Woke up home sick

I miss Kabale’s misty sunshine I miss the cold morning breeze.

The language with a natural vernacular alliteration mixed with some rare assonance. “Ndakutera, ndakukunda, orendaki, tindenda.” That heavy ‘Nda’ syllable moves me.

Naturally beautiful girls with full lips, big shapely legs and firm derrière. 

 I miss the hills and their nicely aligned patterns. The hard working women that till that ground from dawn to dusk.

I miss Enturire, the bitter sweet porridge that leaves you strong like a bull. Fries at 1000 a plate, where else in this world do you find that. 

For 400shs, you get to be ferried for a distance of 3 kilometres. I wouldn’t need a car then.

 I miss the stout men with their strong ‘long seat’ bikes Hill or Valley you don’t disembark till you reach.

 From 9am to midnight, seated at the bar celebrating their nothingness; the village men, well those I miss not.   Returning home smelling like a Cesspool , expecting coital duties from the ever humble wives. I don’t miss at all. 

 The sectarianism, I don’t like at all and certainly don’t miss.

 I miss Mzee Karecera’s sumbis big as they come with a savoury taste. Odongo’s red shirt, who wouldn’t miss that. Those two men have managed to put on a red shirt day in day out.

I miss a lot, after more than 6 years of not stepping there. I don’t know what I wouldn’t miss.

*on the next bus to Kabale

By Amanya

all need to know

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