The Momma Clan

Hellish fires spread

Quarreling stomachs asunder

Under another spooky day’s labour

Working for our supposed breadwinner;

At home is he seated, comfortably

Smoking from his rotten pipe;

At ease his soul certainly is.

I’m no child by genes of my siblings 

I’m a child from past sweat of another 

Deadman – hardly blameable

Living-man – malingering at home

Made I a slave in stonemines

Degrading stone to sand

Because father, at home, seated

Must eat chicken soup tonight.

My palms are paths of lava

My face is a trench of dried tears,

Dried by the scorching hate-some sun

Onto which painful tears forever sleep.

Fateful ills chose me of many

To be marked forever by injustice 

At only ten.

– Johnson Kitengejja