Mu-Seven-i & the Parody of African Presidents’ Names

YUWERI
Ladies and gentlemen, first I am unhappy with Ugandan Museveni. But I am not surprised. My message to him (if he ever reads this blog in his entire life presidency – nil probability): John Fitzgerald Kennedy, 35th president of the US said and I quote “Those who make peaceful revolution impossible, make violent revolution inevitable”.

Back to why I am writing this short piece: Isn’t seven a symbol of perfection if Hebrew numerology is anything to go by? Why then have a president call himself Mu-seven-i when he literally and shamelessly ruins his nation? He stole elections, bullied his competitor and kept him under house arrest during the just concluded ‘erections’ – yes, erections. Museveni just erected himself once again in State House. Long Live the King even if he wears his ugly cowboy wherever he goes, including the bathroom!

Why on earth would you have a president so sober, who champions freedom of speech go by the name Pombe Magufuli while elsewhere others have a president who gags the media and derails free speech go by the name Uhuru? Why?

That said, I wonder why Paul has a game at the end of his name. Perhaps that’s why he is life president of the Rwandan people because that is the game plan of Ka-game! We can only hope he will soon set off to Damascus (he should know Syria is burning and Bashar Al-Assad isn’t happy; Al-Assad is sad!). The great Syrian poet, Nizar Qabbani, now in his grave, has told me in my dreams on three occasions to write a poem about Syria; I can’t. My pen won’t stop crying. Maybe, I will talk to Tony Adams Mochama (Smitta) my senior poet to write about Syria, not forgetting Burundi.

Why would a people have a president who brings bad luck throughout his reign yet he goes by the name Goodluck? What went wrong? Was it the naming? Or the person to whom the name was given? And when you thought Buhari would hurry to protect thieves like these ones we have here do, he actually did hurry to arrest them!

Kenya’s first president did well to revise his name to sound like Kenya but we all know that he later ended up ‘revising’ a good chunk of Kenyan land title deeds in his name. May God rest his soul in his huge swathes of land. Following in his footsteps, arap Moi, just like the biblical Daniel, survived the lions (of original Ford and Ford Kenya) as he wielded power for quarter a century. By the time he was done, almost every entity – from a dog to a university and airport, was named Moi. And now, when a road in Mombasa is named after the first Kenyan to discover Eritrea it becomes an issue. Okay.

I am currently zooming Zuma’s Nkandlagate scandal as I admire the palatial home that gulped South Africa taxpayers’ money because I wish not to remember Salva’s salvo against Machar in South Sudan. Sad!

The old soul of Zimbabwe; the light at the end of the tunnel, life president, freedom fighter, selfless ruler, seven (7) academic degrees man – His Excellency Robert Mugabe does sound like Mu-garbage! You thought I was planning to say much? No!

That name Kabila owned by Joseph, for all I care, sounds as tribal as Laurent. Now, let me listen to Lingala because it is just a matter of time before these looters and life presidents face the music! Remember, the murmuring Gaddaffi. Remember too the iron-fist Mu-barak who counted his blessings thinking he was the son of a Kenyan father, sitting in White House. And yes, talking of America, one soldier in the Barrack is still worth a thousand in the Bush(es) of Iraq. I know Donald Trash, sorry, Trump, thinks differently. I do not care.

God Bless Africa, land of dictators, land of corrupt rulers, land of life presidents.

O mshanti shanti shanti.

Peace!

London Times

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I gather your lost poem, untethering this love song
from the cold of London streets
Black River Nile meets White River Thames
I arrived atop the Blackhorse
through tubes running like massive roots of the Baobab
I saw the Seven Sisters, Black Friars and Waterloo
but I saw you too, dancing to the coming winter in blue
whistled by the mythical Thames and the logical Nile…
the poet didn’t go insane, he was counting London night stars
a billion lights that couldn’t match your beautiful eyes:
the bulbs of my heart, connected to electrons of your blood
shone more than ever…
I am in tears my song, London is raining…
London is draining my memory,
London is straining…
inside of me.
I lost your poem with Heathrow’s throw into London basement
Central London is still lost in my world.
I am darker than the coming of the rain
but this poem is handwritten by stars in bright skies
of the Kingdom…
The old stone is new to my own eyes:
Westminster Abbey and Houses of Parliament –
the politics of poetry rumble in the din of the Piccadilly line,
at Charing Cross, Trafalgar Square grabbed my height
when the poppy blossomed in the fireworks above the Cenotaph
and the Queen, o my, the Queen strode the streets!