash or belilah
Served by my enemy's Delilah;
Of sitting on seats but seesaw,
Of snoring on mattressed straw,
And walking the earth on unshod sole,
In the bush with one heart one solo soul;
But after our hard push

Out of the harsh bush,
A vision comes clear after a tedious wait:

Here is me! harvesting my artillery sweat
With cutlery suite in the eatery of Havana,
The palace I now call Heavena.
With cool tools and cool stools,
Restaurant D' Havana,
a cool school of nirvana,
Nirvana, the taste of my joy of heaven
I enjoy in full with a visual toy in this haven.
I mean the neem Havana in Juba,

The nirvana imported from Cuba.
Sincerely to be that open,

If one wants oneself out of this oven,
If one wants to reach out to that Heaven,
One must begin the enjoyment from this haven.*
* When this countrys livelihood improves tomorrow, the day the SPLA bride is
married, she will be bought her utensils, adorned in jersey; she will go shopping in a car
while residing in her storey-building...Oh God, Father, let us capture our country!
A verse from one of the dream songs by a morale-boosting SPLA freedom fighter in the bush.
Translated from Dinka (Bor)

Poem 70
From Doom to Boom

Our recurring history
Has taught us one story.
Our life designed to ripe
In full over a century,
Between the womb and the tomb,
Is now expedited with injury of penury,
To the tomb from the womb
By Death Express Service,

Driven by war,
Conducted by politics,
Fuelled by poverty,
Sponsored by ignorance,
Executed by disease,
In express trip from boom to doom.
But time will now be right terrific,

To reverse this one-way traffic,
From tomb to womb,
From womb to boom,
From bomb to boom,
From tomb to boom,
From doom to boom.*
* There are moments in history when brooding tragedy and its dark shadows can be
lightened by recalling great moments of the past.
Indira Gandhi (1917 - 1984)
Indian prime minister.
Letter to U.S. president Richard Nixon

Chapter 7
The Eruption, Irruption, Interruption
and
Disruption of Corruption
Do we want to build a market economy or an economy dominated by the mafia?
Jacques Attali (1943 - )

French government adviser, economist, and writer.
Microsoft Encarta 2006.
It will, I believe, be generally agreed that ERADICATION OF CORRUPTION

from any society is not just a difficult task: it is without dispute, an impossible
objective.
Obafemi Awolowo (1909 - 1987)

Nigerian lawyer and politician, August 18, 1975.

Poem 74
It should be defined
It should be defined
It shouldnt be refined
It shouldnt be divined.
It erupts,
It disrupts,
It interrupts;
Like pregnancy
In its stagnancy,
Its malignancy
Is the enemy
Of our economy,
Of our autonomy.
Bulging like anthill,

It takes us uphill
And makes us ill.
Its a dis-ease,
A deadly disease,
Of no cease for decease.
An ulcer,
A cancer,
A canker*
* We have a cancer within, close to the Presidency, that is growing. It is growing

daily.
John Dean (1938 - )
U.S. presidential counsel, 1973.
From a taped conversation with the president, Richard Nixon. Referring to the Watergate
scandal.

Poem 75
Our National Foodbowl Championship

Swi-itch!
Goes the starting whistle,
For the champing champions to wrestle,
Kicking the dust up and down,
Tossing the bowl here and there,
From chimp to champ

From county to country
From intra-national
To international
Tournament.
Our politi-called football championship,

That costs a million dollar a goal,
For which every striker strives for personal scores,
With golden trophies to decorate individuals rooms,
Is on full swing this season.
Our nation-all foodball match,

A game with fatal knockout of the weak,
The socio-politically unconnected part-tease-fans;
A game where participation is on no technical know-how,
Where qualification is only on tactical know-who,
Is on full swing this season.
That is our so-called social game of unity,

Of unity in units,
At which Man-chaser United
Foodbowl Club
Clutch, clash and crash
With Liver-full
Foodbowl Club.*
* The world is divided into people who do things and people who get the credit. Try,
if you can, to belong to the first class. Theres far less competition.
Dwight Whitney Morrow (1873 - 1931)
U.S. diplomat and politician.
Letter to his son
Poem 76
Croco-dialed Tears (II): Tributes to the Nile Crocodiles

Triple Loss in the Africa Cup of Nations
Week I: Zambia versus Sudan; three nil!

Week II: Egypt versus Sudan; three nil!
Week III: Cameroon versus Sudan; three nil!
Why thrice: nil nil nil?!

Cause Arabic calls Nile Nil
So the Nile Crocodiles
Are the Nil Crocodiles.
Can Mr. President please kneel

And explain why the crocodiles of El Nil
Are found only on the northern part of the Nile
Or far away from the southern part of the Nile?
This, the first way of making our peace ultra-active,

Is the best way of making our unity extra-attractive!
Triple Loss in the Africa Chair of Nations
2006: Congo versus Sudan: one nil!

2007: Ghana versus Sudan: one nil!
2008: Tanzania versus Sudan: one nil!
Why thrice: nil nil nil?!

Cause Jesus justifiably says,
First remove the log from your own eye
Then remove the speck from your brothers eye.
Can Mr. President please kneel to Africa

And explain how Sudan will save the rest of Africa
When the rests of Africa are not able to save Sudan?
When the rests of the world are not able to save Sudan?
This, the first way of dealing with hyper hypocrisy,

Is the best way of dealing with hypo democracy!*
* I called off his players names as they came marching up the steps behind him ...
All nice guys. Theyll finish last. Nice guys. Finish last.
Leo Durocher (1905 - 1991)
U.S. baseball player.
Remark at a baseball field, July 1946.
Nice Guys Finish Last

Poem 77
Our Moneyfacturers
When we earn money
Through monthly salaries,
They hunt money
Through daily deliveries.
When we make money

Through stall businesses,
They mint money
Through tall busynesses.
As we pocket our coins

After a long day with coils,
They stuff their paper bags
With their paper bucks.
When we become manufacturers

Because we just got educated,
They become moneyfacturers;
Of course, they got eatducated.*
* This is an impressive crowdthe haves and the have-mores. Some people call you
the elites; I call you my base.
George W. Bush
Speech at Al Adams $800-a-plate fund-raiser, October 20, 2000
Poem 78
Paupers with papers
Up and down the vales, Favouritism,
Down and up the hills, tribalism,
To and fro across borders, chauvinism,
In and out of offices, parochialism,
Out and about in streets, materialism,
Aboard and abroad in search everythingism,
Job hunters, in our new system,

Office haunters, with its new symptom
Window Peepers, of replacing official titles
Street sweepers, with social titles:
Slum hawkers, in this government
Town walkers, of self-service,
Graduated paupers by gourmand
With graded papers, of safe service,
Comb towns and cities, (of bumper buffet),
Traverse the country, of uncles and aunties
To reverse their culture The government
Of joblessness, Of a people,
Of hopelessness, For a people,
And haplessness. By a people.
In spite of their degrees Uncle, job hunters

With high pedigrees, want to see you.
They remain beggars, Auntie, untie my tie,
Maimed by jiggers, Uncle, Ive typed out your work.
On their chapped hooves Uncle.
For walking sharp woods, Aunt.
Of much ado Dad.
About nothing to do. Mam
Sisto
The cause, of course, Bro
not poor choice of a course, Blub,
Neither lack of luck, Blubber,
nor lack of proper property, Blabber,
aka poverty. Blab,
Its nepotism Blah,
*(new pottism),
Blah,
Blah
* Its daring and challenging to be young and poor; but never to be old and poor.
Jane Bryant Quinn (1939 - )
U.S. journalist and author.

Poem 79
Dining and Wining at Menue Venue Hotel

Hi, hello over there,
This is Dr. Dai Rekta.
Confirm, are you through with stocking the beer?
Good, the soda; mostly coke, pepsi, stoney, fanta
And the menu,

Of course, very continental.
And the venue,
As usual, very ornamental.
Should exactly look as though a presidential dinner,

Because we're celebrating our valiant winner.
For your information, we're nine.
And all must wine and dine.*
* In Juba, like in Khartoum, you see extraordinary people; those people that look
very extra-large (XXXL) as if they eat with blind people (Anti-Corruption Commission,
please take note). Of course, what do you think the stomach will wait for if stuffed with
mountains of asida, bread, foul or fool (pronounced fuul Messr) or any other eatable thing,
softened with oil and spiced-up soup? As if that is not enough, it is then watered down with a
bottle, or bottles of beer, thanks to CPA that has scrapped off Sharia in the South.
Sunday de John Along
Column: Eat Yourself to Hell
The Younique Generation Magazine,
August 2010
Poem 80
Mosquitoes for our Land

Our supreme mosquitoes
Are not personal;
They are national
Pests of our secret money,
Of our sacred honey,
Of the peasants potatoes.
These public mosquitoes

Harm not our health,
They suck our wealth.
In their veins circulates our oil.
Our hands till for them our soil.
Our lands yield for them our toil.
Our natural mosquitoes transmit malaria,

Our national mosquitoes transmit malaise,
Our landlords siphon our land bloods,
Causing economic leukaemia and anaemia,
Financial ulcer and cancer,
Property kwashiorkor and marasmus.
These mosquitoes are for our lands.

They prescribe political haemorrhage
and miscarriage on our developmental plans,
And subscribe to lucrative abortion
Of our environmental plants.
They are economically spree-tual,
Politically spy-ritual
And socially spi-ritual
Mosque-toes on our land.
To get rid of them on our lands,

We must join our hands,
And spray them politically or militarily,
Having first quit their mosquitoism.
So lets all be mosquitters
To remove mosque-toes
From our homeland.*
* God said this is our land, land in which we flourish as people...we want our cattle
to get fat on our land so that our children grow up in prosperity; and we do not want the fat
removed to feed others.
Jomo Kenyatta (1894? - 1978)
Kenyan president.
John Penn deNgong Speech, Nyeri, Kenya142
Poem 80
Pregnant Forever
Due to their chronic pregnancy,
They wake up at egg oclock,
And leave offices at wine oclock,
As they break for noon at lunch oclock.
While their subjects are suffering with effortless means everyday,
They are suppering on sumptuous meals every evening.
Pregnant of chaps, chips, chicken, fish, milk, liver
Yet do not deliver
All that makes our development stagnant.
Their pregnancy is but malignancy.
They are not pregnant with babies,

But laugh at parents with scabies.
Their stomachs are tummy tombs,
The living graves of our foods,
Mobile cemeteries of our goods.
On their minds, deleted, is the history of our life BC,
The interdependent life in which we wallowed Before Crisis.
They are now swallowed in the life AD,
The independent life they cherish After Doom.
In the world gone,

Bottom pregnancy was to females
As buttock pregnancy was to few males.
All was ephemeral pregnancy,
Not such eternal malignancy
By our economic magnates,
Our riches parasitic magnets.
Had our world not been thrown legs up,

The quantity of fat stored in each of those pot bellies
Would have restored ten anaemic expectant mothers,
One bundle of fat idly patched behind each of those necks
Would flesh ten withering, jaundiced, skeletal fathers,
Whereas one hill of flesh on those butt mountains
Would rescue ten yawning young kids.*
* The Right Hon. was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into
his clothes and had forgotten to say When!
P. G. Wodehouse (1881 - 1975)
British-born U.S. humorist.
Poem 81
Conductors or Con Doctors?
You are put in charge of public transport,

To conduct it with our money,
You turn to misconduct us,
And colonize our pockets,
A conductor turned con doctor!
You are put in charge of public health,

To fight disease and save life,
You turn to amass your wealth thru our health,
And make our pain your gain,
A health conductor turned hell's con doctor!
You are put in charge of public laws,

To conduct the nation towards moral safety.
You shout air of noise for which you are paid,
And conduct our nationhood by falsehood,
A lawyer turned liar!
You are put in charge of public prayers,

To conduct us towards heaven,
You tend to misconduct Gods people
For forty years in the spiritual wilderness,
A pastor turned buster!*
* Beware of these teachers of religious laws! For they love to parade in flowing robes
and to have every one bow to them as they walk in the marketplaces. And how they love the
seats of honor in the synagogues and at banquets. But they shamelessly cheat widows out of
their property, and then, to cover up the people they really are, they make long prayers in pub-
lic. Because of this, their punishment will be the greater.
Jesus Christ
Mark 12:38 - 40

Poem 82
Officially
Licensed
Thieves
Youre put in charge of our fund,

You put them aside for your fun.
You organize for your fans fanfare,
You use our funds for your fun-fare.
You call yourself a chief,

We regard you as a thief.
Lo, you continue to steal,
Your licence shant be still.
For you are depriving the public

Of the development of their republic.
Pests of our peace, may you rest apiece
In the Land you suck, milk, fail to appease.
Heed to this alarm bell to wake up the nation,

To condemn them who feed us with the ration.
Damn the official thieves of, for and by the people,
And them that issue them the licences of the people.
Tingled
Tinkers, tinkle
The jingle jangle.*
* If you give to a thief he cannot steal from you, and he is then no longer a thief.
William Saroyan.
Poem 84
The Kinship with a Kingship

Even the monarch's co-cousins
Dip their hands deep into our coffers,
And fool us, and pull for themselves dozens;
Of course none of all gives them the state's offers.
All those self-made Royalties

Do claim from our toils' royalties.
They assume and consume of powers real regal,
Yet their assumptions for consumptions are not legal.
By hierarchy, we're their loyalists,

And by oligarchy, they're our royalists.
We know to the monarchy they're a far kinship,
It is they by remote anarchy who fake on us kingship.
Poem 85
Of the Demographic Republic of Copyland

We think we will be like England,
Even after we expelled them 50 years ago.
They left not our minds, they left our land,
Deserting us hollow and with empty ego.
We are independently dependent.
our reporters go electronically to New York as
to copy and paste news stories of our parliament.
We formulate our thoughts in our own mother tongue,
But speak out our minds with the tongue of the Yorkers.
When proudly I say my name is Ngong,
My classmates feel embarrassed for not saying John.
Yet they know not even Jonathan, they know Thon.
As I speak to my half-sister not in glottal Arabic,
She says she hates Dinka speakers who are not specific.
To me, Colonialism is not the occupation of our mines;
It is the enslavement of our minds.*
* Others think they inherited Sudan from their ancestors, but the current Sudan is
according to British said Omar El Bashir Sudanese president.
Talk of Sudan (blog)
By Gabriel Tor Makuei

Poem 86
In fake London
Behind his office doors, the interior of the wall,
The AC meter reads 5 degrees Celsius.
On the exterior of the wall, it is forty-five!
I entered from 45 degrees Celsius to five,
I entered from brazen hell to frozen paradise.
Like a radio studio, the cushioned walls have no echo,
Eh, Uncle Jok, I joke, we are in Moscow!
Oh no, young man, we are in London,
In Moscow I've been there it's minus five!
Now, young man, let's go, we're here done.
We exit and door the artificial paradise,

Jump over and enter his mobile fridge.
But the 1000-centimetre long distance
Between his doored and wheeled refrigerators
Is like an oven furnace to our shrinking skins.
Inside the 9-seater V8 balloon, life was in nirvana.
But this time, it was ten degrees, of fragranced air.
Behind the tinted windshields, guess what
Only the insiders know what transpires on those wheels
Cruising sleekly, smoothly the pothole-rugged murram.
Hey, young man, we're home.

Ok, sir, but, sir, it's just cute inside here.
I would rather you find me back here later.
Oh, young man, every paradise has trinity stages:
And in my case, it's office, car and house,
Why not better come and get stuck in Stage III?
Inside his double-storey bungalow is heaven:
A 40-inch plasma screen flashing a satellite television,
A double sitting room with a bar-styled section,
Sparkling with all assortments of beverages and alcohol,
Kids roaming the immeasurable compound in wheeled toys,
Wives, older sons and daughters arriving in separate autos.
These, plus other scenes of no words and space here,

Made me jealous and quit the paradise before dusk.
Back to my usual-casual with fellow commons of the dust,
My handkerchief in my nose, cotton T-shirt and fading jeans,
A hat on my head and sockless Adidas on my soles;

Poem 86.....
In fake London....
This style helps me and us endure our City of Early Hell,
Of impenetrable blanket of dust, simmering 45 degrees
That I cannot endure is the influence and affluence of the city,
The Part B of our city is hypocritical hypocritical, hypercritical
I mean the Londonness of it is only exaggerated indoors.
Guess and compare what city on earth this is.
It is Juba, a five-year-old city in the making.
So we are living in vague London, in fake London.*
* I classify So Paulo this way: The Governors Palace is the living room. The
mayors office is the dining room and the city is the garden. And the favela (slum) is the back
yard where they throw the garbage.
Carolina Maria De Jess (1913 - 1977)
Brazillian writer and lecturer.
Poem 86
Hi Bishop, Let's Prey

Corruption in health is Aids virus,
It is cancer in human beings,
And it's canker in animals and plants.
This is an abject poverty to peasants,
A tsunami to our social environment.
To stump it out calls for prayers,
Incessant intercessions in all institutions.
Unfortunately, they miss the right word:
Bishop: Please, sportsmen, now let's pray.

Sportsmen: Yes, Your Lordship, let's play.
Bishop: Please, businessmen, let's pray.
Businessmen: Yes, Your Lordship, let's ploy.
Bishop: Please, politicians, let's pray.
Politicians: Yes, Your Lordship, let's fray.
Bishop: Please, armed men, let's pray.
Armed men: Hi Bishop, let's prey.*
* Your cravings as a human animal do not become a prayer just because it is God
whom you must ask to attend to them.
Dag Hammarskjld (1905 - 1961)
Swedish statesman and diplomat/First UN Secretary General

Poem 87
Congratulations, our Guilt President

We voted otherwise,
'cause you told us other lies.
We conceded defeat,
Before you announced it,
Because we don't want the repeat.
We don't want the repeat,

Because we will still lose the re-run.
For in this system, we're given no receipt.
And you members of Camp Opp, we're done!
Mr. Guilt President, of course, no loss to an incumbent.

Your coalition to appease us will confuse this small varsity,
Tho' we've no reps, well, congratulations our Guilt President.
We're waiting for our turn, only when your turn is over ninety.
But, please, please, take everything but not our rights, our lives.

Chapter 8
Health Best, Wealth Rest
Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth,

Where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal;
But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven,
Where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal.
Jesus Christ
Matthew 6: 19-20
Here in my campaign slogans, as well as elsewhere, it's been sung, time and again, that:
Prevention is better than intervention,
Health is better than wealth,
Curb is better than cure
John Ngong Alwong

(same author)
Prefectorial elections speech: "The Perfect Prefect", 2000
Gulu High School

Poem 88
Food-and-Mouth Dis-ease
Given that an animal,
Say, a cow, moves using its feet,
And eats with its mouth,
In the process of food hunting,
It must acquire an illness,
Aka Foot-and-Mouth Dis-ease.
But because an animal called man
Is addicted to putting on foot condom,
Hence contracts not foot-and-Mouth.
But that it wears no shoes on its mouth,
And swallows its food minus food condom,
It develops food-and-mouth dis-ease.
Being the only sweet-mouthed being,
Light-handed to assume ownership of all sweeties,
Man consumes lots of sugar,
Or converts loads into sugar,
Less knowing it being a soluble sand, Man would train to drain,
Melts into his colons In the name of tithes and taxes,
And colonizes his vessels, Indirect millions of litres of blood
Such that he: Siphoned From millions of minions,
belches and farts sugar, From children marasmic,
sweats and spits sugar, From women anaemic,
urinates and shits sugar Into aristocratically individualistic veins.
Whole into the abysmal pits of diabetes, This bulges up into flood of blood,
For diabetics to diet on and die of dietetics! That causes not just waves of high tension,
But tides of hypertension,
As if that is non-enough. Originating from food and its mouth,
Man gathers in all that is greasy, That attacks the heart,
Including our natures oil and soil, Then strikes the man,
Transforms it into his cooking oil, With strong strokes.
Transfers it by means of his mouth If in our human dynamic,
Into his biological abyss, All else is considered one-way traffic;
Thus becomes obese Or Oral anal Canal,
And bursts open, Once someone puts poison in your food,
And still feasts often, Once wealth is above health,
From thousands of trays The hell breaks loose,
Over thousands of days, For the nation to lose
Into an eternal bed Lives to Food-and-Mouth disease,
Of Food-in-Mouth disease, Call it cholera or poison.
The obscenity of obesity! In a sweet-tongued talk,
In this way or the other,
Poem 88 .......
Food-and-Mouth Dis-ease.....
The whole romantic chemistry is animated
With a mouth-drawn energy intimated.
S/he hisses, then kisses,
And the duo twins and intertwines,
And barter parasitic blood type A,
A Food-and-Mouth disease,
In the euphemism of Aids.
At times your nocturnal visitor,
A dreaded ogre called Anopheles,
Sneaks into your bedroom,
Does her food-and-mouth transaction,
With her skill on your skin,
Sold to her in disguised corruption,
By our socio-economic mosquitoes.
Our destination else beyond hospital,
Chauffeured by malaria, our host, fatal!
In the dead of the night,
In the depth of your sleep,
Sneaks in a sniper
Or a knifer.
Woe unto you
Who opens a mouth
Who are you?
S/he wants food, goods, money, many
To eat to live and live to eat,
As you live to need,
Owing to the food-and-mouth demands.
Be it accidental or incidental,
Legal execution or lethal persecution,
Ill-will or ill-health,
Dignified or simplified,
Most, if not all, deaths
Have a food-and-mouth exegesis,
According to the book of Genesis.*
* More die in the United States of too much food than of too little.
J. K. Galbraith (1908 - 2006)
Canadian-born U.S. economist.
The Affluent Society

Poem 87
The Lethal Penisillean Injection!
Its ill-legal, Hysterically doused with sweet injection,
Yet its injected. Eventually roused with bitter interjection,
Its all lethal, Ends in fatal infection,
Yet it isnt rejected. Hence in total rejection.
Like a single dose of Penicillin V, This delicious vaccination,

In an antibiotic vial, Regarded as malicious abomination,
This simple toss of penis-ill-lean v, Regretted with social discrimination,
An un-antibody virus, Is all over the nation.
*
* AIDS obliges people to think of sex as having, possibly the direst of consequences:
suicide. Or murder. Susan Sontag (1933 -
2004)
U.S. writer.
AIDS and its Metaphors
Poem 88
The WWW III
The whole world in a woe war,
It has been in it for millennia.
But that is a lie by the media,
It was not a real worldwide war.
Were in the worst world war

Ever thoughtnever fought
By all countries caught and taught.
The third world war
Is ageless and sageless,

Statusless and stateless,
Classless and sexless,
Religionless and regionless.
Its even a dotcom warfare

That attacks the intellectual geniuses,
And spreads faster than internet viruses.
Of the WWW III, aka Aids, beware!*
* If art is to confront AIDS more honestly than the media have done, it must begin
intact, avoid humor and end in anger.
Edmund White (1940 - )
U.S. writer.

Poem 89
Count
d
O
W
n to Your Grave!
Once you consume: you assume:

One second of your age one million kilometres to your grave.
One minute of your age one hundred thousand km to your grave.
One hour of your age ten thousand kilometres to your grave.
One day of your age one thousand kilometres to your grave.
One week of your age one hundred kilometres to your grave.
One month of your age ten kilometres to your grave.
One decade of your age one kilometre to your grave.
One generation of yr age one metre to your grave.
One century of your age one centimetre to your grave.
One meal of your day one million kilometres to your grave.
One day of hunger one hundred thousand km to your grave.
One stick of cigarette ten thousand kilometres to your grave.
One bottle of alcohol one thousand kilometres to your grave.
One bite of mosquito one hundred kilometres to your grave.
One incident of accident ten kilometres to your grave.
One shot of bullet one kilometre to your grave.
One doze of HIV zero kilometres to your grave.
One huddled bundle of all one hurdle jump to your grave!*
* For all our days have passed away in Your wrath; we finish our years like a sigh.
The days of our life are seventy years; and if by reason of strength they are eighty years,
Yet their boast is labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
Psalms 90: 9, 10, 12.

Poem 90
Our Explosive Potatoes

If you don't know now,
Do now know,
That our sweet potatoes,
Boiled in pot and tossed,
That explores our bodies via our stomachs,
To make these bodies of ours tarmacs,
With a new clear energy,
For works and walks;
Are replaced with a nuclear energy
For woes and wars.
They explode with our heels,
Or hibernate in our hills,
Burrowing in our centres for other generations,
Furthering our grudge for the next century.
Now is time in our new sanctuary,
To harvest our atomic potatoes,
And plant in place our economic potatoes,
For our better health.
Never will we ever sow metallic potatoes,
For our bitter hells.*
* The president wants to take from farms and give to arms.

Charles E. Grassley (1933 - )
U.S. politician.
Referring to Ronald Reagans budget priorities.
The Wall Street Journal
Poem 91
Mammoth Mammon
Time is now to arrive
For many to deprive and drive
Away on a dual-carriage highway,
On which everything is carried away.
Others dont arrive alive,

Whereas others reach rich.
On one way wails the ambulance,
On the other blare the serene sirens.
This lane is For Drivers

Of bullions of billions,
That line For Pedestrians,
The minions in millions.
On that red side of the night,

Martyrs bled sweat and blood,
On this white side of the Whi Nile,
Crocodiles dine on sweat and blood,
Free on a drinking spree,

The bloated blood money,
True terror-stringed wealth,
Against terror-stricken health.
Thorough quick cash,

Through quack catch,
The life-priced resources of the common,
Are now the cliques mammoth mammon.
Let them be warned long ago,

No man serves two masters at a go.
With such disastrous pride and ego,
Please, surrender:
To Caesar
what is seized from Caesar,
And so render:
To God
what is got from God.*
* Believe me now, my Christian friends, Believe your friend calld Hammon: You can-
not to your God attend, And serve the God of Mammon.
Jupiter Hammon (1711 - 1800?)
U.S. writer.

Poem 92
Money, money, where are you?
Yo name is money,
Sweeter than honey,
More wanted than Moslems bin Laden,
Ive, with all your problems, been laden:
Infinite years of weeping,

Infinite years of sweeping,
Money: why so scared by my broom?
Money: why too scarce in my room?
Indefinite years of donkey work,

Indefinite years of monkey walk,
Same years of fishless fishing under
The sea with no retreat no surrender.
Oh my!
Ah why
Even after out of the university
Are you still with me in adversity?
I dog you into hell,

Evade a bombshell,
Only to invade in vainbut you;
Money, money, where are you?*
* For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they
have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.
St. Paul
1 Timothy 4:10
Poem 93
We're their cash-ualties
When we starve of hunger,

Turning whitish with ash;
Then they stave off hunger,
Getting fetish of our cash.
In our pot valley,

They nurse their pot belly.
Our backs they pat,
With their palms swollen with fat;
Kudos, the bigheads are always wise.

Not knowing otherwise
This national club is ours,
In four different powers:
The fatheads but flatstomachs,

The fatstomach but flatheads,
The fatheads with fatstomachs,
The flatstomachs and flatheads.
Further into two fairs with eventualities:

We with the heads fat and the stomachs flat,
Or of the heads flat and stomachs flat,
Are the Have-nots in cash, hence sworn casualties
Of them flat heads but fat stomachs,

Or them fat heads and fat stomachs.
All the privileges are unto the thickness of the back shadow,
Which does not pass through our rear window.*
* Im fat, but Im thin inside. Has it ever struck you that theres a thin man inside
every fat man, just as they say theres a statue inside every block of stone?
George Orwell (1903 - 1950)
British writer.
Coming Up for Air

Chapter 9
Tender Addenda in Gender Agenda
"My advice to you is get married: if you find a good wife you'll be happy; if not, you'll
become a philosopher."
Socrates.
The need of this hour is not territory, gold mines, railroads, or specie payments but a
new evangel of womanhood, to exalt purity, virtue, morality, true religion, to lift man
up into the higher realms of thought and action.
Elizabeth Cady Stanton,

The Destructive Male,
1868.

Poem 94
Choice for Joyce

I'm no longer in bad time,
I'm all ready in bed time.
Come on, Love, I'm already mad,

Let me ne'er feel bad.
Stop that badminton,
Let's come and play bed-minton.
If my love boils to the exterior,

It becomes hysteria, sexterior!

Succulent with love juice,
Let's come and cruise.
Come on, let's rejoice,
Mr. Right, choice for Joyce.
For I wanna lose not

The one I choose hot.
You're very wrong,

If you think I'm just excited,
I am hot, thus too sexcited!
Wait not for long!
I, Joyce, have a choice for joy,

Be my toy for joy, be my boy.*
* Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first. Loving not, hating not, just choosing
so.
Robert Browning (1812 - 1889)
British poet.
Dramatis Personae, Caliban upon Setebos

Poem 95
On the wing of the wind

Ever fallen in a hasty love
The style of a thirsty dove?
Ever experienced a love ride
Like in the curve of an air glide?
Climb on the wings of the wind;

Take a journey in an aeroplane,
And with it swing with the wind.
Oh, you will never ever complain.
Book your air ticket in advance

To keep at bay any intruding panic.
To get set for a romantic aero-dance,
Eroticize your mind for this gliding picnic.
Lightly engaged,
Slightly baggaged,
Prompt in the airport,
Avoid any latest report.
Now in the mood of the foreplay,

Caress with your tongue and hand,
Or with your ear, nose and eye, scan
Everything ajar on the duty-free display.
Master the interiors and exteriors of your winged bed.

Play about with the icons of your aircon and seatbelt.
Fly about with your hysteric joy toy not grabbed
Away by the ghost fear of the unknown felt.
Ripe, here you are for the take off.

At this stage, all but one is switched off.
The upthrust is now getting tough and rough,
But it will make you dream, scream and laugh.
In this heavenward curve,

The system is now getting set,
But that marks not the climax, yet.
The tyres folding in at the first swerve,

Poem 95.....
On the wing of the wind......
And then the upsurge of the climactic conditions

Boiling up as the wing flaps smoothly straighten,
But oft' not without abrupt climatic contradictions,
As the speed, altitude and attitude begin to flatten.
Oops, the sweet swing of the wings with the wind!

Eyes, ears, mindshut tout. With the noise behind:
The screeching, screaming, heard at foreign distance.
And now breathless mixture of sweet-sleep substance.
At last, the time and fuel are exhausted.

The system now begins to relax and rewind,
As most of the energy's been combusted,
The lateral flaps and pectoral fins unfold hind.
Then the projectile sky jet capsule tilts nose down.

For the visibility of the town,
Fear should be exorcised
or
Care should be exercised
or else you are off control.
Alas, The jerking touchdown, then the taxiing stroll!*
* Awake, north wind; and come, you south! Blow on my garden, that its spices may
flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and taste his precious fruits. Lover.
Songs of Solomon
4: 16
Holy Bible.

Poem 96
Very Fanta-stic chic!

Miss Fanta,
Your name has no phonetics
To be pronounced by lousy fanatics.
Implored by faith, I, alone, am your fan,
Employed by fate, enough to give you fun.
Ah why?
Oh my! order of soda is Fanta,
Or my sure surname is Panther.
Because you are pretty Fantastic,
You're as secure as a panther's tick.
Oh wow!
Pick, examine a full Fanta bottle,
From her lid to lip, neck down to leg
Her content, her pink colour, stinging little
Flowery flavour, dewy odourtempt me to beg...
Oh my!
Dipped in your lipstick, very fabulous!
licked with my Fanta stick, very Fantabulous!
My Love, before you best quench my erotic thirst,
Fanta is forefront to quash my erratic hunger first.
Ah bye!
O mine!
You being my own fantail dove,
I declare to you my mountain love,
From the fountain of my heart, my friend,
Signed into this book with a fountain pen, and
witnessed and blessed by Fountain Publishers.*
* Young men of this class never do anything for themselves that they can get other
people to do for them, and it is the infatuation, the devotion, the superstition of others that
keeps them going. These others in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred are women.
Henry James,
American expatriate writer (1843-1916)

Poem 97
My Laptop
Ive fallen in love

With Miss Laptop,
Not Mrs. Desktop.
Miss Lovetop
Sizeable to my choice
Suitable to my hearts voice.
Miss Heart-top,
Comfortable on my laps,
Compatible with my arms.
Miss Arm-top,
Portable to my pocket,
quotable to my alms.
Miss Alms-top,
Affordable to my status,
Available at my fingertips.
Miss Finger-top,
Adaptable to my clicks,
Flexible to my hardships.
Miss Hardtop,
Durable for my weather variations,
Applicable to my art tips.
Miss Art-top,
Programmable to my working conditions,
Adjustable to my brain tips.
Miss Braintop,
Intelligible to all puzzles,
Responsible for my backup.*
* There are two things that are more difficult than making an after-dinner speech:
climbing a wall which is leaning toward you and kissing a girl who is leaning away from you.
Sir Winston Churchill
British Prime Minister

Poem 97.....
My Laptop .....
Miss Backtop,
Dependable in all challenges,
Defendable with all her faith.
Miss Faith-top,
Loyal to all religions,
Royal in all my trusts.
Miss Trust-top,
dutiful to my secret deals,
Beautiful for all my ideal ideas.
Miss Beaut-top,
Fashionable in todays stripping culture,
Smart in all the lip productions.
Miss Lip-top,
Enjoyable in all speeches,
Sweet in all flavours. **
** The only creatures that are evolved enough to convey pure love are dogs and
infants.
Johnny Depp (1963 )
American Actor
Poem 99
Nunu is lulu!
Fresh in the mark't,

Lulu from Wulu,
Wulu-lulu-uu!
She, better as Shea butter
In beauty, can in every angle batter
Every angel. Yeah, she's been marked,
Natively glassy and glossy like GOSS' cars,
Smeared dark, sleek with Shea butter.
Flowery like a nun,
Glittering in the sun,
Singly and simply romantic,
Nunu's automatically aromatic,
Like Lulu, the babe I saw in Gulu,
But that time I was not a love guru.
A top shiner, not with China's lipstick.
In my mind's photo album, Nunu is lulu.*
* This beautiful work of the hands of the Sudanese Womens Lulu Works makes
your spouse sweeter when smeared on at night. Buy it, it is the only medicine against
Gender-Based Violence.

Lulu promotional campaign against Gender-Based Violence,
November, 2008,
Lulu Works Woman Group,
Mundri, West Equatoria, Southern Sudan.

Poem 100
Younique Monique!
Hi Azew,
In my view,
You were an electronically Younique Monique,

And your family were so in their unique critique;
According to me and my Pennique Clique,
'Twas a fantastic function,

That deserves our sanction,
That was climaxed by as we cheered along
My father's eloquent namesake, brother Aluong.
Kudos to that gifted little girl-writer, Athieng,

My comrade-in-pen, and the children of Pieng.
I was amazed by the boldness of witty Shortie,

Kissing our revered President who greeted ekedi, bitii?
As she clang on me, I was blessed to dance with baby Grace,

Probably a result of my prayerful awe in Kampala, "O Good Grace!
What gift should our great avuncular community owe Adau-mathiang?"
As I am waiting to see who is really a dau-ghter of Adau-mathiang,
Which boy have I forgotten, if not Diing Duot, a typical Kongor in Ngok,
And the Man of the Wings, Chuang (that 'photocopy' of) Gier Chuang!
If a pilot is on the accelerator, it's a taboo to shout wow, lest he runs amok,
That's why I've even misspelled his name from Gier Chuang to Gear Shwang.*
* Now that the April of your youth adorns the garden of your face.
Edward Herbert (1583 - 1648)
English philosopher, historian, and diplomat.
Occasional Verses, Ditty in Imitation of the Spanish: Entre tantoque LAvril
Letter from John Penn de Ngong (John Ngong Auong) to Monica Adhieu Gier Chuang
Aluong,
On a prayer day following her fathers appointment as minister of Internal Affairs (GOSS).
Poem 101
My Queen Elizabeth of Africa
They named you 'Python'
Elizabeth, my own pie-zone,
for you swallowed every bad man but me,
every bad mountingmouthing about we.
You've worked your words,

So you've won your rewards,
sacrificing a 30-day course
with men in South Africa,
for about a 30,000-day cause
with a man in South Sudan, not America!
So you never miss our promise?

So I make a promise to build a premise
for life, for our love clinic.
I swear to take for a picnic
where to shower and bathe
my African Queen Elizabeth,
Elizabeth Python Quai,

(to view exotic American nyiel and nyieng):
pythons and crocodiles,
on the Quevec quay,
and thereby caress our sweet dials,
on The Queen Elizabeth Islands,
that is my Queen Elizabeth's highlands,

where we shall please our nerves
with our love pills and Pilsner,
to each other's lips each serves
a tot in a party called 'Part-and-Partner',
and toss: Its got what you want!
Queen, this is my love warrant;

to keep us vaccinated against any mistrust,
let's keep fresh and current like black currant
this motto: In Marriage We Trust.*
* You know and I know and everybody else knows that I have only one dear wife,
Lucy here ... but the media keeps repeating about my having another wife or wives.
Mwai Kibaki
Kenyas President

Poem 102
Why I wedded not in the church
I conducted weddingsseveral,
While I was a church corporal.
But why then fail my own?
Was it cost of the gown?
Or a call for detractors?
Nay, holy matrimonies

Of numerous ceremonies
That I so far have harnessed,
Ended up thereI've witnessed,
Loathed: love hypocrisy, contractors.*
* The real act of marriage takes place in the heart, not in the ballroom or church or
synagogue. Its a choice you make/not just on your wedding day, but over and over again/
and that choice is reflected in the way you treat your husband or wife.
Barbara De Angelis
Poem 103
Followers of Flowers
They do not hear with ears,
They do hear with eyes,
They see not a quality,
They seek e-quality;
Beauty of butterflies:
It makes them dog

Jezebel and Delilah
Into an abyss of lust,
Into an abuse of trust;
Love bold for gold:
It makes them not only, lonely follow,

It makes them loosely, lousily flow,
So they are not just just followers,
They are flow-ers, after flowers. *
* Lumiere (to the Beast): You fall in love with her. She falls in love with you. And
poof, the spell is broken. Well be human again by midnight!
Beauty and the Beast (motion picture, 1991), Microsoft Encarta 2006.
Poem 104
The Part B of my Lover
She calls me honey, eyeing my money.

As my pocket has money, her socket has honey.
She's there to wait as I'm there to sweat.
She kisses me, sweetie, whence I've a thing sweet.
I'm my father-in-law's debtor, but his daughter my doubter;

For once I glow horny, she'd grow thorny.
Lo! My background he searches, my foreground she researches.
Damn, that is her Part B, which cannot be!
Poem 104
Our babes, how do we eat them?

We are topping the world in terms of beauties,
For whom we do even know not their duties.
Let naively a ruralized parent wonders,
This my daughter, how do I eat her!
An urbanized parent also ponders,
My daughter, how do I feed her?
In the periphery of our civilization,

A family focuses on the bride wealth.
But not really her wealth but her health
Takes the most budget in the globalization.
When a girl is born a cow is born, for instance,
Very commonplace with pastoral transhumance.*
* We all have sisters and daughters, very charming ones! Have you ever looked at
one of them and wonder, How do I eat this one? As a common language for a Dinka par-
ent, implying that a female child is wealth to the family.
Malual Jackdit
Article: Modeling, a new industry for S. Sudan
Column: This Generation
The Younique Generation Magazine
July 2010.

Poem 105
Woman Beings
Treat us humane.
Women are human.
Not only males are urbane.
Why mostly men are urban?
We are wimmin,
Why treat us as vermin?
Why make us underdogs,
Yoking us with loads of logs!
So conditioned that when our gods enter homesteads,

Wielding their clubs, clearing their throats with threats,
"You women, who is at home?" Then very slowly and lowly
In unison we echo, "Sorry, nobody at home, it's we women only!"
Now what animal is a human,

And who co-created human beings?
Is it not woman, regarded not human?
So woman beings are real human beings.
Now what mammal is a woman?

W.O.MAN, not just 'Wife of Man".
In this world of masculinism vs feminism,
Better call us wimmin, the best euphemism.*
* But in relationships among the Lords people, women are not independent of men,
and men are not independent of women. For although the first woman came from man, all
men have been born from women ever since, and everything comes from God.
St. Paul
1 Corinthians 11:11
Holy Bible
Poem 105
Eve vs. Ewe
If one man, Adam from Eden, had married several co-wives,
The Forbidden Fruit would've been re-eaten by co-children,
Their wills would've been done on Earth as it was in Eden.
A man, one life, can host and author not two, many lives.
So if so done, his Ewes and Eves will eavesdrop and clash,

Hence, his paternity and his posterity's fraternity will crash.
Thence, Cain will on Abel no longer be his brother's keeper,
And Eve will in the name of Ewe own a compound sweeper.*
* I am tired to death of polygamy. I should like to live somewhere monogamously &

work eight hours a day.
Louis MacNeice (1907 - 1963)
Irish-born British poet.
Letter to E. R. Dodds

Poem 106
Mr. Rubbish versus Mrs. Rough Bitch
So, Mr. Rubbish,

I am gonna sing you this damn verse.
And, Oh Mrs. Rough Bitch,

I am gonna suffix you its real chorus.
Because, Mr. Rubbish,

You're cheating on me with your allies.
Of course, Mrs. Rough Bitch,

You're shitting on me your all lies.

You're anti-socially on public rampage.
Of course, Mrs. Rough Bitch,

You're denying me my romantic roughage.

You've become a useless spouse.
Because, Mrs. Rough Bitch,

You've become a ruthless spouse.
Now Mr. Rubbish,

I know why and where a rubbish is dumped.
No, Mrs. Rough Bitch,

I know how and when a rough bitch is damned.

Poem 106 - 107
My Chloroqueen
"My Queen"
I first addressed you.
But this, I regret today.
And this I regret to say,
You're no longer my Queen,
You're forever my Chloroqueen!
Cause Chloroquine is outdated,

To the name alone I am allergic.
Your voice leave aside the sight
Is hose, coarse: it irritates, it itches.
In short, you by me, I want not by inches.
And don't, don'tsorry, apology belated!
My Kinkong
So be it!
"My King"
Thus I addressed you.
But this, I regret today,
And this, I regret to say,
You're no longer my King,
You're forever my King Kong!
See, your name is Dr. Kinkong,

Of course, King Kong is a monster,
Just as Kinkong is a sinister minister,
An ardent addict, gourmand of avarice,
In a union of the Gourmets on Self Service,
Lo, I to you: your secret wed, job am Judas!
And don't, don't say sorry, apology belated, alas!*
* Hate is not conquered by hate: hate is conquered by love. This is a law eternal.
Buddha

Poem 110
The wasted union money trans-affair
Hello honey,
Have you received the money?
No, Darling.
The MTCN is wrong.
How wrongwhy wrong?
Its long, too oo long!

Equals the distance from America to Africa.
Alright, Sweetie, maybe IU got a wrong one.

Let me write it right.
(Oh dear stupid me!

How stressful nursing, nourishing ghost love,
Indecent infatuation for distant initiation,
Hosted on my cheek in form of a phone,
Hoisted overseas with call of a phone.
Me, what a bought fool!
To hell with his phone kiss,
To hell with his MTCN keys,
The damned Money Transfer Control Number,
Or fucking Mind Transfixing Control Number,
A sort of nestling dependency syndrome,
Of disguised, string-attached, social foreign aid to Africa.
Damn me, tangled in this cold bed, hugging pillows,
Over years of tears of waiting, wedding, feasting but fasting
With romantic salivation without semantic salvation.
O God, save me from this eternal incubus,
My fantasy love guest, nocturnal love ghost!)
(Oh dear bewitched, me!

Servicing wireless love
Over electronic distances
With Hi-Fi, Wi-Fi pleasantries!
To hell with her 'love for rent',
The damned verbal I-love-U union,
Won by this highest bidder in a social auction.
These goddamn terms: sender which is me,
Receiver or her and her population of foxy folks,

Poem 110.....
The wasted union money trans-affair.....
The MTCN, call it Marriage Trustee Control Number!
Oh God, save me from the variety of damn taxes:
Personal tax, house rent, parking fee, fucking fee,
Car insurance, love insurance, life assurance!
And this again: this succubus,
An acting lover, a sucking bug,
An absentee housewife,
My fantasy bedmate, a bad mate, indeed!
The fantastic nightmare, a love mare, in fact!)
Hello Brother,
Im dipped in deep shit here!
Please, confirm,
Has my wife received her money!
Your what received what?

Um, does your wife confess ever receiving any?
I see her once a month,
But a company of friends sees her ones a month.
You, love boys, with your title wives!
Please, do know a wife means a bedmate, not a bet mate.
Wives and husbands of nowadays

Kept in photo books and phone books!
The civil war, the civic lifedamn them both!
You foreigner, call me not again, if not for a gain.

Leave in peace not in pieces me,
your school drop out!
Go pay your love fee to your love bee.
Hey, how many thousands of dollars transferred so far?
Through that secret regret system of money transfer!
Oh God, what a wasted union money trans-affair!*
*
Theres a way of transferring funds that is even faster than electronic banking. Its called
marriage. -James Holt McGavran
Marriage is the only war in which you sleep with the enemy. Anonymous.
God made woman beautiful and foolish; beautiful, that man might love her; and foolish,
that she might love him. Anonymous

Chapter 10
Childhood and Parenthood
Sometimes when I look at my children I say to myself, "Lillian, you should have stayed
a virgin."
Lillian Carter (1898 - 1983)

U.S. nurse and mother of Jimmy Carter.
The time of the psychological passing over from boyhood to manhood is a movable
feast. The legal date fixed on the twenty-first birthday has little or no connection with it.
There are men in their teens, and there are boys in their forties.
James Weldon Johnson (1871 - 1938)

U.S. writer, lawyer, and diplomat.
Along This Way

Poem 111
My baby, welcome to this world

Welcome!
Welcome!
My lovely larva
Breath of my breath
Blood of my blood
Skin of my skin
Flesh of my flesh
Bone of my bones
Spirit of my spirit
Soul of my soul
My warm love
My baby dove
My homing baby
Listen to my lullaby.
Well, come to this world,

But Id rather you didnt come now
If I myself had known then
I wouldnt have risked come here
Id wish to take a transit visa
Well and good that you take a trans-seat visit
Once you swim off your pupal pool
The usual way this world welcomes its visitors

Remember, your toils begin with your toys
And your spoils will feed the soil.
Its self fooling addressing an un-arrived guest

My child, why linger yonder?
Since you kicked my bottom last morn
The shortest uterine journey in 24 hours,
Why tarry? Please, try to hurry.
Now come, come, cooooome!
Alas! At last, upon your obstructed arrival,
Your welcomer is wielding his surgical sword.
Umm! Let me wait and see the panya route,
The panga route, the mortal port
You preferthey prepare.
But please, no short cut to heaven!

Doctor, please dont, dont slaauugh
ter me double!
Oh, thank you miracle God!

And thank you medical god!
A human being slit and split!
A double person crucified at the altar of life!
Just to resurrect three hours later!
A piercing knife through a pushing knight
Through a buzzing night!
An ephemeral death into eternal birth!
For King Solomon says:
The day you die is much better than the day you are born,
But I say:
The day youre born is more bitter than the day you die.
So if death be such painless and payless,
Why then fear death? I then fear death less.
My baby, welcome to this ward.

Out of that man-made womb,
Youre not a chick to brood in an incubator,
Lest they exchange you with lifeless foreigner
While wise Solomon is long dead to judge.
If you were a baby boy,
Out of this caesarean hatch,
Your name would be Caesars,
Delivered by means of scissors.
If I were lamenting in the tongue of Arab,
I would christen you Taab,
Cos you cause me too much suffering.
Still your name should be so, Tab.
In memory of all the tablets I ate to form you,
Again your name should be Tab,
For all that I owe your grandma and grandpa.
In full, Tabitha,
For like her, youve beenand shall be
Raised from tomb to womb.

Poem 111.....
My baby, welcome to this world.....

To emulate immaculate Tabitha-Dorcus,
Of the biblical women who labored to prosperity.
To honour Tabitha Lith,
Who baby-sat me in the labour ward.
To Elizabeth Akuol who escorted me to your dad,
Now you owe more to Rebecca Diing,
Who nursed you in me
From the day you got fertilized
To the day you got materialized.
You owe names to Elizabeth Abiei,
Your mothers namesake,
Your fathers grandmothers namesake,
Elizabeth Abiei Wel like Abiei Wal,
Your Godmother who was there
In the ward with every word,
Reporting to Jesus Christ,
Who was born abroad, into crises like you.
You owe your father respect and life,
You owe your mother love and life.
Please live and love till that day,
That date of my genuine death,
So that you bury us, me and him,
So that your very own bury you, you and him.
Or else we wouldnt bring you to this world.
Welcome to this world, my daughter!
But lest you forget*
* The childs first year of life is unfortunately still an abyss of mysteries for the psy-
chologist.
Jean Piaget (1896 - 1980)

Swiss psychologist.
The First Year of Life of the Child

Poem 112
This is my beloved son
and they will name him Immanuel,

Which means "God is with us".
The Bible shows, God chose Samuel,
He pre-crowned him King thus.
When you came, receptionists called you names.

That day, you coincided with world's mob games:
They call you Ocampo, for he camped in Uganda.
They call you Obama, for he bumped into Ghana.
Alith, my son, your name is Emmanuel,

I, John, your father, had come to prepare you ways.
That you came right was of you very well.
Nothing more but to surrender you to God who says:
This is my beloved son,

With whom I am pleased.
Now to the wild that you are released,
Please, fight your good fight under the sun.*
(Prayerful soliloquy I mumbled to my son, Emmanuel Alith de Ngong, on a Sunday of his

birth and on a Sunday of his dedication to God at Kabowa Church (Kampala) 20 Sept. 20,
2009.)
* I dont know who my grandfather was; I am much more concerned to know what
his grandson will be.
Abraham Lincoln, US President (1861 1865)
Poem 113
Mama, what is this?
When a child is born,
For the mother
A new timetable emerges:
Day 1:
Ngehngehngeh!?
Day 100:
Aa...ahaaa
Day 300:
Mama, mamababa, babajaja, jaja!
Day 600:
Mama, what is this?
Baby, it is food.
Mama, what is this?
Baby, it is a spoon.
Mama, what is this?
Baby, it is fire!
Day 900:
Mama, what is this?
My child, it is a pencil.
Mama, what is this?
My child, it is your book.
Mama, what is this?
My child, it is your school uniform.
Day 9000:
Mama, what is this?
My Child, it is your wedding cake!
Day 18000:
My Child, what is this?
Mama, it is coffee.
My child, why is this?
Mama, don't be a nuisance, please!
My Child, so my question is nonsense?
Mama, now pack back to the village, ok?*
* The mother-child relationship is paradoxical and, in a sense, tragic. It requires the

most intense love on the mothers side, yet this very love must help the child grow away from
the mother and to become fully independent.
Attributed to Erich Fromm (1900 - 1980)
German-born U.S. psychoanalyst and philosopher.

Poem 114
I'm mama
When I see my eyes,
And count my teeth,
And measure my height,
I am Mama.
When I hear my voice,

And experience my thoughts,
And watch my actions,
I am Mama.
I am Mama
When I build my home,
And marry my spouse,
And produce my children.
I am Mama
When I see her off,
And inherit her stool,
And follow her to hell or heaven.*
* All I am, or hope to be, I owe it to my angel mother.

Abraham Lincoln,
Poem 116
An Open Tomb
Like an abscess
That bulges often,
Likely to burst open
But downloads into success;
Like hollowed tomb,

Her hallowed womb
Is but a life-filled bomb
That explodes into Tombe.
See, the womb

Is an open tomb
Where life is placed,
Misplaced or replaced.*
* A pregnant woman is an open grave.

Dinka proverb.
The world doesnt want to hear about the labor pains, they just want to see the baby.
Wolfdyke
Poem 115
My old Gold
If not you had to split yourself,
To produce and groom this elf,
Would I have got my new gold?
Hail Mother, my own old gold!
sometimes your voice I mightn't heed,

But that means not that you're mine;
Mama, You're an olden golden mine,
Germinating this modern golden seed!*
* Your mother is your mother even if clad in toad skin .

Bor Proverb (Mor e mor naa cok cieng e biong ke thiu)

Poem 117
The Sabbath for Mama

Hey Buddy, There is this other day, too,
Do you know that? June 16 for us children,
Mummy has only one day, Like March 8 for women,
One and only single day, Like May 13 for mothers,
Or only one simple say, Unlike Jan. 1 31 Dec. for men,
One singing, semi day, Who claim to be our fathers and brothers.
Out of all 366 days,
Tomorrow Ill ask
To rest, My Sunday school teacher
But not to resist Or the other black man in white
A call That who assigns the days and duties.
From the routinely hunger quake Hey Jane,
That has its epicentre Youll get the same answer
In the belly valley That my teacher told me last Sunday.
Of my cross-legged daddy, That what, Janet?
And my hand-folding bros. That our great, great grand, grandma,
Long, long, long ago,
Being her only baby daughter, Made a mistake in the garden
I sometimes shed tears, Stop! I now know,
And just wish, just, Its the politricks of the male politicians.
I turn ten But which president can fix the days forever?
To take over Any. Even that of our family,
And let mama celebrate her unholy Sabbath. Or of our country,
Why werent I twenty, thirty, forty, fifty Or of our universe.
To decode the riddle But I think the Lord of Sabbath,
Of her subjective responsibilities, The very God of Sabbaoth,
To ask if Baba owns the other 365 and so days? Knows women's rights, too, doesn't he?
I think let's first grow up,
If so, And go to school,
Then it means, And become no longer small
Mama has only seventy days To ask and know, but big,
To rest and celebrate her freedom, Big enough to know and ask,
If God forbids she had to die at seventy. And ask where, when, why, what, who, how
*
* Children arent happy with nothing to ignore,

And thats what parents were created for.
Ogden Nash (1902 - 1971)
U.S. humorist.
Happy Days, The Parent
Poem 118
O, Dry Father!
Most of my friends
As well as my fiends
Go back home to see their fathers
And they are all in feathers,
For theirs have not yet met their end.
Unlike me, at the end,
Going to my wild homestead,
In Bor, the genocide hotspot,
Of Jonglei State, the hot pot.
There I see
A valley of Dry Bones,
Void of any newborns.
I see him, already it,
Lying clean and white,
His skull detached,
His soul attached,
Together with theirs,
And them to whom we are heirs,
Lying wide spread,
Drying like wild bread.
Among numerous dry heads,

Is my dad's, still with beads,
His teeth still intact,
Only for my identity contact.
Needless to ask whose
Orders made him lose
Not only his life but my love,
Who knows not but just to live.
Only him and Him know how,
Who against whom to revenge but not now.*
* The world dies over and over again, but the skeleton always gets up and walks.
Henry Miller

Poem 119
The Vulture of the Future

As a ten-year old messenger of doom
Scrambles for filth mount's edible content
With but a winged scavenger of boom,
A tan here odd passenger with ill intent,
Clicks with precision the lensed owl zoom
On the lad who licks on his hand with discontent
The dried-in oral dehydration salts.
As the solitary minor goes scavenging,

His age-mates go on unfounded avenging,
For his father was once in theirs' forefront.
Be gone you poor Lazarus, clothed vulture!
They yell. He begs, I'm a vulture of the future.
Then they jeer at him who does not confront
Them with his moral degeneration assaults.*
* Common looking people are the best in the world: that is the reason the Lord
makes so many of them.
Abraham Lincoln, US President (1961 1965)
Poem 120
The manky monkey

In a murky morning,
A lanky manky monkey
Tries to grope to the grove,
Alley too manky for two monkeys,
Inhabited by corpses living in copses,
Who subsist on coffees in the coppice.
Solitary, he survives, too solid and stolid
To move with the doves and dine with nine
Out of a hundred of children of his kindred,
The children so infra-agile and fragile to him.
During the war, he's pushed into the bush.
From his sweet street, he feeds on weeds,
Where he becomes manager of the manger,
To educate the mangy mongrels to manducate
In a jungle life of not education but manducation.
Because fine kids should ne'er mix with manky monkeys,
Void of humanity, the outcasts later become voice of humility.*
* Whoever will cause one of these little ones who believe in me to stumble, it would
be better for him if he was thrown into the sea with a millstone hung around his neck.
Jesus Christ,
Mark 9:42
Poem 121
We're inno-saint
When our stepmother
Steps out of our father,
And steps up a sinister campaign,
Driving our father to champagne,
And when she switches to witches,
Pointing that it's our aunt that bewitches
Into the blank all that she wishes but in vain,
She contracts her witches to extract from our vein
The medicine to soothe her incessant complaint.
In this case, we're but very inno-saint.
When our neighbour

Fails to get a favour
In our ten-year old sister,
He plots something sinister
waylays her who is overpowered,
And then he dumps her deflowered!
And then the police case is filed,
Only his name is arrested. But she's defiled!
Now her future is indelibly stained,
Because she is very inno-saint.
When Tong-Tong militias

Plan their acts, always malicious,
To too early wean us off our schools,
Because they win not even those fools
To support their fake idea of liberation,
We fall prey to their hands for political libation.
Now that our rights are trampled on, we children,
Have to declare a warfare, which is trickily modern.
May the God of Heaven crown every young soul saint,
Because we're all very inno-saint.

Poem 121
The Juba-Nile Delinquency

The ghetto gecko
As his pet-name goes
Rotates around the Jericho by echo
Like a mongoose feeding on raw mangoes
Singing Him the hymn

To appease Him who might condemn
'Tis Thee
O Big Three
'Tis Thee
Let me feel free
I do beseech
In this my lone speech
Pardon me, thy little leech
By this he lives on and on

Hoping one day he becomes a don
Alas, these Draconian law
That even amputates a son-in-law
Knows not that he is a juvenile

Who subsists along the Nile
Or pickpockets on Juba streets
Less aware those shoplifted sweets
Fulfill that ignorance of the law
Is no excusebut an open offence
That alone risks his wrist on a judge's saw
This Juba-Nile crime frequency
is due to juvenile delinquency
as a kid on the wind's wings swings on a see-saw.*
* They are not juvenile delinquents. These are children who have been taken from
homes that were bad for them.
Brandi Dollar.
Poem 122
The need for a seed
Whoever has no plan

does not want to plant
on the onset of rain,
deliberately left vacant
So that he harvests
only the nature's forests.
Once a mental field

is maternally laid,
so that it must yield,
it needs a seed.
And if left fallow,

then an evil fellow
by means of stealth
stuffs it but with filth,
now a devil's workshop,
which calls for a bishop.
If this world is to continue,

posterity must have a retinue,
that is why my number 1 need
is nothing but a need for a seed.*
* Give me four years to teach the children and the seed I have sown will never be
uprooted.
Vladimir Ilyich Lenin

Poem 123
Like my dead dad!

Yes,
They've come of age,
Yet , not come of sage;
No,
How come an old man
Hate his new young man!
Well,
In the same game,
Hate my damn fame
But,
Don't you hurt my lame name.
Out there, it's a flame of blame!
O,
Father, who adores his day,
And who abhors a child's say,
Lo!
Your countdown alarm clock
'Tis ticking towards your next flock!
At least,
Death is the only democracy
That condones not the old bureaucracy.
At last,
In the world of the living or the dead,
Altogether, you're just like my dead dad.

Poem 124
Chols Choldren
Like father like sons,
Cloned from the same clown,
Birds of the same feather,
Of the same height,
The same heart,
Same art;
They are his children.
Sired with Chol in their word and work,

With him on their tobac-coaled teeth,
Him in their alco-holed eyes,
In their sweet show for chow,
Their bitter choler for chores,
They give with Chols fingers;
They are his choldren.
One of them got named Magot,

Like his siblings, born to chew,
Begotten to devour they're maggots:
To divorce wives,
To devote to wines,
Childless swines;
Chols choldren bacholers forever.
Born in the climax of the war,

Raised in the climate of the war,
From the warm blood of the warmonger,
Chols children are soldiers,
They are even choldiers,
His identical soldren;
These are real choldren.
Not mine at all,

For I am only a woman,
A whooo, man! A nothing in their clan,
A cheaply sheep-goat-bought child factory,
Whose feminine products are branded upon owners will,
And sold without a thank-you to the manufacturing machine.
I have no name among even after Chols choldrens children.*
* Problem children tend to grow up into problem adults and problem adults tend to
produce more problem children.
David Farrington (1944 - )
British criminal psychologist.
The Times (London)

Poem 122
Boys of atomic toys
We are a generation
Of no veneration
Begotten and forgotten
Born and has borne
The woes of wars
On our souls and shoulders
As wild child-soldiers
Sold as sole saviours
For freedom from serfdom
We are a generation
Of degeneration
Sons of a gun
Only taught songs of a gun
With deadly toys taller than the boys
Who display them live and play with life
Handling grenades like schoolboys toys
For the termination of our extermination
In our struggle for self-determination.*
* Political history is far too criminal and pathological to be a fit subject of study for
the young. Children should acquire their heroes and villains from fiction.
W. H. Auden (1907 - 1973)

British poet.
Poem 123
The Bride Tribe
Ours is a new tribe

Of scribes to describe
Our real fire drive
That makes us strive
Through the cloud of strife
With not our metal but mental knife.
We cherish our pride

Of being the new bride,
A generation born bright
With every tangible right.
Having paid our bloody price
To win and to pin up this noble prize,
We urge our senile tribe

Not to expose us to bribe
Our way of life with a dime.
Hither come our ripe time.
For in our current prime
Must we admit and omit all that is crime,
And commit our youthfulness

Into all that is usefulness.
In order to enjoy our fruitfulness,
The bride tribe needs truthfulness.
Tomorrow comes not in its fullness
Today must we explore and exploit our youthfulness.*
* Let no man despise thy youth; but be thou an example of the believers, in word, in
conduct, in love, in spirit, in faith, in purity.
St. Paul
1 Timothy 4: 12


Chapter 11
Illiteracy and Ill-literacy

To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes
by nature.

Much Ado About Nothing, Act 3, Scene 3
The ratio of literacy to illiteracy is constant, but nowadays the illiterates can
read and write.
Alberto Moravia (1907 - 1990)

Italian novelist

Poem 124
Illiterate or Ill-literate?
Y r U
Y m I
- not right to write?
- not ready to read?
Y r U
Y m I
unable to:
- get education?
- give education?
Y m I
Y r U
- illiterate?
- ill-literate?*
* Ignorance and illiteracy are obviously not synonymous; even illiterate masses
can cast their ballots with intelligence, once they are informed.
William Orville Douglas.
Poem 125
Let literacy make us a little racy
Out of womb come we vacant,

Or with matter subject to recant or decant;
And if timely done not so,
It makes us as follows sow:
For those illiterate

Will spread ideas akin to all illegitimacy.
For those ill-literate
Will sow seeds of discord and evil literacy.
The aristocrats, elites, and those who are literate

Should resist being egocentric but be a little racy.
And they who are in one: illiterate and ill-literate
will suffer their innate disability called illiteracy.*
* Perhaps the most fateful gift an evil genius could bestow upon our times is knowl-
edge without skill.
Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi (1746 - 1827)
Swiss educational reformer.

Poem 126
Booked by books
Dear Abook,
I live
T love
U know.
But now
am in love
Wi the lib
And the lab.
I am hooked
To the books,
Fully booked up;
Hooked up by books.
Sorry for no love letter.
I promise to love you later.
Never ever mind being called sassy.
Bullies here draw and label me silly sissy,
library bookworm, laboratory hookworm,
an old mummy's boy and ladies scarecrow.
But am proud to be the ladies' scarce crow.
Its their day to make me their boy-toy
but every dog has its own day.
Life isnt all straight points,
crooked like my poems.
You know now, I, right
from old Adam and Eve,
my apparent biblical parents,
all the way down to Waa and Maa,
my transparent biological parents,
am the one and only descendant
to learn how to read and write.
My mind is booked by a book,
my heart hooked by Abook.
Both are totally throttled
Into this lady-like bottle
In a win-win battle.*
* He felt about books as doctors feel about medicines, or managers about plays
cynical but hopeful.
Rose Macaulay (1881 - 1958)
British poet, novelist, and essayist.
Poem 126
My Goalfriend
My goal
Is you my girl,
That Ive decided to marry.
Its you Mary,
For whom Im here
Only this year.
Next year,
Youre two,
And me with you, too,
Will make a family,
To stay forever firmly.
O my darling, Jean,
Before I join,
Is it all
For which we fall?
Listen to my wry version
Of our short-range dry vision.
If life is all about marriage,
Then its all but miscarriage.
Oh, never be discouraged,
For I am fully encouraged.
Then lets all gather

Our strengths together
While still around in uniform,
And say it aloud in unison,
That were here to learn,
After that to earn,
And then to wait,
So that we wed,
For the right reason,
At the rite season.*
* Never go to your high school reunion pregnant or they will think that is all you
have done since you graduated.
Erma Bombeck

Poem 127
The Prudent Student
When I was a sophomore,

It was like climbing a sycamore,
For I had no choice but to suffer more.
When an advisor helped me to quit,

Onto his face I wanted to spit
And have it all split.
So I had to become lean,

But clean. What here do I mean,
In order to the rest not to become mean?
A testimony told
Is as a ceremony sold;
To amateurs it shall unfold.
Omnipresent looms thy adversity

On thy rung of rank upto the university,
For thy friend Fred or foe Joe are but of universality.
Be it a program or a problem,
It inevitably bears an anniversary emblem,
Via which graduates even a Man from Bethlehem.
Therefore, a compassed campus student

Must not pass through the university like a rodent,
Rather, the university must pass through him to be prudent.*
* Ignorance, arrogance, and racism have bloomed as Superior Knowledge in all

too many universities.
Alice Walker (1944 - )
U.S. novelist and poet.
In Search of Our Mothers Gardens, A Talk: Convocation 1972
Poem 128
Ghost Fever
What a hell-
burn me live
do you?
Cook me alive
in open oven
damn you!
Send me raw
to opaque haven
dare you?
You fry my cells into paint

You boil my blood in vein
You roast my flesh unto faint
You bake my bones in vain
Oh my skin, a soft-hot flat iron!

My head, a fairy Tower of Babel
My brain, a fiery shower of bubble
My tongue, a ferry shovel of babble
My hair, a furry towel of bauble
Oh Ive caught fire; Im burning up!
Yes, civilised witches divine fever +ve

Yet, computerized watches define malaria ve
Guessed feverGuest fever.
Of course, the cause
Course works; curse works!
Exams fever: ghost fever!*
* One of the major instruments of torture in collegiate education is the course

examination The night before the examination you cram the notes into your head. Next
morning you enter a room heavy with the atmosphere of suspicion. You leave all notes and
books in the hall, and you write on questions the answers to which you will have forgotten
within a week, answers which in ordinary life no one in his right mind would ask you to
remember because the information is available in reference books where it belongs.
Roger W. Holmes,
What Every Freshman Should Know.
Quoted from Reading Literature, by Satin

Poem 129
My artificial blindness
They drive
And drink till dusk,
While I walk and strive,
But drink their dust,
That causes me artificial blindness.
I apply for a line post

Of an office messenger
But fail a simple interview
By my son's age office manager;
Forcing me to read a signpost,
He learns of my artificial blindness.
Then he gives me a stationery,

Not knowing my mind is stationary,
Without even any intervention from the dictionary.
For I had not benefited from the light of a missionary.
That is why I joined and became a reactionary,
'Cause of my artificial blindness.
Into a blind deal of hazard,

I, the so-called lazy lizard,
With some paper wizard,
Risk becoming a witness,
Minding less my weakness,
Which becomes my wickedness,
I naively convey my own arrest warrant
To the prison, that is now my homeland,
'Cause of my artificial blindness.
To this world have been brought by me

Many moths with mouths and blank heads
That I cannot afford to feed, fill with blankets.
They yawn and yearn and yell at poor me;
I bite my finger and curse our modern gods
For my man-made poverty in property,
Descending uninterrupted from my ancestry
'Cause of their original artificial blindness.*
* In our time, the curse is monetary illiteracy, just as inability to read plain print
was the curse of earlier centuries.
Ezra Pound
Poem 130
A fellow gone fallow for 20 years

Like the legendary Rip van Winkle,
Who slept to wake up with a wrinkle,
From the onset to the upset of the revolution,
Two decades of off-stage hibernation with evolution,
My generation's fellow went fallow in a literary vacuum,
My land went fallow, from green meadows to pale decorum.
For over a double decade of sleep,

The internal system spiraled down deep,
Dipped into the abyss of illusion and hallucination,
In despair and disrepairlost in dilapidation, oh my nation!
What do you do to a dog-eared class-roof or to a twenty-year absentee?
How to cancel a system of dog-eared books and counsel a literary thirsty returnee?*
* The American Revolution occurs while Rip is asleep, and when he awakes and
comes back down the mountain, the world in which he lived has forever changed. The build-
ings have changed, the architecture is different and his home is abandoned. His wife is gone,
as are most of the people he knew during his life.
Thesis Statements
PaperStater.com

Poem 131
Land of Double Desert

Our northland
A land learned
wry and dry
polled and polished
literal desert
Our northfolk
The Red and read
Dominant remnants
In a literate desert
Our southland
A land unlearned
A green and blue
littered desert
Our southfolk
Black or blank
bald and bold
In a literary desert*
* Here we stand, infants overblown/Poised between two civilizations /Finding the
balance irksome /Itching for something to happen /To tip us one way or the other /Groping in
the dark for a helping hand/Im tired O my God am tired /Im tired of hanging in the middle
way /But where can I go?
Mabel Segun

Chapter 12
It's Immorality in its Immortality
We are neither morally upright nor amorally downright in pursuit of our ven-
eration. What a confused and confusing generation we are born into!
John Ngong Alwong.

Speech: This Generation and its veneration!
Prefectural Inauguration Ceremony
Chairman, Scripture Union, Gulu High School, 2000

Poem 132
Niggers in Knickers
Ma,
You is wear clothes of man,
You is man
Ka you is woman?!
Me!
A fuckin man u mean?
If u wanna think me just your mam,
Am gonna prove to u now,
Me, tha lady with rights
Not only in the pants though,
Am tha woe-man of all men and women.
Sa,
You is have head of woman,
You is woman,
Ka you is man?!
Wow!
Come on u damn rural nigger.
U r gonna believe like hell.
Am da main man here.
Uve gotta know me u fuckin guy.
Me, Rasta Monkie da Doggie,
Master of all niggers in knickers.*
* Terry and I are both from the South and were subjected to the most heterosexual
propaganda of all. If propaganda worked wed be straight.
Armistead Maupin (1944 - )
U.S. novelist.
The Sunday Times (London)
Poem 133
Barred Manners
My child,
Be thou mild,
Don't grow wild;
Be thou wise,
Follow my advice,
But don't add any vice.
These are barred manners!
Listen, to move naked

It's wicked, it's wicked
In the market,
Or eat while talking,
Or eat while walking,
All to do with stalking:
Like the children of today,

Never ever claim to have a say,
But fail the responsibility to pay
For all the rewards unto thy action.
Never display your parts in the auction,
Please, listen to my elderly caution.
Keep distance from barred manners.
You can dance but not like them,

Provided that you know the theme,
And the styles of that social anthem.
Do it like we used to do,
Keep off access to hidden part of you,
Even if peers threaten you with a boo.
Smoke not any drugs,

Avoid moving with thugs,
Lest you catch their bugs.
Drink all save alcohol,
So that you keep your head cool,
And since you are still going to school,
Avoid much ado with silence,

Avoid all that is to do with violence,
But do, but moderately, their equivalence.
Since you returned a product of Uganda,
Hold your tongue from random agenda
Your nation indulges in, a dangerous propaganda.
Watch out for barred manners!*
* Bad manners make a journalist

Oscar Wilde.

Poem 134
An Auntie Corruption Commission

Auntie has a nice niece.
Her name is Eunice.
But I call her Younice.
Not only is she beautiful,

She is duly dutiful.
Oh, her downfall: being bountiful!
The girl is a model, a strawberry,

Without any nature's forgery,
Save auntie, her cash-ier and secret-ary.
Every phone call on her is billed

With no sense of guilt
By her aunt whose wealth is built.
She is a precious shop

In which what is sold is her hope.
Alas, she joins and enjoys hip-hop!
Everywhere, every time accessible.

Who says for women is impossible
In this deal to be incorruptible?
Whether our reformers admit it or not, the economic and social inferiority of women is
responsible for prostitution.
Emma Goldman.
Poem 135
The Deputy Husband
Your Lordship, as in charge of this church,

This woman just walked into my life,
She charmed me, and then shamed me.
In the night she is married to me,
In the day she is married to him,
But I have no case against him.
It is a sin against God and this community!
Your Lordship, say why to my wife.

Poem 134
An Auntie Corruption Commission

His lordship, before you ask so,
Remember your last sermon,
"The family is the cell of a nation,
And the husband is its president."
Instead, His Excellency should thank me,
As he is too busy building Him a nation,
I appointed for him a deputy, over there,
Stand up, my Deputy Husband!
Enough! God forbid this abomination!

Woman, in our holy theocratic nation,
I never and will never ever have preached that.
Didn't you on this altar say 'I Do' to this biblical arithmetic?:
"One man one woman", or "one plus one equals one?"
It's a sacrilege, with death penalty, hereafter and thereafter,
For a woman to marry more than one man.
This, the heathens do; not this flock of mine!
Hypocrisy, hypocrisy!
Their Lordship, be informed.
Among your council are polygamists,
Rather, monogamists with one, two, three wives.
On the inner or index pages of this Bible,
I can now see and read out the word 'concubine'.
On the list and on the pews of this church,
I can now see and call out the names of 'co-wives'.
I'm not advocating for polyandry or female polygamy,
I mean real one-for-one principle of the Eden Wedding.*
* Now if any of you will deny the plurality of wives, and continue to do so, I prom-
ise that you will be damned.
Brigham Young (1801 - 1877)
U.S. Mormon leader.
Polygamy is an accepted part of Mormon theology.

Poem 136
Love Extravaganza
Come one,
Come all,
Come on guys
Come all gays,
Marry and make merry
On short contracts.
Drink and lets drink.
Enjoy life
before life
enjoys you.
Trouble trouble
before trouble
troubles you.
Time for everything:
Time for joy.
Time for love.
This world you must enjoy.
Fall in love.
Fall into your love dove
From the love tree.
Feel free
On love spree.
Master the massage,
Massage the message
Of masochism in your body,
Dial it daily
Into your mind.
Make love salt of the soul
In this bounty of beauty.
Bounce you bouncers,
Sing yourself a love stanza
In our bonus love bonanza,
Our extra love extravaganza.*
* Uganda is a rich country indeed, and such babes oozing with the kind of goodness
that can even make the holiest men have unholy thoughts are the reason why but now that
weve brought her to you, treat your eyes to a feast. Enjoy your sweet optical nutrition.
Sensuous Anita
Red Pepper
Uganda.
Poem 137
Sex Bonanza
Back to early 20th century

When villagers would wear bodice
In the name of having covered their bodies,
This generation dress poor but live not in penury.
All in the name of being sexy,

Most of the flesh is flashed by ladies,
Bared to let them worship their bodies,
All in the race and craze of looking cute and sexy.
This in mature stage turns into business,

For whatever looks good must have money value.
So all in the name of beauty, it's then money they pursue.
And this sex bonanza is a sort of business boosted by booziness.*
* You were born with your legs apart. Theyll send you to the grave in a Y-shaped
coffin.
Joe Orton (1933 - 1967)
British playwright.
What the Butler Saw

Poem 138
Born for Sale no more
No more in these days a mother gives birth

To cows, goats, chickens
Girl, yes, is married,
But no, not by merit,
But by Stephen's stipends:
A heir who'd for all his life lived in the berth.
No more are those days a mother gave birth

To goatherds, eunuchs, slaves;
Yes, they were trained,
Their brains so drained,
To daily toil not for themselves:
But for their masters, operators of the berth.
These are the days, the days of acute dearth,

When slaves have become masters;
No longer carrying baskets
In the markets, but muskets
Against former masters by maskers:
Freedom diehards who 'd struggle to death

Poem 139
Our Beautyfool Ladies
A bevy of babes
Catwalk down the stairs,
Yelling to the crowd that stirs,
Yearning to be crowned beauty stars,
Yawning to be
Miss University,
Miss County,
Miss Country,
Miss Universe.
They shun having babies,

Yet charm themselves babes.
Some, wives on short contracts.
Exotic home girls,
Sexily branded: Miss Angels,
Miss Twenty-year-olds,
Miss Thirty-year-olds,
Miss Forty-year-olds,
Miss Ageless.
Interviewed about their views,

Yeah, beauty in the beholders eyes.
Beauty is now in the height.
Beauty is not in the heart,
Beauty is hot in the art,
In the art of schemes,
The art of skins,
Art of skills,
Of skirts. *
* In Britain, an attractive woman is somehow suspect. If there is talent as well it is

overshadowed. Beauty and brains just cant be entertained; someone has been too extrava-
gant.
Vivien Leigh (1913 - 1967)

Indian-born British actor.
Light of a Star

Poem 139
BBA in Action: Babes on Auction
Visit a village market
And admire on display
Miss Adeng Deng,
Mr. Dengs den of wealth,
Chat with Miss Ayuen Ayuel
And
miss not Miss Adao Dao,
The Dau-ghter whose bride price
Runs between 1 and 2 of hundred
Heads or herds of castled cattle.
Look at Mr. Baba in action in auction!
Tour a town market

And watch dark angels,
In some dark angles,
Ogle with their dark goggles,
Flash their paired magic flesh
for
chaps to shop and chop.
Theyre bribed brides
Who with fellow chicks and chaps
Invest their own bride price
In chips and chaps,
froth with broth
of liver and rice,
chic-ken and chips
Book for a beauty contest

of a Miss Malaika
But watch the dirty contents
of a Miss Malai'a!
Which auction to go
for love for life,
Bizarre Bazaar Africa
or
Big Brothel Africa;
Ill-literate Village lasses
Or all-literate town asses?*
* Samantha: Im a trisexual. Ill try anything once.

Sex and the City
Poem 140
Gaynaecologists from Gay Colleges

There is magnetic technology
Of like poles repelling each other,
And then this magnetic gaynology
Of like poles attracting each other!
The neo-gynaecology,
The new gaynaecology:
Of bisexuals,
Of transsexuals
Of homosexuals
Of metrosexuals
Of anus munching
Of nose punching
Of hair tugging
Of ear tagging.
O gay guys,
Or lesbian ladies,
Save our modern world from Gods fiery fury
Of your more damned Sodom and Gomorrah!*
* While we were in the middle of having sex, a group of people from Al

Mukhabarat , the Sudanese Intelligence Agency, opened the room door and started to hit
both of us till we fell from the bed, and then they dragged us from our legs like animals
outside the room and I found out that they caught everyone too. The worst part is that they
caught me and Sami, Steven and Omer red handed.
Ali,
President,
Freedom Sudan, Sudanese LGBT Association.
A testimony published by The Younique Generation, April 2010

Poem 141
The Ministry of Sexual Affairs
Spiritually out of sex man springs,

And always from its pool drinks
The bitter-sweet honey of life
From his nature's love hive.
Politically out of law come the ministries,

To cater for all the basics of human injuries.
There is the ministry of health.
There is the ministry of wealth.
Socially out of all, but one, minorities are gazetted.

Last is the ministry of women affairs .
Least is the ministry of children affairs,
Just as the ministry of the handicapped got created.
Un/fortunately, the most vital majority are made scarce.

As Sexuality and Mutuality are the order of the day,
Let the believers of the two religions have their say.
Atop all priorities, let there be a ministry of sexual affairs
To evolve its undermined practitioners,

To involve the undersigned petitioners:
The Binary Voices of Bisexuals

BVB
The Monetary Network of Metrosexuals
MNM
The Homogenous Association of Homosexuals
HAH
The Heteronomous Enlightenment of Heterosexuals
HEH*
* It is an unfair country! An unfair community! Homosexual behaviour is illegal in

Sudan. For homosexual men and women, lashes are death penalty! Just hear my story.
Ali,
A Sudanese gay caught red-handed and tortured by security operatives.
The Younique Generation Magazine, December 2009.
Poem 143
When will our men deliver?

Our men, they take,
They ingest but digest
All that unto their bellies we chef.
For their heavy show of pseudo-pregnancy,
We wait, and we wait, for 90 years,
As they wait for ours to deliver in 9 months,
Only to book them their own but by names.
Our men, they talk,

Promise premises
Under the sea and in the sky,
They strut swollen with pride of plans,
Very pregnant with ideas of ideologies,
Very obstinate and opinionated,
Until death part them with them.
Our men, they boast,

they deceive to conceive, yet receive.
Others resort to cheating and creating homes
Through metrosexuality and homosexuality,
And we wait, and we wait
For gay mothers to deliver,
But they do it one way!
When will our men deliver?*

*
The sins for which the cities of the plain were overthrown still lingers in some of these
wooden-walled Gomorrahs of the deep.
Herman Melville (1819 - 1891)
U.S. novelist.
Referring to homosexuality on board ships. According to the Bible, the cities of Sodom
and Gomorrah were associated with homosexuality. They were destroyed by a rain of
brimstone.
White-Jacket; or the World in a Man-of-War

Poem 144
In Search of a Wombman?
Out of the natural womb
Spring man and woman.
Unless from biblical history
That the first man
Sired the first woman,
But not from the womb.
Even Christ, Adam II,
Did dive through Mary,
To clothe himself with humanity.
Now why under the sun
Do men look for more in men,
And women in women?
Where here will a woman
Be found mounted with manhood?
Where on earth will man
Be discovered wearing a womb?
As if, women, searching for wo/men,
And men in search of womb-men.
After failure, let one man get wombed,
And one woman de-wombed,
And then compare notes of the surgery:
The notes between nature and nurture.*
* Lets pray to God. This should not be mentioned in our land. It carries a curse
now it is coming. God, forbid this!
Rev. Jacob A.,
ECS, Nairobi, Kenya.
The Younique Generation Magazine.
Poem 145
Mrs. Matata Matatu
At her try not to wave

Lest she bills what you have,
For that simple gestural contract
That think thou 'twas a gestural contact.
She is neither widowed

Nor with any man is she endowed.
For your info, she's married every night.
Take heed, any double-legged is her Dr. Right.
Her name in Kiswahili is Matata tu,

But that is a misnomer, she is a Mrs. Matatu.
Unless you are not a driver, you can have her keys,
And roam upto Rome, but not without a fare for her kiss.


Chapter 13
From Workaholics to Alcoholics
His mouth has been used as a latrine by some small animal of the night.
Kingsley Amis (1922 - 1995)

British novelist.
Describing a hangover.
Lucky Jim
Drunkenness...spoils health, dismounts the mind, and unmans men.
William Penn (1644 - 1718)

English preacher and colonialist.
Some Fruits of Solitude

Poem 146
Beer
Beer is a bear
That strikes you to bear
And strips you too bare,
And strives to bar

Your strides, but to the bar.*
* If die I must, let me die drinking in an inn.
Walter Map (1140? - 1210?)

Welsh clergyman and writer.
Poem 147
Mr. Keg
Tethered onto a destiny's peg,

This is the very Mr. Keg;
He's that sonorous beer barrel
Filled with sheer quarrel.
Want to not by Bluetooth get drunk?

Pace but by his leeward side.
All his breath is dunked in odour junk;
Wait, also a punk on the fight!
Poem 148
The Bell in his belly

The roar in the rock,
The row of the rogue,
The bear in the velt,
The belch up the belly,
The belch down the belt,
Micmic the Bell in his belly.
The Bell lager makes his belly linger,
The beer luncheon makes his belly larger.*
* A torchlight procession marching down your throat.

Attributed to John L. OSullivan (1813 - 1895)
U.S. writer.
Referring to whiskey.

Poem 148
The Battle of the Bottle

During the Anya-nya I battles,
Bombs were alcohol-filled bottles,
To counter the foe's gun-powdered canon,
Which worked well to scare though killed none.
During the Anya-nya II struggle,

A liquor bottle was an anti-fear shuttle,
That was settled down the fighters' throats
To fend off all the enemy's threefold threats.
But during this Anya-nya III movement,

Bottles are table bombs of the moment.
For you want a temporary war, be at the brink,
Or if you crave an ephemeral dream, be at the drink.*
* Alcohol may be mans worst enemy, but the Bible says love your enemy.
Frank Sinatra
Poem 149
The Dinka Drinka
A Dinka drinker,
Sways not sideways.
Tall, slender like a sorghum shoot,
He weighs all ways,
Tough like an ebony wood.
He drowns not in bottles and barrels;

He draws hot from teats and udders.
Whilst the tinker drinker,

A drunkard of Castle liquor,
Is a slave to anger and hunger;
A Dinka drinker,
A drunkard of cattle liqueur,
Is an addict to wrestling and rustling.*
* No, thank you, I was born intoxicated.
George William (1867 - 1935)

Irish poet.
Refusing a drink that was offered him.
Poem 150
Dear Dinky Dinka!

Dear couple,
It is very dinky
To ride with a dinkey,
To journey on a donkey,
This culture is not very Dinka.
In Dinka, no DINK,
I mean childless couple,
Enjoying only life on a drink.
If so, thus comes trouble double,
No future, no posterity for prosperity.
Only in Australia and America,

That you find a family of DINKs,
Under the influence of affluence,
burdened opulent, they grow corpulent,
with blank copulation that shuns population,
In those good old days,

Bor used not to idle and drink,
As poverty began to pinch and stink,
Dinka would rise to toil on their soil and tinker.
Now a bunch of niggers, niggards and drunkards,
This culture is not very Dinka.*
* I have been in love, and in debt, and in drink,

This many and many a year.
Alexander Brome (1620 - 1666)
English poet.
Songs and Other Poems, The Mad Lover

Poem 151
From workaholics to alcoholics
Free bees of no freebies from dawn to dusk,

On their noses, eyes, ears, a resistant screen,
Them Immured and immune from dust and husk,
For they loved to live the world serene and green,
A community previously bound to be workaholics,
A community preciously out of bounds to alcoholics,
That is nowadays becoming too old a task

That is too tattered a tattoo and taboo to ask,
Why their first motto is solely of 'eats and drinks'?
Oh, bye bye, by and by, our hand-fed culture shrinks
From an olden tradition of morally working sure real words
To a golden contradiction of orally wording pure surreal works.
As the rest of the world is in economic boom,

Ours is sinking into the abyss of epidemic doom.
The flowers of this virgin nation are lovers of leisure,
For they are addicts to sweetness and sweatless pleasure.
This new drive in the culture of our youth makes them drugaholics,
Giving birth into a strive for carnal religion, graduating them sexaholics.
And since that both young and old are alcoholic,

Subsistence in the land has become melancholic.
About to be out of decades of woe and decadence,
Towards jubilant challenges of work and independence,
From the prestigious nomenclature of 'The Republic of Workaholia',
Our nation slips back into the literature of "The Republic of Alcoholia".*
*
Oh, you hate your job? Why didnt you say so? Theres a support group for that. Its called
EVERYBODY, and they meet at the bar.
Drew Carey
Chapter 14
The Theolosophy
(Theory + Theology = Philosophy)
For this reason poetry is something more philosophical and more worthy of serious
attention than history.
Aristotle (384 BC - 322 BC)

Greek philosopher.
Poetics
A musician must make music, an artist must paint, a poet must write, if he is to be
ultimately at peace with himself. What one can be, one must be.

Abraham Maslow (1908 - 1970)
U.S. psychologist.
Motivation and Personality

Poem 152
Human Being
You man being
A human being
Can see
Not foresee
Can get
But forget
Can give
Not forgive
Can take
Not partake
Can seek
But forsake
You man being

A human being
Can deceive
And receive
Can eat
And need
Can tire
And hire
Can skill
Can kill
Can lie
Can die*

..
.
* Whatever this is that I am, it is a little flesh and breath, and the ruling part.

Marcus Aurelius (121 - 180)
Roman emperor and philosopher.
Meditations
Poem 153
Talent is Latent
Talent is a slippery sleeper.

Unless you wake him up,
Hell less wake you up.

Youre thereby to ignore,
He is there but to snore.
Like your unfertilized son,

He is your one fossilized sun;
He can forever in you slumber.
To best discover your talent,

First uncover what's latent.
Reap thus your talent apple:

The industry is simple but ample;
By interchanging L with T in LaTent,
You end up harvesting T and L in TaLent.*
* talent is like electricity. We dont understand electricity. We use it.

Maya Angelou (1928 - )
U.S. writer.

Poem 154
By Genetic Lottery
When a parent is a crafty potter,

A child develops with an inheritance of pottery.
As Joseph was a gifted carpenter,
So was Jesus, a handcrafter in divine carpentry.
When my mother was an oral poet,

That, now and here, I am to exploit.
For her gift of ecstatic poetry
Is my luck by genetic lottery.*
* And unto one he gave five talents, to another two, and to another one; to every
man according to his several ability; and straightway took his journey.
Jesus Christ
The Parable of Talents
Matthew 25:15
KJV
Poem 155
We're in the Lifebrary

It seems you've got a lot of nothing ;
A great deal of no thing to say or do,
And it seems you want to say it to us,
Nay, we're busy, too busy in our lifebrary.
Know this, a library is a place where you read,
To pass examinations and/or write books;
You, study and research so as to get rid,
To rid yourself of infirmity and poverty.
Life in this world is a comprehensive library,
Thus, a lifebrary, permanent or temporary,
We are in the lifebrary.*
* Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with your might; for there is no work or
device or knowledge or wisdom in the grave where you are going.
King Solomon,
Ecclesiastes 9:10
Poem 155
Earth, our Universe-city
As one becomes an adult,

That particular one becomes dull.
Due to its trek for miles, the brain grows mild,
So that a septuagenarian speaks, walks like a child.
Like a child that registers in baby class,

He develops into a stronger lad or lass.
From thence she proceeds on to preparatory,

From whence, with carelessly, he enrolls in a reformatory.
But the disciplined one is far from naughty,
While the indiscipline one of a constituent of the haughty
Like a child that registers in a primary class,

He develops into a much stronger lad or lass.
This is when they begin to discover the blunders of puberty

Are the root cause of poverty.
That is why when they realize the after-teen stage is adult,
They enroll in the growth cult
Like a boy that registers in a secondary class,

He develops into a more responsible lad or lass.
It's from here that they join the first year,

Wallowing in the honeymoon of adulthood with a cheer,
Thus a child metamorphoses till university,
And thus, for human beings, the Earth is our universe-city.*
* At sixteen I was stupid, confused, insecure, and indecisive. At twenty-five I

was wise, self-confident, prepossessing, and assertive. At forty-five I am stupid, confused,
insecure, and indecisive. Who would have supposed that maturity is only a short break in
adolescence?
Jules Feiffer (1929 - )
U.S. writer, cartoonist, and humorist.
The Observer (London)

Poem 156
Global Warning!
This incessant talks of Global Warming,

Wasting time, money is a misnomer.
Who under the sun does not like warmth?
Who can spend hibernating for a month,
Indoors, off from the heat of the summer?
Against this global warming is this global warning:
As we breathe,
As we smoke,
As we cook,
As we drive,
As we manufacture,
As we go mooning,
We fart tons of soot,
Which suffocates the globe.

Poem 157
Lake Big-Tour-Eerie!
Like a tropical ulcer in the face of the Earth,

Burrowing hydraulically, vertically downwards
From the surface to the sub-face of planet Earth,
Moulding cylindrically, horizontally into water snake,
Oozing out liquid pus resuscitating millions northwards,
Victoria launches her big tour of the eerie area of Africa.
From its juvenile to senile stage,

The Nile tours in leaps and loops
Through Uganda, Sudan and Egypt,
Fed by baby Nilelets of similar tonnage,
She feeds many millions of Nilotes oops,
She is vestigially fed with millions in crypt!
The European tourists of the 19th century,

Having unraveled her mystery, their victory,
Changed it from Nalubaale to Queen Victoria.
Victoria is not only a big tour area in Eased Africa,
Through her mystic sons: Pishon, Gihon of the Horn,
She's born to Mother Earth to irrigate the hidden Eden.*
*
A river went out of Eden to water the garden; and from there it was parted, and became
four heads.
The name of the first is Pishon: this is the one which flows through the whole land of Hav-
ilah, where there is gold; and the gold of that land is good. There is aromatic resin and the
onyx stone.
The name of the second river is Gihon: the same river that flows through the whole land of
Cush.
The name of the third river is Hiddekel (Tigris): this is the one which flows in front of As-
syria. The fourth river is the Euphrates.
Genesis 2: 10 14

Poem 158
The Weird Word
As gas originates in ones portal bowel,

A word germinates in ones mental bowl.
Once a weird word slips off ones oral doors,
Like weird wind that sneaks off ones anal doors;
One cannot retrieve it,

It cannot reprieve one,
Its irrecoverable,
Its regrettable;
It stinks in the nose,

It stings in the ears,
It sticks in the mind,
It sinks in the soul.*
* You are the master of every word that you are yet to utter,
but a slave to every word you have already uttered.
Vijay Eswaran
The Sphere of Silence
Poem 159
The Weird World
Should you excel,

They will expel
You from the hall
Of fame, to hell!
Option: ingest your talent.
Just stare as one messes,

Hold your tongue amidst the masses.
Just watch one gets awards,
For scoring lots of achievement by swords.
Reward: bearing all the content.
We're suffering from Double Standard,

The world's offering to the sponsors of hazard.
Watch a video by Khartoum on Darfur,
Or take a research into Israeli-Palestinian war.
Puzzle: of scramble for superiority patent?*
* It is dangerous to be right when the government is wrong.

Voltaire,
French Philosopher & Writer (1694-1778)

Poem 160
Inventing Virginometer
Virginity no longer represents dignity.

Its only a sign of cultural rigidity.
No more vigilantes on virginity.
Virginity is not within our vicinity.
Its all lost to the world of virility.
To test if s/he has +ve or ve virginity,
Go not to the clinic or use not thermometer,

Just invent an instrument I call virginometer,
But do not apply your art of science,
Use your heart or conscience,
Not by mural invention,
But by moral intervention. *
*
But if the thing is true, that the tokens of virginity were not found in the young women, then
they shall bring the young women to the door of her fathers house, and the men of her city
shall stone her to death with stones, because she has wrought folly in Israel by playing the
harlot in her fathers house; so you shall purge the evil from the midst of you.
Prophet Moses (Deuteronomy 22: 20)
Now concerning the virgins: I have no commandment from the Lord; yet I give judgment as
one whom the Lord in His mercy has made trustworthy. But if any man thinks he is behav-
ing improperly towards his virgin, if she is past the flower of youth, and thus it must be, let
him do what he wishes. He does not sin; let them marry.
St. Paul (1 Corinthian 7)
Poem 161
Todays World of Witchdom

Yesterdays wisdom
Was in white hair.
Todays wisdom
Is in wild hair.
The world is full of hares,

The modern wisdom heirs.
Gone are the men of wisdom,

Here are the men of witchdom.
Scarce are the magi,

Scared are the rabbi,
Renowned are men of wit-craft,

Like famous women of witchcraft.
Most political positions

Are not by practical oppositions,
But by tricksters of trickery,

And by teachers of treachery.
For one to venture into successful trades,

One must adventure in some suspicious traits.
To be employed for socio-economic jobs,

They first deploy some socio-political jabs.
To get a permanent, suitable spouse,

One must have a miracle purse and magical pose,
For this is the world of wit-craft and witchcraft,

Where wisdom involves, evolves into witchdom.*
* What you usually watch in Nigerian movies is now real, brought to you live in
Juba. Here the story unfolds, from dealing in herbs to dealing in magic, from ritual healing
to ritual killing. It has taken GOSS four years which can just take a traditional doctor four
days to create jobs to the citizens of Southern Sudan, if they have money to pay, anyway.
From Ritual Healing to Ritual Killing
News article by Peter Quot de Ngong & John Penn de Ngong,
The Younique Generation Magazine/The Star Newspaper, 2009.

Poem 162
Heading Hellward
Our world sometimes

Forward
But is rotating at times
Backward,
Hardly a few more times
Onward.
Its movement is all the times
Awkward.
Attempts without several times
Reward,
With evil ones given many times
Award
Despite almost all of their life times
In ward,
And majoritys interest all the time is
Inward.
Only a handful of them spend their times
Outward.
On earth, everything, everywhere, every time is
Worldward.
Only 1% of the mortals are heading innumerable times
Heavenward,
And 99% of the world is bustling and hustling ahead of times
Hellward.*
* The safest road to hell is the gradual onethe gentle slope, soft underfoot,
without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.
C. S. Lewis (1898 - 1963)
Irish-born British novelist.
The Screwtape Letters

Poem 163
What'll hell bell tell?

When the hell bell tolls,
Not every soul knows what it tells.
When ye hark the trumpets,
The Eschatology's Alarm Bell,
Foretold long ago by the prophets,
Ye know ye are at the gate of hell,
The only place too late for a dime.
To avert the contagious spell,
It is now and now your high time
Ye stopped souls from sailing to hell,
When the bell of hell begins to chime,
Every mortal shall regret every crime.*
* For as the lightning from the east and flashes to the west, so also will the coming
of the Son of Man be
But of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, but My Father only.
Jesus Christ,
The Signs of the Times and the End of the Age
Matthew 24: 27, 29.

Poem 164
Belief for Relief
Atems totems,
Awals walls,
Aliers liars,
Dengs dens,
Christs cross,
Allahs laws,
Jujus Gurus;
Belief for relief,
Why again the grief?

Why the sin in the synagogue,
By the pedagogue and the demagogue,
Creating a neo-planet of Gog and Magog?*
* GLOUCESTER: As flies to wanton boys are we to th gods

They kill us for their sport.

King Lear, Act 4, Scene 1
Poem 165
Godisnowhere: True or False?
If you think God is nowhere,

Youre blasphemously blind.
God is famously now here.
If you look for Him,

God is nowhere to be seen;
But He is now where to see:
To see you with Mr. Xs horny honey,

To see you with peoples only money,
To see you in and out with any phoney.
God is Omnipresent,
Omnipotent,
Omniscient.
Every man cant see God.

Every man can seek God.
Everywhere, God can be got.
Seek Him before you see Him.

See Him before He seeks you.
Seek Him before you die:
To die is to dive
Into side B of life
And see God live.*
* The fool has said in his heart, There is no God,

They are corrupt and have committed abominable injustice.
King David (Psalm 53:1)

Poem 166
Three Gods in One Shrine
In the beginning was my family,
Tranquil and anchored firmly,
New, clear and nuclear with simplicity.
But this claimed they so desolate to eliminate.
Then they introduced these Big Three to illuminate;
Like the sun, the moon and electricity to ill-luminate,
To light up my gloomy homestead?
Oh no, they have burned it up, instead!
The first Shine to flare into our shrine,

The best Giant to glare onto our spine,
Was the legendary philosopher, Lucifer.
Emerged from the Republic of Nowhere,
Handling life, kindling light in furnace ware.
Naively we with our land subscribed to his offer.
Secondly came forth this secondary Offer,

To de-yoke us of the logs of the first Scoffer,
To relieve our cries came threefold the Christ,
And made me feel, too, a junior black Christ.
Nay, before I make a triumphal fist bump,
There is this and that other hump to jump.
"I came not for peace but sword", says the Lord.
So, we have to sign to carry His Cross with its load.
Thirdly came first to our land with a slam,

So as to surrender to It, for It's called Islam.
They inscribed in our secular flag His Sword,
For our necks are too stiff to turn to His Word.
It's taken more and will take most of our centuries
To bend our necks, heads, hearts to their sanctuaries.
In the beginning there was God,

In the end there still will be God.
But in the middle there are gods, Gods, Gods' emissaries;
Among His commissaries are missionaries and mercenaries,
All bent for the salvation of the godless me, me and my land,
In succession, I joined to worship, with warship, in their band.
So in history, I have been saved by, and have served in, one shrine,
Three Gods: O' Three Gods in one spine, in one mind, in one mine!*
* Batter my heart, three-persond God ; for you/As yet but knock ; breathe, shine,
and seek to mend ;
That I may rise, and stand, oerthrow me, and bend/Your force, to break, blow, burn, and
make me new.
John Donne
HOLY SONNETS
Chapter 15
My Selfography and Selfistory
(About Me-Self)
The greatest jihad or the greatest war is the war over oneself
Prophet Mohammed
Only they who master themselves can be masters of their fate

Vijay Eswaran
The man who desires to rule must begin by ruling himself

Vijay Eswaran
The Sphere of Silence

Carpenters bend woods; fletchers bend arrows; wise men fashion themselves
Lord Buddha

Poem 167
Borify Me My father was not Dinkanized, and

Myself was not Borized.
I am an African,
A Sudanese,
Let them that copy and paste my country,
A Dinka,
Onto the map of their world, and
A Bor,
Them that Arabize my ancient history,
An Aboudit, and
Revise first their recent eastory,
A Penn born.
Verify my ancestry, and
Borify me.
My patriarch was not Africanized,
My
*
grandfather was not Sudanized,
* I have always regarded myself, in the first place, as an African patriot. After all, I
was born in Umtata, forty-six years ago.
Nelson Mandela
I am the Only Accused
April 20, 1964
Poem 170
My Metamorphosis
I am proud, proud to be man, From gun-hood to pen-hood,
Not a product of Charles Darwins Should rather be adulthood,
Monkey genealogy ideology, Now fatherhood.
But a product of evolution.
Be it Darwin or Adams, All this revolution within 2.5 decades!
All that I care is I am me. Then sooner or later
From nowhere to now here, From this body-hood to soul-hood.
From biological tithes of father and mother; Life here on earth drives us like dry wood
At a supernatural speed of 1 kiloray per 1
From childhood evolution kiloday.
To boyhood revolution, The postgrave speed determined by the
Which was my toy-hood or gun-hood. Speed Governor.
*
* The four stages of man are infancy, childhood, adolescence, and obsolescence.
Art Linkletter (1912 - )
Canadian-born U.S. radio and television broadcaster.
Poem 168
I'm Pennique, You're Younique
Unclench the palm that's yours,

And I will unfold you that's mine.
Print your finger and I'll print mine,
Even my figure print is not like yours;
So why am I a failure if am unique?

If my brain matches not yours in thought,
You judge and declare my head a naught,
Don't you know that I'm Pennique?
Lo, I am Penn, hence pennically different,

You're Yousif, hence youniquely different.
I was originally created Homo sapiens,
But someone wants me Homo copyens!
Why is it a shame that I have not your name?

You decreed that my creed is crimethat is greed!
When my tongue isn't programmed the same,
You force me to imitate yoursyet I've not agreed.
If you want our being together as a solution,

Avoid legalized myopic socio-cultural dilution.
Our Abrahamic adversity calls for our living in diversity,
Especially mind you now that we're in one university.*
* To be pennically jealous, just as I would not want Juba defined and designed with
Sheik Zubeirs architecture, I would not want my pages pasted and passages plastered with
Shakespeares literature, neither would I want my messages massaged with Achebes achiev-
ers flavours, nor my tales tailored with Tutuolas tutorials... Here, I am discussing style,
which is as unique as a print of a human finger or an imprint of human figure.
Dear Ready Reader
The Signpost (The Prologue)
By the author.

Poem 169
From Mat to Mattress

Gone are those days Then at night slept on the mat
When goat skin Or on my wings like a bat
and cow hide With passion nothing but daily
were for my toad skin bread
to shelter helter-skelter And fashion but freedom far spread.
my life netted in bracket I belted my waist like a broom
with my blanking blanket , And bragged like a groom.
I thought I was a man made,
Yet I was a man mad! Come are these days
when I move seated,
Gone are those days and swirl in an armchair,
when I showered and swell in a suit,
with cow-dung ashes, and sleep in a suite,
scratched my teeth with a stick, a particular evolution,
feasted on wild meat, of a general revolution,
resided under the naked sky, From mat to mattress!
snored on a papyrus mat, Yes, I think I am a made man.
and boasted a boss,
yet I was a beast! Though penniless
Im not penless,
Gone are those days, But not painless,
When I washed my single shirt, From mat rest to mattress,
Watched it dry with shingle dirt, In my master rest with a mistress.
The first sound that boys like Riek heard in the morning was a roosters crow, and the last
sound at night was the croaking of frogs. The villagers lived on a diet of sorghum porridge
and cows milk, sometimes flavoured with cows urine. They cooked their food and kept warm
with dung fires. Men dressed their hair with cow dung; women wore nothing more than a
short apron made of cattle hide.
Deborah Scroggins
Emmas War.

Poem 170
My Metamorphosis
I am proud, proud to be man,

Not a product of Charles Darwins
Monkey genealogy ideology,
But a product of evolution.
Be it Darwin or Adams,
All that I care is I am me.
From nowhere to now here,
From biological tithes of father and mother;
From childhood evolution

To boyhood revolution,
Which was my toy-hood or gun-hood.
From gun-hood to pen-hood,
Should rather be adulthood,
Now fatherhood.
All this revolution within 2.5 decades!

Then sooner or later
From this body-hood to soul-hood.
Life here on earth drives us like dry wood
At a supernatural speed of 1 kiloray per 1 kiloday.
The postgrave speed determined by the Speed Governor.*
* The four stages of man are infancy, childhood, adolescence, and obsolescence.
Art Linkletter (1912 - )
Canadian-born U.S. radio and television broadcaster.

Poem 171
My May Day
My D-Day
Did begin with my mothers crush
For my father
With my fathers rush
For my mother.
So I got materialized
before I got fertilized.
Love is life, and if they hadnt fallen in love,
I wouldnt have followed to live,
And I wish fate could have put this on 06-06-66.
My D-Day
Is the day I was born,
For if I were not born,
My May Days wouldn't be borne.
Life does begin not from the womb
Just as it doesnt end in the tomb.
If birthdays were cared for in Bor,
My D-Day could apparently be on 08-08-80.
My D-Day
Is my A-day,
an Academic heyday,
an intellectual May Day.
For without A,
Life will not move to B,
Then C, D down to Z.
For my head was born and borne vacant,
Then filled up in the classroom,
Which apparently began on 06-06-89.
My D-Day
Is the day I was baptized.
For man is therefore threefold:
Body, mind and soul.
The day my soul was decolonized
From all the dirty deities,
Is the same as the May Day
My body and mind were upgraded on
The three major D-Days, apparently on 06-06-90.

My-D Day
Is the day I won a million-shilling prize
With the essay I wrote
For the national competition,
Marking the climax of my academic climate.
When rains flooded my academic mind and literary mine,
When my mental humps and mumps
Were numbed and bumped into this cancer of words,
By the essay apparently penned and posted on 06-06-01.
My D-Day
Is the day I doubled,
The memorable day I coupled
With my better half,
The long awaited sweetheart;
For a man would leave his father
And a woman would leave her mother
And this MoU was unilaterally signed on 06-06-06.
My D-Day
Is the day I planned to plant
The idea of my first publication public,
For if you want not to be forgotten as soon as buried,
Write something worthy of doing or do something worthy of writing,
For a man does not live after death on soul alone,
But what comes out of the mouth of books,
And this surviving history was initially conceived on 06-06-06,
and essentially costumed on 07-07-07,
and punctually consummated on 08-08-08,
and eventually consumed on 09-09-09.*
* To know oneself is the journey, to master oneself is the destination.

Vijay Eswaran

Poem 172
My PPPP Dream
Do you want to see the morrow?
See it in the morn of your life,
View it not with a binoculars,
View it not with a teles-cup,
See it not with bare eyes,
Seek it with your mind,
Close your fore eyes,
Open the eyes hind.
Now Ive a dream,
Vision at midday,
To become big,
A Great PPPP:
A Great Poet,
A Great Penner,
A Great Preacher,
A Great Pedagogue.*
* There is no such thing as a great talent without great willpower.

Honor de Balzac (1799 - 1850)
French writer.
Poem 173
My Bachelor's Decree
When enjoying a dream,
It's like enjoying a cream.
But, yes, it expires,
Just as one perspires.
Therefore, my bachelor's decree
To coincide with my Bachelors' Degree,
On the same day for a fame,
Was a sham, hence a shame!*
* Bachelors know more about women than married men; if they didnt theyd be
married too.
-H.L. Mencken
A wedding is just like a funeral except that you get to smell your own flowers.
-Grace Hansen
Poem 174
My letters of fetters
I don't like D.O.N.T,

I do like D.O.
I like not N.O.T,
I like N.O.T.E.
I ever like E.V.E.R,
I never like N.E.V.E.R.
I am a positive man,
Who loathes negative mind;
A man seventy-five percent optimist,
With a mind twenty-five percent pessimist.
Positive letters in speech break St. Peter's fetters.
Negative letters on my tongue are my letters of fetters.*
* The Christian resolution to find the world ugly and bad has made the world ugly
and bad.
Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche (1844 - 1900)
* German philosopher and poet.
The Gay Science
* He gossips habitually; he lacks the common wisdom to keep still that dea
John Penn deNgong of man, his own tongue. 254
M
Poem 175
My Penn Pals
So as to qualify as gentleman,
Be a very distinctly distant fiend,
For an idiot is this perpetual friend.
So I have come thus far, by innocence,
To become this nuisance with nonsense!
Once I owned them severally as pen pals,

Not until I turned them all into my Penn pals
I was their star, to whom they longingly stared.
In our meetings' greetings, we'd pal around,
In our eating sittings, we now fool around!
Only mountains respect each other,

For they exist but ne'er ever stalk,
They threaten but do not talk.
Alas! my sin is eminent:
I am too present!*
* I have no trouble with my enemies. I can take care of my enemies all right. But my
damn friendstheyre the ones that keep me walking the floor nights!
Warren G. Harding
Poem 176
adly enemy
Mark Twain
Poem 177
Daniel's Denials
Sworn to die with him,
When another sweet heart burglar
Violently broke by Door A into their hut,
Silently trailed via Door B into her heart,
Poor Daniel! betrayed by a partner,
Who later denied him.

Daniel, a foreign dog of the palace,
Conspired against by King Nebuchadnezzar,
Vowing no, and bowing not, to Power's Bizarre Bazaar,
By innocence and diligence, he survived the Palace Furnace.
Christ, thrice denied by Peter at his most critical hour of need,
By innocence and diligence, survived and founded this new Creed.*
* Bare the mean heart that lurks behind a star.
Alexander Pope (1688 - 1744)
English poet.
Satires, Epistles, and Odes of Horace

Poem 178
Wounded by Rumour Bomb

As WMD,
Weapons of mass destruction,
Explode in Saddam City,
The wmd,
Words of most distraction,
Explore me in this sad damn city.
US and UK are aurally bombed by foe

But Im orally bombarded by Joe,
An anonymous friend indeed,
In an ill deed,
An envious friend in need,
In a prying need
For mere humour

From sheer rumour,
Coined by my detractor,
My inner image tractor,
That ploughs me inside out,
For gossip scavengers to roam about.
If at all they would wound my body

Instead of my mind made thus moody.
My injured soul is sold to rumour hawkers.
My rumour mill has employed workers,
Inventors and ill-vendors of my private life.
But what goes around will around to them come alive.
The bombs make me hospitably marginalized,

But they do not make me notably hospitalized.*
* The game of life is a game of boomerangs. Our thoughts, and deeds and words
return to us sooner or later, with astounding accuracy.
Florence Shinn
Poem 179
HellO, Leave Me Alone!

Hello! Whos calling, and whose letter?
You call yourself my big punisher?
Well and good, sooner than later,
Youll turn into my big furniture.
What do I do you wreck?

Please, get off my neck.
Leave me but all alone,
I owe you not a loan.
My enemy, your envy is obvious.

Youre just jealous and mischievous
Against my hard-earned achievement,
That will hardly earn you any improvement.
Yes, go on keeping me witch-hunted,

That will be keeping you haunted,
For you are Mr. Evil-sent
Against Mr. Innocent.
Thence, woe to thy audience,

With their croco-dialed tears in sadistic ambience,
"Oh, the poor sod is innocent!
Alas, bygone, good riddance, the sod is in, O Saint!"*
* Tiel gut wun amoknyin. Dinka proverb similar to:
Envy shoots at others and wounds itself.

English Proverb.
Envy is the art of counting the other fellows blessings instead of your own.
Harold Coffin

180
My Success Card to Death

In 2003,
At my hostel doorstep I found
A well wisher's card, abridged thus:
Hi Johnny,
I wish you success in your forthcoming examination.
The sky is the limit,
You have a bright future,
Because you are cupid!

In 2007,
At my hospital doorstep I found
An ill-wisher's card, abridged thus:
Poor Johnny,
I wish you success to your forthcoming extermination.
The skull is the limit,
You have a blight future,
Because you are stupid!
Oh my!
Ask me not why?
I know not the reason,
I know now the season,
the season of my tribulation,
During which I had excelled
unto my academic death,
Due to which I was expelled
upon their academic dearth.*
* The envious man thinks that if his neighbor breaks a leg, he will be able to walk
better himself.
Helmut Schoeck
Poem 180
My Horrorscopes
To eternity,
Lest on my life's passageway
I pass away
Without tales of life's insanity,
Through the bomb

From the womb
To the tomb,
I've to sponge the horror
Of the world's reign of terror,
In today's man-led era of error.
Through nature's telescope,

I mirror my horror scope,
And this I've to cope with
From the first upto the fifth.
The first of my horrorscopes

Was a hell-made disease,
In an unknown January
That left me almost dead.
The second of my horrorscopes

Was a man-made dis-ease,
In a revolt-infested May,
That left me with this debt.
The third of my horrorscopes

Was being a said gunman,
During that memorable June,
In the dungeon of a concentration camp.
The fourth of my horrorscopes

Was a mysterious kidnappers' torment
In one fateful April-July,
In the university's slanderers' camp.
The fifth of my horrorscopes
Is my envy-driven haplessness
In a revolving January-December
In this corruption-ridden Metropollutant City.

Poem 181
My Penn-killers
As I look for pain-healers
Through real painkillers,
They give me numb
To dump me dumb.
In their self-based pretense to serve,

They tickle and tackle my sole nerve
And in my reaction to my nerve rattle,
We're now in Israeli-Palestinian battle.
Yea, he who calls me black Semite,

So do I regard him my racial termite.
Often by his sally soldiers I'm harassed,
And also by his silly sisters embarrassed.
They make noise

To mar my voice.
When I need painkillers,
They give me Penn-killers!
Poem 181
My black male's blank mails
Mine are many mates

One of whom spoils my dates.
My many mates are any men
Most of whom make out of me specimen
For experimenting on their political sale.
The most dangerous of them is a black male,
Who spreads out black but blank mail.
He is black in the heart.
He is blank in the head.
His mouth is a septic tank
That houses a sceptic tongue.
In full, he's a septic sceptic
Of my every survival logic.

Poem 182
My Black Crime of Africa
Red,
Black,
Brown,
White:
All have equal rights to colour this world.
But why is being black my crime?
Instead, my black skin should be my crown.
Without blackness,
Where would they access:
Night for sleeping?
Blackboard for teaching?
Black paint for bleaching?
Yes, my blackness is my Africanness.
The sun and the Niles black earth bear me witness.
Though modern apes are victims of trespass

On the macadams of the coal-allergic cities,
I, cold-allergic citizen, will never regret being me
Till I am disfigured and transfigured ,
Deported and transported
Into the black dungeon
With Mr. Brown,
Mr. Red and
Mr. White
Alike.
"I am one of those who believe that there is no permanent home for even a section of the
Bantu in the white area of South Africa and the destiny of South Africa depends on this
essential point. If the principle of permanent residence for the black man in the area of the
white is accepte,d then it is the beginning of the end of civilisation as we know it in this
country."
Speaking to parliament in 1964 as Minister for Coloured Affairs (The Guardian, 7 Febru-
ary 2006)
I suffer from an incurable diseasecolour blindness.

Attributed to Joost de Blank (1908 - 1968)
Dutch-born British churchman.

Poem 183
Master Refuge 'G'
I am John The Baptist,
The desert-roaming artist,
With a proper prophecy to say.
My name is now Mr. Jay,

Then, 'twas Master Refugee,
Refuge Gangster, Mr. Refuge 'G'.
For I walked all this continent's

Four corners with a countenance,
Pertinent to its main four capital D's;
Our African pestilences of no remedies:
I wandered and encountered Despair in the West.

I drifted to be encountered by Disease in the East.
I wondered but bumped into Destruction in the North.
I stopped not there and thinly missed Death in the South.
Poem 183
Prescribed to be proscribed
Be not surprised.
It kicked off for my good.
I was prescribed in my mother's womb,
And then proscribed unto my father's tomb.
As if that was for good.

Be ye not that surprised.
I was proscribed from my mother's boom

And subscribed unto my father's doom.
I can blame it hardly upon my God's,
I can blame my self-claimed gods,
Who for me prescribed

Ways of being proscribed.*
* The kaffir (kuffar) are the enemies of Islam. They are less than human unless they
revert to the one true way. It is acceptable to be rude to them regardless of where you live,
for they are less than us.
(post to Muslim-wife blog in Florida in response to a query as to why she would refer to
her neighbours as Kaffir, 08 October, 2007)
Poem 185
Poets Die Poor!

It was a Sunday,
It wasnt a sunny day,
But I was reading with a sun ray.
The Sunday Nation had this to say,
The Irony of a Writers fame in poverty:

Nigerian Lit Legend, Cyprian Ekwensi died!
The corner of the same page also loudly cried:
Renowned Kiswahili poet Mwalimu Mbega died!
But not in Nairobi here,

tis in his home village there.
Yes, who was there to grab the whistle and blow
That such poets once caused this nation to glow?
Oh, this irreversible path of fate, history,

That swallows and cocoons in oblivion men of victory!
When shall thou vomit Abraham, Shakespeare and Garang,
And release your everlasting prisoners of truth from Soul Grange?
On the right hand page another big one died!

Literary icon John Rugunda passes on. I tried
To doubt that heading. The East Africa theatre guru
With whose The Burdens I well passed my exam in Gulu?
Three of the same say,

of the same sage,
on the same page,
oh, on the same day!...?
Now in this literature tsunami of the 21st Century, I panicked, who next?
Mitch Odero, my Sudan Mirror editor, on giving him these poems text,
Grinned and groaned, John, poets die poor!
But sir, they die not young, do they, or?
John Ruganda of Uganda died of cancer, cancer of the throat.

Yet, he conveyed not along to the sepulchre any sceptre of gloat,
Just like my favourite BBC wordsmith the late Chris Bickerton,
Whose windpipe caused the airwaves to still bicker with his tone.

Poem 185.....
Poets Die Poor!.....

And this John of Sudan is afflicted with cancer, canker of oral bullets.
This, in the advent of our demo-crazysound Doom Prophets
leads to slitting of gullets
by our Lucifer-installed puppets.
O Heaven, develop it not into a tumour that may bloat,
For I do wish my rights to not rot throttled in my throat.*
* One dislikes to see a man and poet reduced to proclaim on the streets such tidings.
Thomas Carlyle (1795 - 1881)

Scottish historian and essayist, 1843.

Poem 183
You tempered with me
Sue, when you tempted me,
You badly tempered with me.
I turned my wall half-side down,
You turned my world upside down.
That is why I've decided to commit suicide,
Having realized I was committed to Sue's side,
When we summed up the summer at the seaside.
My last option is to sue Sue over my marital suicide.
When we summed up the summer at the seaside.

Having realized I was committed to Sue's side,
That is why I've decided to commit suicide,
You turned my world upside down.
I turned my wall half-side down,
You badly tempered with me.
Sue, when you tempted me,*
You tempered with me
* A game which a sharper once played with a dupe, entitled Heads I win, tails
you lose.
John Wilson Croker (1780 - 1857)
Irish-born British politician and essayist.
A sharper is one who cheats or swindles.
Croker Paper

Poem 185
Just been to hell!

Ever by God's Hall,
Ne'er by god's hell,
Will I sweargo to
Helleven hitherto!
Real, Just been there
And I could not bear

As 't dawned,
They downed
Me and hissed
The mystical mist
From which I kissed
Death next to his gist
So out I came of his flame

'cause not there was blame.
Oh, death, where now is thy

Victory, bite, might in the sky?
Hell, against you I (am immune here)
have been promised to be so even there.
Tell your collaborators, my detractors, that's,
All the yields and shields I have against your darts.*
* The danger chiefly lies in acting well,

No crimes so great as daring to excel.

Charles Churchill (1731 - 1764)
British poet.
Poem 186
A quarrel with God?

Every one of my lifetime projects
Has been deemed of high prospects.
Friends write me 'something in store for you'.
When I ask, give me the keys to the safe, will you?
And they say, ask the Lord.

Thence, when I call O Lord!
He does not answer my call,
I know that's not my last fall.
But then when I telephone God,

He does not seem to pick up the phone.
When I shout, when I cry aloud,
When I call out, He seems to answer none.
They say it is a curse or my sin.

O Lord, even if they are your daily din,
And my iniquities to forgive are over one numeral,
At least, God, postpone my problems past my funeral.*
* Courage! I have shown it for years; think you I shall lose it at the moment when
my sufferings are to end?
Marie-Antoinette (1755 - 1793)
Austrian-born French queen consort.
Said on the way to the guillotine.

Poem 187
Back from Hibernation
If you celebrated,
And accelerated,
Now mourn,
For I'm back in full,
Back with a bagful,
Filled not with corn but scorn,
For those who wished me fall.
But I didn't fall, I did fold,

And back just in the Fall.
Let me have you told,
That witches' wishes fail
When a victim has no guilt trail.
You supposed I would quit,
Not knowing that I am a wit,
As amphibious as amoeba,
Very poikilothermic like mudfish,
But I ain't as you thought sheepish.
I hid not in Cuba, I did that in Juba.
Awkward if I quit my struggle for liberation.

Well, I did it smart the reptile style,
I took a holiday into recoverable hibernation,
But remained an active volcano in the file.
Yes, I did hibernate from the Church,
but stilled my spirit and mind in charge,
Like Rip van Winkle, I overwintered,
and outwitted the bastard.
I am back to the media,
With which I'm familiar.
Out of hibernation,
To serve my nation.*
* I even lost my hope on this case because the youth of Bor Community, particu-
larly those who were in Kampala, are beating drum saying Akuach had a long tongue and
pride of education. Most of our youth have hated him and his former friend, the Journal-
ist, Ngong Aluong Alith (John Penn) over pride. John Penn de Ngong has a history of being
kidnapped two times. John Penn becomes a poet, no more politics and he loves social and
cultural writing, said Ajah-Ager (a pseudonym), quoted from the news article: Deliber-
ately Murdered The Death of Bridegroom Now has its Roots
Sunday, 22 February 2009 23:20, Bor Globe, Jonglei State News
Chapter 16
Acknowledged-men
Even a nod from a person who is esteemed is of more force than a thousand
arguments or studied sentences from others.

Plutarch (46? - 120?)
Greek biographer and philosopher.
Let me say that the credit belongs to the boys in the back rooms. It isn't the
man who sits in the limelight like me who should have the praise. It is not the
men who sit in prominent places. It is the men in the back rooms.
Lord Beaverbrook (1879 - 1964)

Canadian-born British newspaper owner and politician.
From the song "The Boys in the Back Room,"
sung by Marlene Dietrich in the film Destry Rides Again.

Poem 188
Mama, Signing the IoU MoU
Who was I!
Swimming but not drowning That turns into a red sea,
In your uterine balloon pool? (To sterilize us into modern Israelites)
You laboured and endeavoured To wade through it dry,
To brood, hatch and usher; And wait with smiles for miles,
Weed, prune and water For proper prosperity,
What is now me. In prosperous posterity.
I owe you. I owe you.
Please, before death, sign me this IoU MoU. Please, unto death, sign me this IoU MoU.
Baba, My Government,
I know you, You make me a proud,
From your tap root, Full citizen with security,
You planned and planted, I give you all services
Fertilized and germinated, With sweat and even blood,
Watered and weeded, I fund you directly,
Pruned and groomed You refund me indirectly,
What is now me. I oweyou owe me.
I owe you. Please, sign for me this IoU MoU.
Please, even after death, sign me this IoU MoU.
My Land,
My Buddy, You give me soil,
Thanks to all of you my friends, On which I toil.
For standing against all my fiends. Your fat is oil,
You shed with me tears, Which they spoil.
Both in bitter and better times. My home,
In all our years of hide-and-find, My identity,
Of fairy folk talks, My anchor,
In sweet or noxious nostalgia, I owe you.
I owe you. Please, sign upon my flesh this IoU MoU.
Please, sign now with me this IoU MoU.
My God,
My Teacher, For your universal project,
I know I am you. You moulded me,
You inhale chalk flour into your lungs, Raised my brain super and upper,
And exhale your brains grains Made me king of the world,
Into my empty calabash. Deputy God,
For your unpaid pain, Yet I did not pray
For my undeserved gain, nor pay for it.
I owe you. I owe you.
Please, sign now with me this IoU MoU. Please, beforeafter death, sign me this IoU MoU.
My Saviour, Thank God, that's settled.

For all your clean martyrdom, Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751 - 1816)
Sowing what you wouldnt reap, Irish-born British playwright and politician.
Your scarlet sweat, Handing one of his creditors an IOU.

Poem 190
Ugakenya, my home, too
When I went
away from home,
I won a home
away from home.
A home is where youre

brought up,
A home is not where youre
brought down.
A home is where youre

built up,
A home is not where youre
broken down.
A home is where you

build up,
A home is not where you
break down.
Where I was sown to the world,

My home one.
Where I was shown to the world,
My home two.
Ugakenyans,
I am awed by you.
Ugakenya,
You are owed by me.*
* Home is not where you live, but where they understand you.
Attributed to Christian Morgenstern (1871 - 1914)
German poet.

Poem 191
Thank You
Thank You my God

For making your mind
Closer to mine.
Had You not,
Idntve got
This usefully youthful wine,
My personal wisdom mine.
Thank you Maa and Waa,

For inviting me to this world
To bite a bit of its wars
That inspires me to write this word,
The products of my woes.
Thank you my saviours.

Your movement of liberation
Has awakened my moment of hibernation.
Had you jumped not into the bush,
Id have not jumped out of the bush.
I would have stayed and strayed with cattle,
The catalysts for my writ wit.
Thank you my sponsors,

Kith and kin,
Africans and Americans
Alike, for filling in my vacant cans
With intellectual and financial pomp
These poems' pump.*
* I wish thee as much pleasure in the reading, as I had in the writing.

Francis Quarles (1592 - 1644)
English poet.
Emblems, To the Reader
Chapter 19
The Leftovers (A Book within a Book):

By Isaac Abu-Izaach
Theme A
Intro
Isaac Abu-Izaach
The idle idol
The ideal idiot
The idiolect ideologue
Of:
Idiosyncratic idioms
Idem-ocratic idiocy
And
Ideal ideas
In real deals.

Theme B
Love
147
Torch me
Do not just touch me,
Just torch me.
Touch me not,
Unless you touch me hot.
148
Photocouple!
Our heights are equivalent,

Our hearts are equipollent;
So what?
We've the quip,

So, let us equip;
For that!

149
In Babylon
My Babe, lone in Babylon,
Ghosting in my love echelon,
Gossiping alone along the Euphrates,
Infested with sexpests and love pirates,
Along come, I long for you in my Long Island,
In the Hanging Gardens of our New Thighland,
Liz, please, come to my Seven-Wonders' opulence.
For I wanna invest in thy eleven-wonders' corpulence.
150
My Eyes Cream
Lo, my eyes scream
To hold you captive
in a visual dream.
Though not yet active,
It can fill a stream
With icy waters
That clot into a cream,
That, when it enters, 149
Makes my eye scream.
Just be there, I implore thee Lurve Curve
To be my high stream.
Just be there, I employ thee Twas instrumental
To be my eyes' cream. Wasnt experimental
My dear love dove, Tina
We ascended with a Tenor
At an extra altitude of an Alto
Seductively at baritone hitherto
Intimately extended to a Soprano
Messed up in a Mezzo-soprano
Descended to a baseless Bass
Standing on a bassless Base
Where is our crescendo?
Why dim diminuendo?
Mangled in innuendo!
Or incommunicado!

150
My Eyes Cream
Lo, my eyes scream
To hold you captive
in a visual dream.
Though not yet active,
It can fill a stream
With icy waters
That clot into a cream,
That, when it enters,
Makes my eye scream.
Just be there, I implore thee
To be my high stream.
Just be there, I employ thee
To be my eyes' cream.
149
From Sugar to Salt

From sweets to sweats
From sweetheart to bitter heart
From cool pamper to hot pepper
From sugar to salt
Love
involves
evolves
revolves
devolves
Life
From I Do to I Dont
From we sleep to we slip
From we believe to we bereave
From we cleave to we can leave

106
With love glove
My love dove,
With mudfish skin,
With pigeon's eyes,
And giraffe's neck,
And chocolate complexion,
Has a touch-me-not hand:
Let her hand click you
and you'll cling there.
Let her hug you
and you'll sleep there. 107
She can numb you
With her sleeping pill. My Woeman!
Her voice, a shrill of thrill.
I am her war man,
She is a nightingale,
She is my woman,
That can lullaby a lunatic.
She ogles with love goggles,
Nay!
And with love glove toggles.
She is my woe-man
Woe unto me,
Who woos a woeman
Who boos a woo man.
Hey!
She is an alcoholic,
She boozes a Walker,
She is un-workaholic,
She boasts like a worker.
Lo!
She bosses like a war-man,
Yet, she is a woman,
Yes, she is a whore, oh man!
My woman
is
*
My woeman!
* Nature gave me the form of a woman; my actions have raised me to the level of
the most valiant of men.
Attributed to Semiramis (lived 9th century BC)
semi-legendary Assyrian queen.

150
Fall into Love

People in love fail
Because they fall into love,
Without any detail.
So they faint in love;
In love frail.
And feint it to live,
Because they fall into love
Like a fly into an oil pail,
Turning into water colour pale,
Swimming though fain,
And in pain but in vain. 149
The Loophole
Mr. Edward, better, Mr. Idiot,
When did you enter my heart?
Mrs. Sarah, rather, Mrs. Kasarah,

When finally I entered your hut.
But why the hell

Did you enter my hut?
You see, well,

Because I was hurt.
Greatest lie of the millennium!

By whom were you erotically hurt?
By none but Miss Millennium,

The very one Ive been calling My Honey.
Now that Im neither horny nor your honey,

Actually, how did you magically sneak into my heart?
I am so sorry my Heart,
Eventually, by you musically accepting my money.*
* One more drink and Id be under the host.

Dorothy Parker (1893 - 1967)
U.S. writer and wit.
150
My sylph has a self!

The only secret that keeps her good.
So they are not right

When they think shes a sprite.
She falls not to Franks

Seductive and mischievous pranks.
Her brother calls me elf

When I often frequent her shelf.
How I wish she was a nixie,

To elope her and change into a pixie,
So as to spend ourselves
On the fairyland island of love elves.
This is the sign

That she might not be mine:
Her parents scan my background, 106

Yet Im always focused on my foreground.
The Betterfly
I salute the butterfly
A fly of glory and grace
Butterfly! A better fly of wealth

Not a bitter fly of health
Fresh and precious like butter

A flowery insect of love and beauty
I love the butterfly

Virgin of colors and collars
Preserve the beautyfly

An inspiration of art and culture
Wow, better would I fly

To lick the butter of my fly!

God Created you

108 Not to go behind me.
God created me
Not to go beyond you.
He made us wo/man
Praise Him, Amen!
To talk,
To walk
Side
en
By
ich
Side.
to L
God created us;

d
He made us so as
ene
To live in mutuality
L ik
And love in sexuality.

Our Greater Creator likens
Us to the life of lichens:
A mouldy matrimony of fungi
And algae that does die
Not on a naked rock in dry season.
For which we live: this is the wry reason.*
* The first woman was created from the rib of a man. She
was not made from his head to top him, nor from his feet to be tram-
pled on by him, but out of his side to be equal to him. Anonymous

109
This thin tin!

Tell the scrap recycler,
Call the blacksmith,
That I want to dispose
Of my haughty naughty tin.
Once she was beautiful,
She was once bountiful,
She was even a character mute
And deliberately so dump,
But now she is very thin, 264
Like a salt tin,
Dry and wry For Chriss Sake
And stolid and sordid,
An empty tin that shouts most.
No matter how forced to this marriage,
Still them I promise a miscarriage.
With that their ugly him,
I wont sing any love hymn.
I dread that love hawker, Lako Marko,
Whose feet smells like a dish of larko,
A meal from cows leg, thats hoof
Fermented for two days on the roof.
I have my own husband
For Christs sake, and--
For Chriss sake,
That man is fake.
152
My Brother-in-love?
Who, me your dove?
No, my brother-in-love,
Magnetically, look, we are the like-poles of life,
Genetically, Id rather you try with my sister-in-love, my wife!
When a man mounts another man, the throne of God shakes.

Otuma Ongalo,
Gay Debate.
The Standard Newspaper.
October 28, 2009.

Theme C
Terrorism
151 152
Salaam Alaikum! Terrorists versus Tourists
An unexpected visitor Tourists stay in hotels,

Turns up to turn in Terrorists slay in motels.
His countenance
in Tourists go there to see new sights,
the conference Terrorists go there to seek near sites.
in
the inn. Tourists are compatible commuters,
Donates his harmful armful Terrorists have combustible computers.
of bleeding greetings,
of blazing blessings, Tourists roam the world for life to enjoy,
Bleating Salaam alaikum, Terrorists roam the world for life to
Detonates his belt bombs! destroy.
The new way of preaching peace
Of piercing peace into pieces.

152
Terrorists versus Tourists
Tourists stay in hotels,

Terrorists slay in motels.
Tourists go there to see new sights,

Terrorists go there to seek near sites.
Tourists are compatible commuters,

Terrorists have combustible computers.
Tourists roam the world for life to enjoy,

Terrorists roam the world for life to
destroy.
152
Born in Satanistan
Before you meet him hijacking,
Let me first introduce him to you.
His name is Mr. Su Saeed Bomba,
Born in the Kingdom of Satanistan,
Trained, even in North Arm-merry-car,
And graduated in the city of Back-dead,
Self-employed in a city called Cut-tomb,
He invaded the cosmic city of New Yoke,
Banished but to the region of Halfgunistan,
So, he vanished into the hills of Terror Borer.
Hes been laden, and may be slain in Fuckistan,
And, good riddance, buried, again, in Satanistan!

153
Freedom of Explosion!
It is too rough,
Yet they laugh!
One of them says,
Sadists of nowadays,
They want freedom,
Freedom of explosion,
But we want freedom,
Freedom of expression.
Theirs is that of oppression
On the innocent by suicide operation.
They hate our freedom of association,
They turn it into theirs of assassination.
154
Nairobbers!
I thought Nai lived with Nairobians?
But nigh were Nai robbers!
Now Nai can call not his sweetheart,

For phoneless he was made by their art.
Now Nai cannot buy Christmas for his babe and baby,
For moneyless they rendered him with their art.
At daytime, you are with Nairobians,

At nighttime, call them Nairobbers.
Keep or kick them off the Nile

Or they, Nai robbers:
Will give birth to night robbers,

Will give birth to Nile robbers!

154
The atmosphere of utmost fear
Armed Ahmed
Nail and teeth,
Roars like a starved lion
Against the modern Zion.
155
The No-fly Zone
In an IDP camp, I aint alone

When King Nebuchadnezzar,
The autocrat of new Babylon
Ordered with a voice bizarre,
Let there be no-fly zone in the south!
Rang a hoarse voice from Omdurman,
Where the warmongering ombudsman
ruled all but only the tightlipped north.
Effectively then, the terror blended with alcohol
Made man mad so that we scampered for the hole
Once a dragonfly passed magnified into a gunship.
Whenever our Nile hippo surfaced: lo, a warship!
The official fly was an Antonov drone,
Yet, the south was a no-fly, no-go zone.
Now that its an all-go zone, where else
Will the monarch dig their wealth wells?
Now that were destined to go,
Will them, him still behave so
While going to inherit desert?
No more time to eat a dessert!

Theme D
Injustice
154
Garang for granted!
Who over pays

Is whoever says
Garang was murdered
By his friends
Or his fiends.
Whoever defends foul play
Must fence that foul mouth.
Whether be bad weather
Bad hell-i-copter
Or bad Alicopter,
The incident was accident,
Ok?*
* Being a hero is about the shortest-lived profession on earth.
Will Rogers (1879 - 1935)

U.S. writer, actor, and humorist.
155
To borrow tomorrow?
They sing my clothe and class I borrowed
They think my wife and life I borrowed
Because today Im narrowed

But after today Im hallowed
And never shall I then borrow

Let them wait and see morrow
Before today I am the vulture

After today I am the future
Only if I survive the butcher

Because I am a hard pusher
156
The First the Last

He stopped,
And stooped:
Salaam alaikum
He waved,
And waited,
But a vacuum.
Is it because I am sixty?
Then he complained, thirsty,
Opened his arms, walking
And they continued talking.
There I wondered and pondered,
Are these those days,
That Jesus says,
The last will be the first,
And the first the last?*
* But many that are first shall be last; and the last shall be first.
Matthew 19:30
King James Bible

157
With em I fly
This is what I like,
What I like about planes
Is not about the woolly sky,
Is me seated side by side
With Comrade VIP.
I, very young person, VYP,
Eat it together, the air food.
We peep at a cloud together,
Together as they gather.
Lonely we sit away
From our cars and cheeky families,
Heavenly equality
In one flying coffin.
157 158
Cancer Airtime
Yes, youre right. I need not mere air,
I am sick six times I need more airtime;
Of cancer, To cast away my accursed bullet
Cancer of words, And cast in my cursed ballot,
Cancer of ideas, To dial my freedom
Not canker of words.
In the referendum,
Tis ulcer of utterances
On pages of my say. To set my own agendum
Coz my country is sick At my own momentum,
Six times of cancer, In our joint memorandum,
Cancer of wars, Not to be handled at random.
Canker of woes, I wanna row my own boat.
Cancer worse I wanna rear my own goat.
In the Sudan, Give me my votes.
The room of rumours. Give me my voice.
Buy me enough airtime,
But not me enough err time.

159
Why Star?
A superb star
Appears at night.
But at daytime, right
Away, they are burned
Hardly have they earned
By a super star.
So why then star:
Why climb that stair,
Which will make all stir
Enviously ill-concerned,
And have you burned
Off with all your fame
calories? Whats in a name?*
* They gave me star treatment because I was making a lot of money. But I was just
as good when I was poor.
Bob Marley (1945 - 1981)
Jamaican musician, singer, and songwriter.

Theme E
Covert Poverty
160
Mr. Paupular!
From the bottom of the sky

To the top of the earth,
From talking with the vocal president
To walking with the local resident,
Hey, where is your flare of flair?
The public is but with a glare!
Yes, but I aint popular.

I am just paupular,
A gifted pauper
With a lifted paper.
Loved but poor,
Adored by the poor.
This I love it
Makes me fit.*
* Poverty iz the stepmother ov genius.

Josh Billings (1818 - 1885)
U.S. humorist.
161
Broke and broken!

A black bloke,
From the Haves Clan,
Braked suddenly beside me,
Just to grin at me green,
How are you bro?
Im broke,
Retorted I,
Broken bloke,
From the Have-nots Clan,
Cursed his hypocritical word bro.
What is that term broke?
The Have asked the Have-not.
Lucky you who is never broke.
Let me define as I feel it:
A broke bloke
Is one with too much month
By the end of the money,
Whereas a loaded lord
Is one with too much money
By the end of the month.
Oh my! Im not only broke,
Oh my God, I am also broken!
162
Very loanly
Alone,
Im left
with loan.
I am bereft.
Im very lonely
On a ticking debt
Marked untill dead.
I am in an abysmal depth
Of debts spiraling into death.

163
Arrested!
I am in shackles,
My house is in shambles.
Of this earth I cant move an inch,
I am in undefined pain of a pinch,
Of a hereditary infirmity,
A localized calamity,
Framed on me alone.
I cant even dare a loan,
For lack of collateral security.
My child a victim of food insecurity.
I am in a property island,
In prison with freedom on my motherland,
With none to bail me out.
The whole nation is moving about
In search and display of their wealth.
I beg and dig just to buy a wreathe
For my old man who to poor health succumbed.
This son of man is to blame for all this curse,
For he chose or was chosen for a cattle course.
Dont ask me why my head is uncombed,
For combing is but for the free heads of the rich,
Who impoverish me for them to flourish.
They know my head only a tool for carrying firewood,
For that is my career imposed upon me from childhood.
O you I curse, have me bailed, god of poverty!
O You I beseech, offload me, God of property,
For not only am I such broke, I am also broken.
But to anybody nothing I spoke, expecting a token.
Tis You only, and if You upon my crimes harden,
Then who will unto my cries harken?

162
Where is Ni-mule?
Straight from Europe street,
He crossed the Suganda border,
Waving at Nimule residents to greet,
Ignoring them, passing on to climb yonder,
Up the Gordon Hill high, he stopped to sigh,
To a charcoal-laden man staggering like a mule,
Poking him with his noisy nose, where is Nai-miul?
For Nimule, raised by war propaganda, was so high
In the ears and eyes of the beholders from the West,
Potentially ripe for poverty projects of photography,
To counterbalance their monotony of pornography
In the cultural cosmos, rather seen as, of the waste.
Ita sibu wara ke! You left behind, thats Nimule!
With a finger pointing back, mused the Nile mule.
Doubts the phototourist, What! that ghettotown?
Yes, go back, that is our Nimule downtown.
This is how not to take to town the people,
But how to take towns to the people.
In this village versus town debacle,
The question is: Is it a miracle?
163
Economix
From the look, its economy,
Void of the laws of economics.
Until the end of our partial autonomy,
Run we shall a jungle law of economix,
A mixture thereof with socio-politics.
With the experience of rudimentary

Economy of rations of sorghum and unimix
For refugees and IDPs, we are sedentary.
Now in this economic suffocation and sabotage,
With our saboteurs posing as rapporteurs,
Let there be light to our entrepreneurs,
To sense and net Mr. Fox in his camouflage.

164
My daybook
With me down till dawn
With daydreams. I yawn
Of what next?
And how next?
And then up and down
Asking Jesus a permission
To brush and rush
To work by walk
And walk and walk
Back with dust at dusk,
Tired of Somnambulism,
Tired of circumlocution
From unknown location,
To slip into sleep,
To roam the spiritual world
In dreams unfulfilled.
Then it dawns again
With pain without gain,
World without end,
World without rest,
But with rest
Only in the womb,
And in the tomb.

Theme F
Death
165
Automagically!
Death is automagic,
For he switches man off unaware.
He is not automatic,
For I would switch him off if he were.*
*
At my age I do what Mark Twain did. I get my daily paper, look at the obituaries page and if
Im not there, I carry on as usual.
Patrick Moore.
166
The Podium of Odium and Opium
Tis a cure of an eternal valium

That quarantines one in abysmal vacuum
Tongue-tightly on the delirium podium
Leaving the living drunk with odium
Leaving the living drugged with opium.
167
Thy Permanent Firmament
Well, amass unto thee all thy economic and physical muscles,
Unto dignifying thy carnal dynasty and beautifying thy castles,
But nay! neither belongs to thy prosperity nor to thy posterity,
For Fate alone designs thy permanent firmament with eternity.
Destiny, that omnipotent dictator of all times,

Keeps on earth here thy title deeds, free of dimes.
Thy homestead measuring six by three feet wide and three high,
Relax, by thy folks, this castle shall endure. Then therein, thou shall sigh.*
* Dont store up treasures here on earth, where they can be eaten by moth and
get rusty, and where thieves break in and steal. Story your treasures in heaven, where they
will never become moth-eaten or rusty and where they will be safe from thieves.
Jesus Christ
Matthew 6: 19 20
168
Death, the Ruler

To the aged, under-aged,
The leaders and elders,
Death is a destiny
You cannot mutiny.
He is a democracy;
Of the people,
For the people
And by the people:
Invented for them,
Implemented by them,
Experimented by them.
Even cars do die,
Like cows that die.
Animates of this huge pan
Ever revolving with a life span.
Death is autocratic,
For he is automatic.
Death is a dictator,
For he gives no indicator.
Death is authoritative,
For he gives only one directive.
He rules by monarchy but anarchy,
For he has no age hierarchy.
Death is a bureaucracy,
For he is all but illiteracy.
Death is oppressive and suppressive,
For with him nothing is impressive and expressive.
Death is not a visitor,
He is an intruder, a trespasser,
Or he comes uninvited!
Oh, alas, life is limited!*
* There is an amazing Democracy about death. It is not aristocracy for some of the
people, but a democracy for all of the people. Kings die and beggars die; rich men die and
poor men die; old people die and young people die; death comes to the innocent and it comes
to the guilty. Death is the irreducible common denominator of all men.
Martin Luther King Jr.
Eulogy for the Martyred Children
Quoted from A Testament of Hope.

Theme G
Corruption
169
Parasites in Paradise
In this very starving continent

Is a pretty staving contentment.
As the majority wallow in turbulence,
They, minority, swallow in succulence.
Now the best thrive in object firmaments,
As the rest strive with abject permanence.
These rich tots, they rob with violence,
But the poor sods, they sob in silence.
Who made the simmering parasites
Managers of shimmering paradise?

170
The Disease of the Deceased
Once today they die in salary,

Or yesterday they died at Calvary,
Their names others do eat.
Their children they do starve.
Therefore, the widows and orphans go to hell,
Before their martyrs souls arrive in Heaven.
As if they are the ones who killed their parents,
The living lords have become the disease of the deceased.
171
The bullet in the gullet
Look at that mans throat,

That protrusion of gloat.
What was it, what is it?
Adams Apple, isnt it?
That he cannot ingest,
Neither can he egest.
The PhD of corruption,

That undergoes irruption,
In an explosion all of a sudden,
Lets man lose his Garden of Eden.
All gullible governments gourmands,
The gourmets and their abyssal demands
On our rare freedom hard earned by bullets,
Will have the atomic bullet stuck in their gullets.

172
Immunity by Impunity
Mr. Benydit,
You take peoples life,
Yet you aint any god,
You take property live,
In the watch of the poor sod,
Now that you are caught
Cheating your own community,
Whattell this court?!
But I have the immunity,

A fully selected and elected leader
Of, for and by the very community
That told me to climb their ladder,
Boss blessed with not only immunity,
But also with their impunity.
So whattell me, court!?
173
Bluetooth Development
Any advancement by stealth

Is all but commencement of filth.
For when a project is developed,
Awarded upon something enveloped,
Then one day it will be unveiled
That the economy has been failed;
Failed because of personal development
That represents not general involvement.
Whence funds are wired to personal account,
Or procurement yields personal discount,
And all this is behind the glare of the media,
With a fatwa enforcing cameraphobia,
Then no one can grow healthier,
Because service delivery has become stealthier.

174
Our Metropollutant City

Not yet old,
Its glittering,
When all is not gold.
Its citizens are littering
It with all sorts of items sold.
The fewest and newest autos

And the worlds oddest and oldest scraps
Have equal rights to the roads of our ghettos.
At times, dogs strike to liberate for themselves some gaps,
Or a mob movement takes over under impunity half of the city.
All brands of excreta block the gutters from any refuse creator.
Whatever illuminates, even fireflies, provide our electricity.

Land offer is buffet, even the dead own their home downtown.
To describe it, I have run out of terms in any language class of noun.
Maybe in short, Juba, our city of tent,
Intended by our nation founder to be a metropolitan is now a Metropollutant.
Our city intended to be extended into a cosmopolitan is now a cosmopollutant.
175
Qualifiction vs Qualification
Do you want a job?

Show them not your qualified paper.
Tell them youre just a quantified pauper.
Or else, you will get not that job.
Its not on technical know-how,
Tis on tactical know-who.
The interviews are based on quali-fiction.
Damned are you who display your qualification
Not in a democracy ushered by a meritocracy,
But in a democracy measured by bureaucracy

176
The West wastes the East as the East eases the West
One asset the West wastes notTime.
But the West wastes the product thereofMoney.
Its annual budget indicates:
For the poor: 100, 000, 000
For the war: 100,000,000,000
For Aid and/or Aids: 900,000,000
For Air or the Space: 900,000,000,000
In words:
Nine-hundred million
For the shivering and bickering people of the Earth,
And Nine-hundred billion
For the shimmering and simmering people of the Mars.
As Easterners are still footing the million-kilometre distance of this indoplanet,
Westerners are shooting the trillion-kilometre distance in search of that exo-
planet.
Let any brained creature these figures compare,

With the journey of infinity,
Like the journey of divinity,
Of 40 years fro and to the Wilderness of Nowhere,
Any brain can conclude,
And can even include,
That as the West wastes the East,
The East eases the West.
The East is a career.

Benjamin Disraeli (1804 - 1881)
British prime minister and writer.
Tancred*
* What can the West do for the continent? the Daily Telegraph asked.
Virtually nothing Perhaps it is time to reverse the process begun by Stanley and
his generation, to shut the door and simply steal away.
Deborah Scroggins
Emmas War; Epilogue

177
Cereal Killers on Rampage!

Beware, you are contesting,
But they are protesting.
To them a hoe is a woe,
Over the last two decades,
Theyve been serial on cereals:
Sorghum, maize, millets, wheatwait!
Why? Of course because they are IDPs.
Meaning Internationally Displayed Persons,
Or Internally Dissatisfied Persons,
Or Intentionally Displeased Persons.
They are on rampage
Because they have been on roughage.
To get them used to self-reliance,
Back to square one for their compliance:
Enroll them in Hoe Nursery Schools.
176 241
Brain Drain Our Reap-frees

Brain rain
Brain drain They do no kicking of balls,
Mind mining As we score for them goals.
Mental Rental They do no sowing with us,
The means invisible Yet from us reap free thus.
Thru which the African
Wealth invincible
Is harvested in the east
And invested in the west.
Here, the dollar donor
From the Midwest
Counteracts the dinar donor
From the Mideast,
Setting the donor dollar
Against the donor dinar.*
* Going to Europe gives us a way to hire people who bring new talents and new
perspectives to our work that we couldnt get any other way.
Nathan Myhrvold
U.S. business executive.
The New York Time

175
Homo copiens
Scientists call original human beings
Homo sapiens,
Copied out of Creators image.
How do you call those human beings,
Copiers of other creators image?
Homo copiens.
Duller dubbers of gifted artists,
Imitators of exotic cultures,
Homo copiers,
Will you copy me?
Untalented individuality is as useless as bad imitation.

Natalia Goncharova (1881 - 1962)
Russian painter, printmaker, and stage designer.*
* What can the West do for the continent? the Daily Telegraph asked. Virtually
nothing Perhaps it is time to reverse the process begun by Stanley and his generation, to
shut the door and simply steal away.
Deborah Scroggins
Emmas War; Epilogue
242
Unless you dollate

Listen to our compatibility instruction,
Lest you risk their hospitability destruction.
In case you curiously, seriously yearn success,
You must penetrate but only thru dollar access.

Unless you dollate,
You wont donate:
To access love,
To assess life.
Our life is Eurorised,

Our love is dollarized,
Our politics is Poundized,
Its all but dollar diplomacy.

Theme H
The For $ale Series
178
Noise for $ale
Musicians shout about

And get paid for it
Magicians shout aloud
And get paid for it
Politicians think out loud
And get paid for it
Preachers shout God out
And get paid for it
Teachers shout words out
And get paid for it.
But even if I try to cry,

Not a single coin for my toil,
Nor a simple ear is lent me, why?
Only a singles coil in my turmoil.
Now Ive opted to sell silence,
And wait for a coin without violence.
Will I get paid for this choice
My soundless noise
Shouting on pages my void voice!?

179
Tears for $ale

Why are the rest living in Darfour,
While the rest are dying in Darfur?
Why are the rest laughing in Darfive,
While the rest are crying in Darfour?
Why are the rest sitting in Darfive,
While the rest are running in Darsix?
Why are the rest working in Darfive,
While the rest are loitering in Darsix?
Why are the rest eating in Darfour,
While the rest are starving in Darbor?
This world, o! Africa eeoo!
This world, o! America eeoo!
This world, o! Europe eeoo!
This world, o! Asia eeoo!
US eeoo!
UN eeoo!
AU eeoo!
EU eeoo!
Eeoo, eeoo!
180
Love for $ale
No, torch me not hot, yet!

Touch my heart wet,
Not with your hug
But with your buck,
Not with love bug
But with love bag,
Not with love fingers
But with love figures.
To unzip my honey socket,
First unzip your money pocket.

181
Life for $ale
They blow themselves up,
For money.
They extract their kidneys
For money.
They flash their paired flesh
For money.
They tie their necks to trees,
For money.
They break oaths to pose afresh
For money.
They break in and are shot down,
For money.
They sell their lives for fake crown
Just for money.
182
Lies for $ale

Its simple.
Of the people
when everything they have sold,
including their underground gold,
they, to their tongues, will resort
unto every truth, they will distort.
Any piece of their utterance
Is a hook to the furtherance
Of their grip on the hope of the people
They, wordsmiths, mint silver words from wroth,

To make peasants pay more than their worth.
They fabricate rumour,
Lubricate it with humour,
And sell it to the blind,
To whom they then show their behind.
Because their vision is not to serve the people;
Their mission: it is to serve and surf from the
people.

184
Land for $ale

Even though put in gaol,
Theyve scored their goal.
They deceive many

And receive money.
In exchange for our secrets

They dont have any regrets.
They are of those cliques

Selling land to colleagues.
They privatize
Then advertize:
This is Land for Sale!

For money in a bale.
182
Lies for $ale

No, torch me not hot, yet!
Touch my heart wet,
Not with your hug
But with your buck,
Not with love bug
But with love bag,
Not with love fingers
But with love figures.
To unzip my honey socket,
First unzip your money pocket.

Theme I
The Basics of Ethics
183
Tame Time
Want to catch a bullet

Let it hit you.
Want to feel the heat of lightning,
Late in the storm, dance.
Want to save time,
Not on your wrist watch
Nor on your computer disk,
But on your brain,
And work as it walks.
Last time, we
Lost time.
This time, we
Love time.
That time, was
Their time.
Next time, with
Thy type, we
Tame time.*
* Iago: There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered.
Othello, Act 1, Scene 3

184
Forgiveness
A little awkward feathery frame
Wailed her way onto my cheek.
Attempting to siphon from me life,
With a windy palm down I whisked her.
While on the floor, my heel she survived,
As I imagined what if I were her,
And how dear to all life is.
Only to see her the following morn pregnant red
And only to feel myself the following week baked pale.
Then I damned the philosophy of forgiveness,
Dumped the idiocy of forgetfulness,
And cherished the ideology of an eye for an eye.
To forgive and forget your foe
Is to forgo and forfeit your life.*
* The principle of an eye for an eye leaves everybody blind

188 Son, whats that you say?

Mama, its about a gay guy,
A homosexual,
ss A bisexual,
ele A transsexual,
am
sn A metrosexual,
h at Or a lesbian.
st Thew! she spat Abomination!
les Whats it, Mother?
aim Son, its no name in my tongue,
tI s Dont you even make mention of that!
Its aimless thats nameless.

185
Your Horny Moon in Thighland

Be thou not yet sigh
That thou art war-free.
Chances being just very high
From thy problem tree,
Thence lies thy end thus very nigh.
Youre before youre three ,
Just ambushed inside thy very thigh
By thy life, sucked away in sweet sleep spree.
As he asks you to repay his pocket money,
Never ever display thy socket honey.
When waitressing in the hotel,
Avoid witnessing his hot tail.
When screaming on thy erotic island,
Avoid dreaming of their romantic highland.
When holidaying in thy Thailand,
Stop honeymooning in her Thighland. 185
Stinking Thinking
This one,
When he thinks,
It stinks!
This one,
As he thinks,
He stings!
This one,
When he thinks,
There are bad things!
This one,
as he thinks,
The world sinks!
This one,
His own thinking
Is a stinking thinking

187
Investors from Thighlands Islands

They come, blinking and winking
Money and Honey:
Our sweet twin they win
From our nave native
Immoral residents and amoral dissidents.
Be warned of itinerary mercenary missionaries!
From their economic Thighland to our academic highland,

Come they to flash their magic pair of flesh
By which they interrupt and corrupt
Our generation of budding denizens and citizens.
And then away with the first fruits of our blood-priced tree
Scott free ! Scot-free! Court-free!
194
1+1=1
One eye plus one eye equals one sight.

One man plus one woman equals one couple.
One ovum plus one sperm equals one embryo.
One energy plus one energy equals one synergy.
One Father plus one Son plus one Spirit equals One God.*
* In the arithmetic of love, one plus one equals everything, and two minus one
equals nothing.
Mignon McLaughlin, 1913-1983, American Journalist and Author

186
Wo/man Rights?
In the beginning
Was the world
and the word:
Men right
Women left
Man right
Woman wrong.
In the end will be a word:
Women right
Men left
Womens rights
Mens wrongs,
For the first will be the last
And the last the first.
That will not last.*
* So close is the bond between man and woman that you can not raise one
without lifting the other. The world can not move ahead without womans sharing in the
movement, and to help give a right impetus to that movement is womans highest privi-
lege.
Frances E. W. Harper (1825 - 1911)
U.S. writer and social reformer.
Black Women in Nineteenth-Century American Life (Bert James Lowenberg and Ruth
Bogin)

189
Fire in the cheeks

Its a hot tong,
A hot-peppered spear.
Its a stinging tongs
Its critical venom
Is a contagious fire:
Your life it bans,
Body and soul it burns,
Your image it soils,
Your name it spoils.
It ignites the world
And great empire
With a word
And hell fire.
Refrain it,
Restrain it
Before it stains you;
Before it strains you.
Keep it at bay,
For if you let it bray,
It will betray.
If you let it stray,
It will lead you astray.
So have it tailored
Before it has you tethered.*
* And the tongue is a fireit defiles the body and sets on fire the course of nature
For every kind of beast and birds, of reptile and creature of the sea, is tamed and has been
tamed by mankind.
But no man can tame the tongue. It is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison.
St. James (Chapter 3:68)

190
Lo, smoke without fire!

Lo!
Mummy is cooking in her house,
But daddy is cooking in his mouth!
Daddy, they will call you mean man
Who cheats his family cooks, eats inside his cheeks!
You swallow fire and breathe smoke like a dragon wagon.
Its funny having a father with smouldering nose.
So you make me a son of a living mobile chimney?
Being such a smoking brigand,
Watch out for fire brigade,
They will assume youve caught fire,
And shoot you with carbon bullets from their hose,
More concentrated than what comes out of your nose.
Watch out for an arrest warrant from environmentalists,
Whore set to strike the worlds pollutants without warning,
For your dangerous contribution to global warming.
Before you suck the fire-stick, know the secret of the cigarette.
189 One chilly evening of a September-eleven in Nairobi,

Dressed with a little LittIe Doves Choir Tee-shirt soaked to the skin,
I passed coffee cafes smouldering with warmth and aroma,
Restaurants with whole chickens swirling in steam glasses,
A line of vendors hawking umbrellas and sweaters;
With a 500-shilling note in my pocket I fasted,
Only to dumb 450 on four damp, dog-eared books
m From an open-air book stack,
wor (That inspired me to write these poems)
k
B oo And use 50 for the Matatu home,
So that the following morning,
I remained on bed and read, read, read...
Why?
Because I wanted to feed and dress my mind,
and because man does not live on food alone,
but what comes out of the mouth of book.
Um, a true definition of a bookworm!

191
Our Agri-culture
We cant identify
And only gratify
Liberators
Without mash, the belilah,
Our edible Delilah.
No fuel no car!
Owing to the mash,
We kept on the long march
From March to March,
From town to town,
On unempty stomachs
Full of Taposa tapioca;
Guer-monydit or wild cassava,
Bambe gava or bush potatoes,
Lemun tehet or underground lemon,
Ashab shrub and succulent berries,
Lajiyo or jungle jingle bell,
And wild honey and white ant,
Athuai or kwete residue
And all that when eaten
In the garden of eden,
We could not die but fight.
As we are being tamed from our wild game,
We should not leave behind our leaves and wild game.
Wild food must be tamed into mild food,
To be part of our culture;
Part and parcel of our agriculture.
His name is Mr. Double,

193 He is able in trouble.
He is very tough.
He is very rough.
man He is a 1.5 man.
alf On his way is no ban.
ah
nd
Impossible nothing he sees in life,
ea Because he is married to a wife,
On Who is not just a female;
The man is married to a she-male.

191
Jesh Ahmr
A pierce generation
Of same heart
Same height
Same head
Same heat
Same age,
Congratulations!
I salute you all
Budding heroes
And heroines,
Now as fathers and mothers,
Doctors and teachers,
Masters and maskers
Or radical rascals,
Rabbles and rebels,
Soldiers or soul-jars!
I nostalgically invite you back
To fugnido, Itang, Dima,
Others and Palotaka.
Reminiscing our full attacker,
Our survival in revival,
Keeping up the freedom march
In a sunny March
Long live our sorghum and corn belilah
When we forgot our love and scorn Delilah,
And fought for wealth of Kuch,
Our fatherland full of paternity,
And for health of Akuch,
Our motherland full of maternity.
Bravo brave brothers and sisters,
Bravo brave Jesh Ahmr and Jesh Ahsuod,
The armed generation of Red and Black Ants,
Now in a wedding suit
With Miss South Sudan,
Whose honeymoon in a holy month
Is scheduled to twenty-eleven.*
* In other words, the Jesh Ahmar was a Sudanese group of adolescents who had
had their adult lessons in a wrong course for a right cause, at a wrong time in a right
place.
Glossary of this book.

Theme J
Racism
195
The Bastard Seed
Mr. Messiah of Judah taught us

Who did not heed
To plant a mustard seed
But Mr. Mathayo of Juba
And Mr. Matta of Nuba
Tried but did not succeed
For someone rushed in to exceed
Them to plant their bastardly seed
And planned their dastardly deed
That then crowned their bastard seed
To become the biblical mustard seed
Now sitting on our politically mastered seat
With their militarily mustered heat.

196
The Black Prize of Africa

I,
Her extorted son,
Am of black skin
And red blood.
She,
My exhausted Mother,
Is of green skin
And black blood.
He,
My exotic brother,
Whos red of skin,
And red of blood,
Is never my blood akin.
For hes betrayed my black Mother
To them of faces slit by eyes;
Them too many to die
To have their red blood ooze
Into the stomach of the earth,
To make black blood of the earth.
Them that die but burn their bodies
Into powdery blood,
Blood chalky enough to choke their cars,
Blood smoky enough to block their noses,
Dusty enough to lock their ears,
Powdery enough to blur their eyes;
Them the mosquitoes
Siphoning black blood off my Mother
The price of my land,
The prize of my hand
Sparking off turmoil,
On my soil,
Where I toil
For them to spoil
My oil:
Oh my oil, my oil!
The black blood of Africa!
The black price of Africa!
Or the black prize of Africa!
For the Black Christs of Africa!

197
Master Brown
Mr. Brown,
Im sure youll frown
When I say Im gone.
Blame me not,
For on our common pot,
You know that you make me lack,
I have declared, I, Mr. Black,
Forever, bye bye,
Im leaving by and by.
198
Black Towers
Biblically mysterious,
This towering folk,
Black skinned,
Blank-skilled,
Were some day
Being and will one day
Be feared far and wide
By the races of Red and White.
Lo, stand they like coconut towers,
With total prowess and powers.

199
The Maverick
Im not unmasked
But not unmarked.
I am still blanketed
In mystery and marketed,
Branded as I stray and loiter
Into the arm of an exploiter,
Who is there to sadden.
I left all of a sudden
My name is Thui Dan
From Sudd Sudan
Through Abyssinia
To Virginia.
They call me names
But I know my games.
They think they employ
Just a solitary lost boy,
Who is now their maverick,
Who molds them mud brick.
I do this for my distant father
Whom I can explain not further.
198
No LCM nor LCD
If we equipped ourselves thus violent,

Then we are non-equivalent.
Mathematic, you know,
Automatic, it will show
You even odd and even numbers
Are non-compatible members
Sharing one least common multiple.
Bearing in mind that our socio-eco gap is quintuple,
Now show me our least common denominator,
When you are the most common dominator.

199
Bleach Back to Black

The first man originated in Africa.
The first civilization originated in Africa.
Jesus Christ is the first refugee to Africa.
The first hard worker to America was from Africa.
The best sportsman originated from Africa.
The best sportswomen originated from Africa.
The Tallest man was born in Africa.
The shortest man was born in Africa.
If the UN Boss can come from Africa,
And the US President from Africa,
When things begin to tastes brackish,
And the world leadership go blackish,
Then the world shall one day bleach back to Black.
200 Black women bleach

To become white.
Black singers pass for white
Without the question:
Is there any black lotion
To bleach the Whites black?
!k
Are the Whites really white?

pin
k
stin
And if so,
Why white?
ey
How white?
th
Skin a white person

w,
And dry the piece of skin.

Wo
Or put a white paper

Against the white skin,
They are pink!*
* When Im born Im black, when I grow up Im black,

when Im in the sun Im black, when Im sick Im black, when I
die Im black, and you... when youre born youre pink, when you
grow up youre white, when youre cold youre blue, when youre
sick youre blue, when you die youre green and you dare call me
coloured.
Malcom X
201
The Narrow Gate

The Son of God pronounces
In the East,
Only a few shall go to Heaven.
The son of man announces
From the West,
Only a few are gonna go to Haven;
The man-made heaven,
So-called the land of the opportune
By its converts in the land off fortune.
In my desire to qualify for Heaven,
The baptismal introductory rite
Took me 120 minutes,
But the abysmal visa procedure
Took me 120 days,
With a tri-city come-tomorrow schedule.
It takes hardly a day to secure a visa
Without come-later appointment,
Not with a letter of disappointment
For a United States of America resident
To come to Africa,
But takes hardy months to secure a visa
Not without a come-later appointment,
While preparing a letter of disappointment,
For the Unilateral States of Africa dissident
To go to America.

Theme J
Politics
205
Politically Stung
There are political boys
Armed with verbal toys
To have me harmed by their venom
In the name of their speech freedom.
Though socio-politically stung,

It will not help them have me hung.
So doing, my ardent political scorpions

Have proved to be rumour champions.
Thus, a blank bark of a watchdog
Does bother not a lot a warthog.
Let them day and night on me by pinch think,

But their Judasism will not make me an inch sink.

203
Statutes by statues
In our longing for our own sanctuary,
That has taken us more than a century,
Uduk-uduk, kurmuk-kurmuk, shouts our drum,
The incessant drumming for our referendum;
But before we deliver it through Caesarean,
Were met head-on by laws Draconian,
Characterized by Presidential Decrees,
Driven by personal greed and creed of adverse degrees.
These laws against the Nile current will form an estuary,
Silted in the South upstream from their northern statuary.
These statutes are legislated by statues,
Those who have no attitudes and values.
204
War, Stop it!
Its no longer a project.
Breaking down cities,
Causing many atrocities
On chosen ethnicities,
Making them live like in an egg.
For this, I beg with a broken leg,
Let there be, and let there be peace,
Or each warlord and woe author shall face it apiece,
With the Good God too far to worship and appease.
g
Eg
With the current worlds double standard

the
On the current worlds double hazard,

As seen in their daily dilly-dallying game on Darfur
s in
And the same game on the Gaza Strip so far,

can
There is no more immunity

ri
Through the usual impunity.

Af
Its squarely on African leaders,

Let them consult with us readers.
Those whose war projects are fake,
Those whose war objectives are vague,
Must explain with their life opaque
In the ICC dungeon of the Hague.

204
Of Despondent Respondents
President:
My nation, Our unity in units oyee!
You must pay attention Two nations from one nation oyee!
And repeat word by word from me,
Or else failure to obey the law of swing, President:
you shall surely fall out of my wing. Allah-u-Akbar!
For they who tiptoe the sentry paths Allah-u-Akbar!
Shall definitely possess the entry pass.
Respondents:
President: Allahluia!
A, B, C, D Allahluiaaaaa
1,2,3,4,5
Respondents:
D,C,B,A.
5,4,3,2,1.
Correspondent:
Your Excellency,
The respondents are despondent,
Maybe because your televised address
Is creating this game of resident-versus-president.
President:
Damnit!
If they fail just this sound testing,
How will they pass my election contesting?
Everybody must be ready now:

Our total community unity Oyee
One nation for one notion oyee
Respondents:
Teach him
That the difference between a resident and a president
Is a P, that we can remove so he become just -resident.
Its my opinion, sir, that this meeting is drunk.

Charles Dickens (1812 - 1870)
British novelist.

202
Politics, Poli-tricks or Patricks?

Hello,
Can I see the Minister?
No, youll first see the undersecretary.
Pat, are you trying to insult me?
My status is not even for you secretary,
Leave alone your undersecretary.
I am an international diplomat,
Not with an internal diploma like you.
OK, let me see the deputy minister.
There is no deputy minister,
We have His Excellency,
The Undersecretary, sir.
His what?
From the county to the country level,
All is labelled His Excellency, Her Excellency
Are they really doing excellent things?
What is wrong with your government?
Why rank the whole vice minister
Under the mere secretary of your likes?
The whole major general
Under the left-tenant general,
Two presidents in one country,
Two countries under one president,
Several vice presidents or vice vice presidents,
Plus several assistant presidents,
Two central banks in one country,
One central bank in two countries,
Two capital cities in one country,
One capital city for two countries,
Two rivaling governments in one country,
One fibrous government for two countries,
Three-plus-one independent armies in one country?
Politricks and the politeachers,
What a confusing game of words and numbers! But sir, all the same,
It isnt politics, sir, Peace or piece agreement,
Dr. Patrick, it is the CPA, We are non-losers at last.
The Comprehensive Peace Agreement. Because youre playing real politics with them,
But to me, looks like But, of course, they are playing poli-tricks with you,
The comprehensive piece agreement, Miss Patricia, just as youre playing a Pat trick with
Everything handled in pieces. Patrick.

106
So Bor is a Bore?
In Bor I was born.

In Bor I was borne.
I was born in Bor,
Before it turned into a bore.
In Bor I was born,
For Bor I have borne,
Borne blunt the brunt of war.
To all Borians, woe!
Woe ye that shouts oyee,
Oyee in Bor while not a payee!
207
You must expire!
You may aspire

To dig out our sapphire,
You may upon us perspire
the biblical dragons fire,
You may against us conspire,
but it will against you transpire,
You make worst occupier inspire
more of your kinds to conspire,
but you all must one day expire.
206
Our Euro Eunuchs

Castrated to run their errands
Calculated to ruin our lands,
Africa has lost her bulls.
Turned into her bullies,
They are euro-paid,
They are Europe peons
But theyre not Europeans,
They are Africans akin by skin,
But Americans by skill.

107
Thats why Im order-less

Im all but porous,
Thats why Im furious.
Of course, Im borderless,
Thats why I am order-less
106
Im used less
I grow illiterate
And thus become useless.
I enroll on the street,
Not because I am useless.
I get married too early
As my brother get graduated,
And I thus become useless.
When I grow up and then down,
They in my umpteen shoes
Brand me as useless oldy,
But Im just being youthless.
Im useless because Im used less.
106
MP vs. PM
From eight PM
Unto eight AM,
They whisper him
All throughout the dim,
So that he is brought down.
They conclude at dawn:

Let him, the Prime Minister,
Carry the cross of a crime minister,
Mumbles the lead MP
Against the leading PM.

107
The Rift Between

Inspect your very self,
Examine all the pairs
Of your own body.
Look at your eyes.
Look at your arms.
Look at your legs.
Though twinned and twined,
They connect not
Into one hip knot.
Each connects independently.
And when you walk,
They go alternately:
Each at a time
Each at a turn,
Democratically.
But why,
why do you,
how dare you,
want me to follow,
to flow on your footstep,
like the leg of a bicycle,
that trails the footprint
of the one in front?
Dont you see the Nile,
Passing through me first,
Then through you last?
If you think well be ever together,
Then first, let the wheels gather
From their four trails to one rail.
If you want to convince me,
First convince the biblical Abraham
Who tells the tycoon in hells torment:
Between you and Poor Lazarus
Is a gulf, a gap too deep to cross,
Too deep to reconcile and close.
Just let me go all at a go
With some bits of ego.

208
I can see
I can see monkeys
Abandoning their trees
Taking over doorkeys
Sleeping on mattresses!
I can see donkeys
Abandoning their carts
Taking over carkeys
Cruising on the macadams!
And the world chanting silence.
Long live the long-loathed gorillas!
Long-live the super power guerillas!
Long live the budding Kingdom of
Gorillas!
209
Democracy robbed, roped, raped, rapped!

Coups! Coups! Oops!
Coos the peace dove
On seeing the pierce dog
After the ill-action
Of election
Or selection
For African democrazy,
Or you can call it Afrocracy,
That looks like democracy
Robbed and raped,
Roped and rapped
By armed chameleons,
For their uncles and aunts,
Who abhor and abort,
The opposition of position,
Both political and apolitical.
Then s/he that sweats and frets,
In the face of verbal adversary,
Is a leader void of anniversary,
A leader in vain.

Theme K
The winding up
210
Congratulations, to me!
No king crowns himself,
Lest its made fun,
But who will?
If I congratulate not myself,

For the deed well done,
Then who will?
Not until on the bookshelf,

Be known these 77,000 words or none,
But who will?
Only this book itself,

From 07-07-07 to 10-10-10 if real done,
Will refund Oh! It will?

211
Debts of Gratitude
I remember Makerere
Like my other mental kitchens.
Save for its lecherous lecturers,
Makerere University is my mock maker.
I remember Diane Beltran,
Not for being my friend in need
But for being my friend in deed.
I remember Dan Callery
Not for who hes
But for who I am.
I remember John Majok Mabior,
Not for being my friendly brother
But for being my brotherly friend.
I remember John Garang de Mabior,
And all my martyrs that matter,
Not for having braved the grave,
But for being my role models.
I remember my mother
Not for being my mother
But for being my mentor.
I remember my father
Not for having fathered me,
But for having died
Before he furthered me
Into another father;
And for having died
Before I pay him back
His parental dues.
I remember God
Not for what He is
But for what I am.

Chapter Z
The Epilogue
XII- CPA in the Bible:
a)- Countdown to the Sabbath Year

b)- Cush and Israel Equated
c)- Repatriation and Reparation
XIII- Closing Prayer

Deliver us from Eve-ill!
XIV- Conclusion
a)- How to Read It
b)- Bibliophilia Versus Bibliophobia

XII - CPA in the Bible:
a)- Countdown to the Sabbath Year

Not compressive peace argument,
Tis Comprehensive Peace Agreement.
Leave it padlocked in its paddocks.
Leave it untagged with your paradox.
Leave it intact with its parable
Just as gospelled in the Bible:
Leviticus 25: 155
(i) The Sabbath Year (First Anniversary of Referendum)
1The Lord spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai and commanded him

2 to give the following regulations to the people of Israel.
When you enter the land that the Lord is giving you,
you shall honour the LORD by not cultivating the land every seventh year.
3 You shall sow your fields,

prune your vineyards,
and gather your crops for six years.
4 But the seventh year is to be a year of complete rest for the land,
a year dedicated to the LORD.
Do not sow your fields or prune your vineyards.
5 Do not even harvest the corn that grows by itself without being sown,
and do not gather the grapes from unpruned vines;
it is a year of complete rest for the land.
6 Although the land has not been cultivated during that year,
it will provide food for you, your slaves, your hired men,
the foreigners living with you,
7 your domestic animals

and the wild animals in your fields.
Everything that produces may be eaten.

(ii) The Year of Jubilee or Restoration (CPAs Referendum)
(2005 1955 + 6 = 7.9/2011)
8 Count seven times seven years,

a total of 49 years.
9 Then, on the tenth day of the seventh month,

the Day of Atonement,
send someone to blow the trumpet throughout the whole land.
10 In this you shall set the fiftieth year apart and proclaim freedom to all the inhabit-
ants of the land. During this year all property that has been sold shall be restored to the
original owner or his descendants, and anyone that has been sold as a slave shall return
to his family.
11- You shall not sow the fields
or harvest the corn that grows by itself
or gather the grapes from unpruned vineyards.
12 The whole year shall be sacred for you;

you shall eat only what the fields produce
of themselves.
13 In this year
all the property that has been sold
shall be restored to its original owner.
14 So when you sell land to your fellow-Israelite

or buy land from him,
do not deal unfairly.
15 The price is to be fixed

according to the number of years the land can produce crops
before the next Year of Restoration.
16 If there are many years, the price shall be higher,

but if there are only a few years, the price shall be lower,
because what is being sold is the number of crops it can produce.
17 Do not cheat a fellow-Israelite,

but obey the LORD your God.

(iii) The Anxieties of the Sabbath Year (CPA Implementation)

18 Obey all the LORDs laws and commands,
so that you may live in safety in the land.
19 The land will produce its crops,

and you will have all you want to eat and will live in safety.
20 But someone may ask what there will be to eat during the seventh year,
when no fields are sown and no crops gathered.
21The LORD will bless the land in the sixth year

so that it will produce enough food for two years.
22 When you sow your fields in the eighth year,

you will still be eating what you harvested during the sixth year,
and you will have enough to eat

until the crops you plant that year are harvested.
(iv) Restoration of Property (CPAs Land Protocol)

23 Your land must not be sold on a permanent basis,
because you did not own it;
it belongs to God,
and you are like foreigners who are allowed to make use of it.
24When land is sold,

the right of the original owner to buy it back must be recognized.
25If an Israelite becomes poor and is forced to sell his land,

his closest relative is to buy it back.
26Anyone who has no relative to buy it back may later become prosperous
and have enough to buy it back.
27In that case he must pay to the man,

who bought it a sum that will make up for the years remaining
until the next year of Restoration,
when he would in any event recover his land.

28But if he does not have enough money to buy the land back,
it remains under the control of the man who bought it
until the next Year of Restoration.
In that year it will be returned to its original owner.
29If someone sells the house in a walled city,

he has the right to buy it back during the first full year from the date of the sale.
30But if he does not buy it back within the year,

he loses the right of repurchase,
and the house becomes the permanent property of the purchaser and his descendants;
it will not be returned in the Year of Restoration.
31But houses in unwalled villages are to be treated like fields;

the original owner has the right to buy it back, and they are to be returned in the Year of
Restoration.
32However,
Levites have the right to buy back anytime their property in the cities assigned to them.
33If a house in the one of these cities is sold by a Levite and is not bought back,
it must be returned in the Year of Restoration,
because the houses which the Levites own in their cities
are their permanent property among the people of Israel.
34But the pasture land round the Levite cities shall never be sold;
it is their property forever.

(v) Loans to the Poor (Wealth Sharing Protocol)

35- If a fellow-Israelite living near you becomes poor and cannot support himself or
herself,
you must provide for them as you would for hired servants,
so that they can continue to live near you.
36- Do not charge them any interest,

but obey God and let your fellow-Israelite live near you.
37- Do not make them pay any interest on the money you lend them,
and do not make a profit on the food you sell them.
38- This is the command of the Lord your God,

who brought you out of Egypt
in order to give you the land of Canaan and to be your God.
(vi) Freedom of Slaves (Self-determination Protocol)
39- If a fellow-Israelite living near you becomes so poor that he sells himself to you as a
slave,
you shall not make him do the work of a slave.
40- He shall stay with you as a hired servant

and stay with you until the Year of Restoration.
41- At that time he and his children shall leave you

and return to his family and to the property of his ancestors.
42- The people of Israel are the Lords slaves, and he brought them out of Egypt;
they must not be sold into slavery.
43- Do not treat them harshly,

but obey your God.
44- If you need slaves,

you may buy them from the nations round you.
45- You may also buy the children of the foreigners who are living among you.
Such children born in your land may become your property,

46- and you may leave them as an inheritance for your sons,
whom they must serve as long as they live.
But you must not treat any of your fellow-Israelites harshly.
47- Suppose a foreigner living with you becomes rich,

while a fellow-Israelite becomes poor and sells himself as a slave to that foreigner
or to a member of his family.
48- After he is sold,

he still has the right to be bought back by one of his brothers
49- or his uncle or his cousin or one of his close relatives may buy him back;
or if he himself earns enough,
he may buy his own freedom.
50- He must consult the one who bought him,

and they must count the years from the time he sold himself until the next Year of Resto-
ration
and must set the price for his release on the basis of the wages paid to a hired servant.
51-52 He must refund a part of the purchase price

according to the number of years left,
53 as if he had been hired on an annual basis.

His master must not treat him harshly.
54 If he is not set free in any of these ways,

he and his children must be set free in the next Year of Restoration.
55 An Israelite cannot be a permanent slave,

because the people of Israel are the Lords slaves.
He brought them out of Egypt;
He is the Lord their God.
Good News Bible

b)- Cush and Israel Equated

Amos 9:7, (14, 15)
7 Are not you Israelites
the same to me as the Cushites?
declares the Lord.
Did I not bring Israel up from Egypt,

The Philistines from Caphtor
And the Arameans from Kir?
14 I will bring back my exiled people Israel;

They will rebuild the ruined cities
And live in them.
They will plant vineyards and drink their

Wine;
They will make gardens and eat their
Fruit.
15 I will plant Israel in their own land,

Never again to be uprooted
From the land I have given them,
Says the LORD your God.
Holy Bible (NIV).

c)- Repatriation and Reparation

Isaiah 18: 1, 2, 3, 7.
1
Beyond the rivers of Ethiopia
there is a land
where the sound of wing is heard.
2
From that land
ambassadors come down the Nile
in boats made of reeds.
Go back home,
Swift messengers!
Take a message back
To your land divided by rivers,

To your strong and powerful nation,
To your tall and smooth-skinned people,
Who are feared all over the world.
6
Listen,
everyone who lives on earth!
Look
for a signal flag
to be raised on the tops of the mountains!
Listen
for
the blowing of the bugle!
7
A time is coming
Who are feared all over the world.
When the LORD Almighty
Will receive offerings
They will come to Mount Zion,
from
Where the LORD Almighty is worshiped.
This land divided by rivers,
This strong and powerful nation,
Good News Bible
This tall and smooth-skinned people,

XII
The Closing Prayer:

In this manner,
Therefore, pray;
Our Father in heaven,
Hallowed be Your name
But deliver us from evil.
Matthew 6: 9,13


When I was a chickkeeper,
In a village of villeins and villains,
An eagle would swoop down,
And snatch one innocent baby bird,
Then I would cry out in a loud prayer:
Deliver us from eagle!
When I was a childkeeper,

In the human conservation quarantines,
A metallic eagle would swoosh down,
And shit fiery faeces onto the innocent faces,
Then I would cry out in a loss prayer:
Deliver us from eagle!
When I was a shopkeeper,

A thug would mug in,
And make away with our survival,
And threaten to wreak more havoc,
Then I would cry out in a Lords Prayer:
Deliver us from evil!
When I was a bookkeeper,
Eve, a dark angel, would duck in
From a dark angle and try to make a way
Into my honey socket and money pocket,
Then I would cry out in a Lords Prayer:
Now I am a fact-keeper,
Evil and envy will label me an author versus an Authority,
With sedition, blasphemy, libel or defamation an atrocity
And throw me to political weevils and devils, with my goal to gaol.
Now I cry out loud in a laws prayer:
Deliver us from weevil!

XIII
Conclusion
a)- How to read it
i)
If you do want to miss your bus
And be marked absent by your boss,
Open Penns book before 8AM;
Or if you dont want to miss your booze
And go to bed past midnight,
Open not Penns book after 8PM.
Nhial Titt Nhial

The New Sudan Vision
(newsudanvision.com)
ii)
My Son,
There is something else

To watch out for.
There is no end
To the writing of books,
And too much study

Will wear you out!
King Solomon
Ecclesiastes 12:12
Good News Bible.

b)- Bibliophilia versus Bibliophobia
Here is nothing to do with my usual Bible,

There is something very huge and viable.
I am a bibliophile
Against the bibliophobe
With law factfile but low profile.
This end explores the geography

Of the scores of bibliography
To which I am indebted
As gratefully indented:
I benefited wholly in serious holy parables

Researched only in various Holy Bibles,
Just as in my encounter with Encarta,
A worlds words and quotes centre.
Kudos to the BBC Breaking News
And the rest of the Media views.
I did not spare Shakespeare.

I read and quoted The Sphere
Of Silence by author V. Eswaran,
Enjoyed and enjoined the Mandelan
And Garangey stories of their nationalism,
And the worlds ancient histories of heroism,
And the worlds modern politics of Judas versus
Jesus.
Not all sources listed for my recourses,

Else, it will call for a mutiny of resources,
And fulfill the pill-filled monotony of page,
That may send the bibliopobes on rampage.
Aware of these people anaemic of reading culture,
I chose not agro-culture but Afro-culture in literature.
If you read an dread this new anthology of my ideology,
Then try the other writing of my fighting or of my idollogy.*
* JULIET: Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow

That I shall say good night till it be morrow.
English poet and playwright.
Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2
Petition for Partition
We, the auto-government of the Republic of Ruralia,
Voicing the will of the democratic public of Ruralia,
Are writing to your Theocratic Union of Urbania.
Our grievances are on the following discontentment:
Firstly, your purely autocratic Government of Urbania,
Has solely dishonoured and condemned the document
That we all signed and codenamed Bible of Peace.
Youve violated its gospel, the cause of our fatal disagreement;
Wealth: Youre feeding our autonomous nation with ration apiece.
In your annual tour, compare our city Metropollutant of Ruralia
With its posh sister city of Urbania, proudly dubbed Metropolitania.
All our resources, on our watching, are consumed up in Urbania.
Our intellectuals and workforce are abundant but redundant.

Henceforth, right here, we demarcate to be independent!

You are busy strategizing to turn Ruralia into Somalia:
Yourselves landlords, creating warlords, tribal militia,
And bribing our politicians to speak out your voice,
And turning our villages into large ghettos of slum,
And our own towns into large cities of Islam.
With these experiences, weve no choice,
But t ask, demand, fight for our voice.
They oft say the end justifies the means,
We, Ruralians, must reform all our ruins;
The first option: thru the ballot,
Last action: bullet!
from Poem 22
J. Penn de Ngong (John Ngong Alwong Alith as known in his family)

came into this world on a day nobody knows. His father and mother,
Alwong and Keth, did not know even their own birthdates, but his
elder brother puts Johns between late 70s or early 80s. Born into
Pen clan of Aboudit, Kolmarek Boma, Jalle Payam in Bor County of
Jonglei state in Southern Sudan, at his early teen age in 1990, Ngong
was among the thousands of unaccompanied minors referred to as
Jesh Ahmr or Red Army, courtesy of the Sudan Peoples Liberation
Army/Movement. Like most of his colleagues, he became a pupil-
soldier and soldier-pupil; juggling an AK 47 in his left hand with a
pen in his right...
Continue on pages VII, VIII & IX of this book

J. Penn de Ngong - The Black Christ of Africa

Загружено:

Сведения о документе

Авторское право

Доступные форматы

Поделиться этим документом

Поделиться или встроить документ

Параметры публикации

Этот документ был вам полезен?

Это неприемлемый материал?

Авторское право:

Доступные форматы

J. Penn de Ngong - The Black Christ of Africa

Загружено:

Авторское право:

Доступные форматы

The Black Christs of

If you do not want to be forgotten as soon as you are dead,

A handwriting on the wall by one Uganda LRA rebel Colonel O, quoting an

John Penn deNgong 2

Over 333 poems

Over 333 pages

Over 3 years of writing

Over 3 months of printing

John Penn de Ngong 3

Chapter Y: The Opening Prayer Chapter 2: LettersofConciliationandConsolation

John Penn deNgong 4

Chapter 4: The Poly-tricks of Politics 76- On Compulsory Ramadan

John Penn de Ngong 5

John Penn deNgong 6

Chapter 13:From Workaholics Chapter 16: My Selfistory

John Penn de Ngong 7

John Penn deNgong 8

John Penn de Ngong 9

The Dotcom and Copyright Message in a Poem Form

Online, I was summoned by the president of Cyberia,

I am not just a cyber gangster,

Let me blink and you will see a book,

All rights reserved.

John Penn deNgong 10

Pennique: Unique in John Penn (this author)'s way and thoughts.

Pennicism: (Ngongism) Penn's style of literature or of literary criticism.

Paupular: a popular pauper, in other words, a talented sod.

Poemagician: a magical poet (a poet's own word)

Selfography: study about (my)self, a poet's other term for autobiography.

Selfistory: the life history about (my)self.

John Penn de Ngong 11

Bibliophobia: poor reading culture or strong dislike for books.

Bibliophilia: an abnormal love for books.

Souldiers: Any spiritually oriented fighters.

Inno-sent: innocent but sent to victimize or be victimized.

John Penn deNgong 12

tyred at the African Calvary.

Cash-ualties: A corrupted spelling of casualties, implying those victims of cash corruption.

Go-bin-men: A corrupted spelling and pronunciation of government by the vampire, meaning Go

Ministry/Monster of Hells: a satire of Ministry/Minister of Health according to the vampire's

Giantallmen: monster gentlemen (vampire)

Wailcome: wail + welcome, meaning come while wailing (vampire).

Poly-tricks or Politricks: variety of political tricks

Metropollutant: polluted metropolitan city

John Penn de Ngong 13

Table of Contexts cont.....

Brother-in-love: A satirical response given to a brother-in-law who proposes gay love.

Ill-literacy: This, in other words, is ignorance, or evil application of education.

Satanistan: A land where a Satan or Terrorist is born.

Terroristan: A country run by terrorists

Photocouple: A couple that looks like photocopied from each other.

John Penn deNgong 14

John Penn de Ngong 15

It hung in the cathedral

It was considered blasphemous and subversive

But when the South African authorities realised

He was stunned when he heard

The Black Christ disappeared for 30 years

The Return of South Africas Black Christ

John Penn deNgong 16

Woe to the land of whirring wings,

Go, swift messengers,

To a people tall and smooth-skinned,

They will all be left to the mountain birds of prey,