Bambi Nyanzi

Stella Nyanzi is still held. Much as i don’t condone her utterances, i abhor her incarceration.
She has rights, and her rights should be respected.
In a country like Uganda where everything has been gazetted for a select few, rights should be all that we have left but, do we?


Well, what to do!

Plug in ear phones and… Renegades ~ X Ambassadors


Run away-ay with me
Lost souls in revelry
Running wild and running free
Two of us, you and me
All it takes to make one last stand.

And I say
Hey, hey hey hey
See us living like we’re renegades

Long live the pioneers
Rebels and mutineers
Go forth and have no fear
Come close and lend an ear
#FreeNyanzi #FreeUsAll

All hail the underdogs
All hail the peasants
All hail the outlaws
The proletariat and the ‘less than thats’.

It’s our time to make a move
It’s our time to make amends
It’s our time to break the rules
Let’s begin…

And I say
Hey, hey hey hey
To hell with living like we’re renegades.


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Birthdate Blues.

 

Random Post. Typed on my way from the Field. In a cab with fake music and super cold AC.


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November can’t wait for you. The month that resets my life. 1st of November, when reconciliations of my achievements and deliberations about my life is carried out. To one who doesn’t make resolutions, the measure is the feeling. Am I feeling good about where I am? Where I’m going? The pasr isn’t something I dwell on, so where I tread is a ground with no thorns.

1st November, All Saints Day. The date of my birth, now the date of my birth anniversary. I always feel like a saint, because of what my life has been. Not much but miracle after miracle. Blessed, that’s what I am.

1st November the day I get treats from people I like and those that I don’t.

2nd November the day I get to feel bad for treating people half the way they treated me. Life is such that you can’t appease everyone you have in your life on some occasions. There will always be priorities, choices and opportunity costs and the like.

Valentines day taught me more about ‘Occasion Disappointments’. Being Single showed me the trials of being affectionate or close to affectionate to more than one person. You have a Sandra expecting you to call and do the wishes, send flowers and dinner or something and you have a Martha who you kissed last week and feelings are still high in the air.

There’s a Doreen who works with you and always feels you are the one, and you sometimes tell her she is the close one. There’s a Linda who is 500kms away to whom you shouldn’t forget to send wishes.

It so happens that there’s a Manchester United vs Arsenal game, an El classico derby later that night and you are the kind of man.

You regret the next day, Whatsapp messages saying; ‘You forgot about me’, ‘You chucked me’, ‘Kale, you guy, fuck you’.

It is life, It’s what it is.

This November, this first November will be special. I can feel it, I’m in love and happen to share a birth month with the lover. and I know she’ll do bad things to me. She’ll feed nice things to me. She’ll take me places and back.

This November, I’ll be who I always want to be. Because my life will be reset, all fresh and new. This November I’ll be older, wiser and happier. Happier because it’ll be just a month or two to the next year. Happy because November is the last normal month of 2016.

2016 which has been a year of mixed fortunes. I had my first close death in 2016, I had my first taste of unemployment in 2016. But also I got this job in a place I like the most and most importantly met this girl, this complete girl, one who anyone would want to live with happily ever after.

Either way 2016 has to end before anything bad stains it the more. Even the economy is fast falling. I hope, only hope that I have enough for November. Cake will be eaten; Javas food munched and life lived.

Youuuu, November; come around already.

 

More like a Comeback Post

It’s been a month 12 days since pen last kissed paper, since I wrote a meaningful post. See writing is like sex, when it’s good both the smasher and the smashee feel it. Both the writer and the reader will feel it, deep inside. Like the clay outside on a rainy day, the petrichor maybe the same but the taste, the feel on the tongue is quite antithetic.

See you’ll write, taste it and it tastes unearthly and you spit; drop the pen and go dance your frustrations away, or you save. And there you have yet another draft that will most probably never see light. Soon as mood changes, the draft all of a sudden looks like stale yogurt. You wonder, “What was I thinking? Damn.”

Forty three days. Sounds like a good number to call any lull a Writers Block. Forty three days. Only that I was writing but not publishing. Call that a Publishers Block. It’s not easy, it doesn’t feel good. It might leave you sad or to some people depressed. Well that’s hyperbolising  but it leaves you wondering Can I Really Write?

To the Sixty Nine bloggers who followed me in those Forty Three days, I don’t know how to thank you. Oh wait, I know how to. I’ll write some more and write sweet. To you the Two Hundred and Thirty Seven who viewed my musings, may you live to see whatever you’ve always wished to see. Even if it’s Bathsheba taking a bath. To the One Hundred One that actually visited this blog, may you be visited by your wishes riding on fancy horses. Thank you so much.

You know Ugandan bloggers haven’t been writing because the mood has been low ever since the rigged elections. You might not see it, but such affect the mood of the country. If you’re Ugandan, you very well know of the increased accidents, the increased suicide attempts, Supermarkets closing, Businessmen needing bail outs, and Writers not writing. It’s simple sociology. I believe Zimbabweans  can relate, that’s if they haven’t assimilated to the circumstances. Well Zambians can relate atleast, ever since they were Lungufied. And Malawians who were Mutharikafied before them.

Times haven’t been good. But to tell you one thing, the sun still rises, even with the pain.
The sun still rises, even through the rain. That’s the way it is.

Let People Be

One thing has been on my mind all day: France
Which hauled another to my mind: Saudi Arabia

Imagine, you pay tax, buy your own clothes, are a loyal citizen and a patriot at that.
Imagine, you pay respect to the laws of the land, all laws but one.
One law that leaves you feeling like property, like used property, like trash.
One law that leaves you wondering if you aren’t or why you aren’t treated like others.
Let’s say one Saturday afternoon after a busy week before, and a busy Friday night, you hit the beach.
Let’s say you are having the time of your life, caressing the waves, taking in the breeze and so is everyone else.
Then you feel someone tap your shoulder, you turn around and it’s two men, two uniformed men. You wonder if you know them.
Then you it hits you, they are supposed to protect you but they aren’t. They are about to undress you.
Undress you of your own clothes, bought with your own money. At a beach, entrance paid by you with your own money.
Undress you isn’t where they stop. You’re fined as well. Of your money.
It hits you. You pay the uniformed men from your tax, to undress you, humiliate you and you tip them for that.
It hits you, you can’t escape from mistreatment. You can’t escape from oppression. Saudi Arabia is following you.

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Once again it’s happening. No one cares about what you want, what you feel. It’s about them not you.
Once again, you are being forced to do what you don’t want to do because of the Law.

In Saudi Arabia you were fined daily for not wearing the perfect Abaya, for showing your ankles.
In Saudi Arabia you were treated as property, you were not alive, you weren’t allowed to live.
You had to move with a male to move at all; a He, was your third leg. It was like that. It just was
You had to keep quiet when visitors were around, for your opinion was as a good as a dog’s.
That car you could drive, you weren’t permitted to own.
That job you could work at, you aren’t allowed.
It turns out you can’t open a bank account, you need a man’s assistance. Much as you want and can.
It turns out you can’t shake a man’s hand after a meeting, if the meeting is permitted in the first place.
A male chaperone becomes her chagrin. With the invisible leash.

Ever wondered why some people become activists, that’s why. Ever wondered why some people become feminists, that’s why.
Ever wondered why some people are angry about such issues! Stop wondering, unfairness angers.
Let people be angry at issues that they are passionate about. Issues that affect them. Just let people be.

[#UGBlogWeek Day 2]: Life is the biggest School.

Imagine if you’d never enrolled into School? Where would you be now? What would you be?
Do you ever look back, and deliberate; hear you think, ‘School made me no better!
No better than you come. Than you are.

Yes, they woke us up at 5am in the morning to prepare for School, yes we peed in our pants and on the beds at Siesta time. We were young.
Alright, homework exhausted us so much. Only the dog would be happy with our homework. For reasons it never told me.
I know we saw neither sunrise, for it’d find us at school; nor sunset, for we’d be fast asleep after a smacking from the Mum or the maid to sleep after school.
I know we never ate breakfast properly for we had to rush to beat traffic jam. I know we never beat the traffic jam either way even. It wasn’t fair.

But I also know School helped us learn quickly, grasp every life hack, make friends, enhance our vocabulary. It helped us learn how to relate, socialise and most importantly how to play.
Up and down, on the See-Saw we played, round and round the Hoopla kissed our hips, we swung back and forth on that swing like Tarzan.
And then the bouncing castles, Lego, ballet and mostly the Tyre. Many a boy enjoyed that Moto GP like one-wheeler with sticks as handles and cow dung as grease, as fuel, as oil. You wouldn’t want to hit a pothole lest you swallow shit.

Imagine you hadn’t gone to School, not like home tutored but never stepped into school, never to be taught a thing. Who would you be? What would you be? I can’t imagine that.

I know School came with Kiboko (canes) as we grew up, with teachers drowning their sorrows on our sorry buttocks. It wasn’t fair, we didn’t deserve that smacking. Did we? I mean they could have talked to us nicely and we’d have hid their call.
That’s the biggest lie we told ourselves and continue to. Spare the rod and spoil the child.
And you know some of us came in all types, Naughty, Mild Naughty, Super Naughty and Possessed Naughty.
For us the latter, they had to exorcise those demons at whatever cost. They occasionally told me not to take it personal, they were not giving me a beating at that; but the devil inside.
And school had the most complicated, rather dedicated human beings; for that, spanking little children.

Amid the canes, the numerous books to read, the growing up, sibling fights and the hate towards the opposite sex.
School wasn’t bad. It was fun, well except when made to sit between two girls as a boy or the other way round; it was fun regardless.
We are a product of nature and nurture and the years before the moment we join Secondary School, determine the School you go to.
Generalisations are never wrong, people with the same traits tend to cocoon together. See even birds of the same feather flock together.

Now kids with the same number of canes consumed in elementary school, find themselves in the same school. You passed or you didn’t. You were caned or you weren’t. There is always a correlation there somewhere. So be happy you were caned straight into Gayaza, Ntare, Smack and all the traditional schools and that childhood friend found herself caressed into Hillside, Taibah, the Kitendes and International Schools out there. Traditional schools always enrolled those with the most cane medals. Again, generalizations.

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School becomes an open book. The book becomes life. And you start learning. And learn you do.
Life begins taking shape and your body too, the school fuses its values, culture into you. And you fuse the rest into you. Curiosity, adventure fueled by a transforming body and developing emotions lead you to a path. Hormones open up multiple paths.
You write your first love letter, you get your first kiss perhaps. Numerous heartbreaks and multiple hard-ons.
You begin making discoveries, you’re like the Pilgrim Fathers at this point. Your dick can spit, your clit can swell, and you get your first goose bumps, the goose bumps that come with hardened nipples and strange sensations, you’ve growing.

You begin metamorphosing and your school is the hammer that shapes your sword.
Depending on what school, you become something, head of this club; president of the other. Interact Club, Rotaract Club, Scouts and Guides and all.
You become something, some pick and choose who to be, what to identify as at this stage. You feel like the Alchemist, you get your nature mix with your nurture shake hard and find out the PH value.
You start liking girls, much as you are a girl too. And more girls in your school love girls too. Your school gets an Identity, as the Girl on Girl School.
Your school isn’t making you any better, and you aren’t making your school any better. Or any worse at that. You are just a product of circumstances.

You are who you are, more like who you want to be and what you have become. But it’s who you are, who you’ve discovered yourself to be. And your school has aided you in a way or the other. The exposure you’ve got isn’t the same as that others have got.
The first principles of Adult life are instilled and cemented in High School, College. You put meaning to who you are. You start learning what you are.
Are you a boy smooth with girls? A girl who loves the company of boys? Are you a loner? Introvert, extrovert? This, that?

Vacation comes in time to deny you some things and to increase your thirst for the very things and more.
Vacation balances the Demand and Supply curve. Vacation points you to one place, adulthood.

University. Nothing much goes on here in terms of learning, it’s the dormant stage in terms of Life as the biggest school that’s ever been.
You’re either too broke to chase what you want, or too busy to chase what you want.
You might party here, have fun there, and get born gain, but little changes about you. You learn nothing. It’s the John Snow stage of life.
You are already in the baby stages of Adulthood and Adults never learn. They live more and learn less.
School is as good as done soon as you graduate. On that day you look back cry for some as you give that speech, cut cake and possibly say; School made me no better, and this, my first degree is the end of School.

Life starts after you wear that gown. Work, Bills, Expectations, Aging and Deaths. Life.

UgBloc

The Handwriting Tag.

Joseyphina, the Joseyphina tagged me to participate in writing using a pen. That’s not an easy task these days as we’ve become CEOs and only use pen for approval signatures. *Wishful thinking.


Well, the rules are simple. You write the following instructions on a piece of paper, take a picture of it and post.

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And the instructions:

– Write your name.
– Write your blog’s url.
– Write: The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.
– What are you writing pen.
– Draw your favorite emoticon.
– Write a silly message.
– Write who you want to tag.


Let’s do this and write ball and stick all over again. Also tag as many bloggers as you can.

Diamante | NataSheebahJosh | Nick | Kikalamu | Kishwitty | Joel |Sunshine | Astar

Boda-Bolder Boda-Badder!

‘Four wheels good, two wheels better’. This isn’t Animal Farm but is life.
The life of a young man from a not so rich family, the life of a stay home mum; the life of a pretty little girl at university, that of a ‘working class’ guy, this is the life of a Boda Boda user.

Still, this isn’t Animal Farm much as we all know that ‘All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others’.
Some get 4 wheels as a 16th Birthday present, some are dropped to their destinations, some have worked their ass off, and have stalled buying a piece of land just to buy their first car. Some ‘married well’, while others demand a car before you dive into their DMs or before your wood-pecker sees off that, that covers the hole of the wood.
Either way, they drive or/and are driven. They may or may not know that special wind-cutting experience on a 2 wheeler.
That jump. Onto that seat, no seat belt, no handles, just you and your ass on the hard seat, legs on the stands.
That experience, as you pass by all those in their cool cars, as you swerve here, turn there.
The flight you get as you avoid yet another close shave with death, yet another knock.
That feeling, that your ride might be the last time you hear yourself breathe.

The Boda Boda, the first of its name, king of the roads, fuel maester, princess of convenience and the devil’s advocate. It graces the streets of Kampala, and any road, alley, boulevard, path or whatever of any city in Africa.
You’ll need it. No, you’ll need to use it. You can’t avoid it. You can’t hide away from it. It’s here, it’s there. It’s everywhere.

Too late for that final examination! It’s there.
Woke up at 8:30 with an interview at 9am! There it is.
Drunk you to stupor, can’t drive? At your service.
Late for a flight! Jump on it.
That midnight call for sex in Mukono! You know what to do.
Cramps at 1am! Period at work! It’s your SOS.
Kids will be picked from school. Yes they will.
Someone to assassinate, shoot. Count on them.
From a Rolex, to Orange Airtime. From directions, to directories.
From dawn to dusk. Whatever the time, whatever the weather.

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Source: cnn.com

 

The Boda Boda will be there for you. It’ll let you down once in a while but will never late you down.
It’s not just the boda that you’ll have faith in; it’s that knight in a shining, rather dirty jacket. But don’t mind the jacket, blame it on the roads, blame it on the dust.

Some have made relationships with these men, others, unbreakable bonds. Some have saved their contacts just in case, others saved them as My boda guy and call on them whenever, wherever. And they are dependable. They never let them down.
I have heard stories of boda guys who have let their clients down. Only that the down in this case is a cosy, sometimes not so cosy places for wrong side business. Funny business. Adult business. Okay, for cat and mouse games. House. Sex. Coitus.
They say those that say; the vibrations from the boda boda engine have a rather lascivious effect on some parts of some ladies some times. Tale for another day.

Not a day goes by without hearing news of yet another boda guy involved in a nasty accident. Not a day goes by without sending off of a boda guy or their victim or client.
It’s become such a customary manifestation that the causality ward of the main referral hospital has been christened the boda ward.
Whoever is in wrong whenever these accident happen, we’ll never know.

One thing we know though is lives are being lost, loved ones are being lost. And it’s not about to stop.
Another thing we know for sure is that there’s too much naivety on the roads. Road signs wherever they are unusually erected, can’t be read properly. ‘Don’t drink and ride’ is just a five worded sentence but carries little or no message to the masses. Boda boda guys ride without reflectors on their jackets. It’s a mess.
It’s hard to understand how a Knight can go to a battle, to a war without his armour. How these Knights in dirty jackets can’t or won’t cover their heads with helmets is beyond comprehension.
Someone once said, “Commuting in Kampala is like a war, so you don’t use indicators. You don’t want to indicate your moves to your enemy on the road.”
You don’t want to lose the battle, you don’t want to die.
If you don’t want to lose, your life, your battle, your war; boda guy or passenger, please buy a helmet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Blogger Recognition Award.

 

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And on this lit stage I stand, it’s yet another award won. I made a short acceptance speech, so neat and on point, but it rained on me on the way and the words were erased. So, I’ll stitch up one or two words and hope not to die in my play.
I thank Komusana, Joseyphina and one more person I couldn’t remember, for nominating me. I have neither read posts nor written anything in a long while, couldn’t get the other kind soul that nominated me. But thank you wherever you are.


The organizers of the Awards say there are simple rules that apply, rules to be bent:
* Write a post to show the award.

* Acknowledge the blogger who nominated you.

* Give a brief story about how you started blogging.

* Give 2 pieces of advice for new bloggers.

* Nominate 15 deserving bloggers.

Now I’m confused, could I have answered the first rules before even getting them? Isn’t that cheating? Kitendesque ways?
I don’t understand the write a post to show the award part, but the award is in gold. Not my weight in gold, but kawa.

How this Amanya thing started?
I don’t really remember exactly when, but I surely remember how. It must have been 2010, freshman year at Makerere University. In some hostel downhill Kikoni, Masaku Hostel to be exact. That’s when I got my first laptop. That meant I didn’t have to share my browser with anyone one else but the curious me.

I loved erotic art, and soon I was on the ‘Internets’ looking for God’s work of art.
That’s how I ended up down the rabbit hole. Erotic poems, stories and all their cousins. I was hooked.
It so happened that these delicious words were on blogger. So I learnt about blogger. If others could write, surely I could too.

I started with eye candy erotic material, but then again I realized i was polluting the webs with my awesomely filthy mind and couldn’t identify with what was spewing out of my fingers. I toned it down to Love.
The only gift I happen to possess in abundance. And write I did.

Midway through it, I landed on two platforms, wix.com and the cool kid wordpress.com. Wix was all design and no style but WordPress was neat, organised and the fact that you could easily connect with others through the Reader feature, it stuck.

On the rainy saturday evening, when amanyael.blogspot.com was laid to rest with a twenty ten gun salute; amanyael.wordpress.com was born.

Advice for the new bloggers:
– Write what you feel, don’t censure yourself. Let it flow. Not even the best writers are near perfection.
– Don’t feel sweet on the others with poor posts, read their words. There is beauty in all things raw.
– Engage others, and always encourage others to write. Everyone who can think can write.
– Mind how you present your posts, appearances are deceptive and will make a fake post great.
– Most importantly, keep writing. There is nothing like a writer’s block. It’s just a cocktail of laziness and the wrong mood.
– If you feel like the block is latching onto you, write about the damn block and see how shy it’ll be while releasing you.

Nominating 15 deserving bloggers:
Rules gotta be bent, I nominate the deserving and new to my Reader bloggers.
1. Ug Bloc:
2. NataSheebah:
3. Papberry:
4. Odunayoibitoye:
5: NancyOngom:
6: LizzyElizabeth:
7: SamiraIsimbi:
8: CynthiaKyofuna:
9: Epitome:
10: Nessa:

I can’t really get them all. But it’s fulfilling, realizing that every post that pops up on my reader has a thing or two about it. Keep writing people, we’ll keep reading.

As I step off this stage. I better remember where I placed my helmet on the way in. People if you jump on those two wheeler, get yourself a helmet.

Dumbballs.

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Has a man approached you, opened his mouth and you’re like WTF? Well it can’t get any more dramatic than;

I recognise you.
Do you pray from Watoto North West?
Have you been to Cafe Javas Kampala Boulevhahad?
Did you audition for Big Brother Africa?
Could it be have been the last Blankets and Wine?
Did you intern with the Parliament?

I have seen you somewhere.
It can’t be Legends, is it?
Do you pray from All Saints on Sundays?
Are you the NTV lady?
The Ascot races, weren’t you in the adjacent tent?
I knew it, the MTN Marathon it is.

I recognise you.
I sat behind you in this High School class.
We are in the same Whatsapp group.
I play ball with your brothers.
We were on the same plane to Qatar.
The WestCoast Gym, I work out from there too.

I’ve met you somewhere.
Oh yes, it’s Iguana.
Is it you I met via Ekisaakate in Bristol?
Wow, I was at your christening, you’ve grown!
Monot Bar, must have been there.

I think I know you.
I don’t know from where.
I just have that feeling.
Nice to bump into you again.
I’m Amanya. You?

Being a man is treading the path to dumbville. Approaching a girl or starting up a conversation is your ticket.
Sometimes you need a pick up line, not a stanza, just a line. Sometimes you need God’s grace.
Some people are always genuine. Other people are sometimes genuine, other times not.
It’s dumb whichever way you look at it. Only that passion numbs dumb.

Well. Fare thee well, Well.

I’ve been quiet all this time. But not anymore. Infact, I’m done.
Silence is never empty, it’s full of answers.
Just like I’m always full, full of life.

Your ancestors have been to me, I’ve fed them, I’ve quenched their thirst, I’ve filled their pots.
I’ve been a confidant to their secrets.
A testimony to their beingness.
I haven’t expected a modicum of discernment from them. Not for a moment.
I haven’t asked for anything from them.
I haven’t complained, not for a single time.

Your Children have played around me.
Every morning from bed. As they wash out shnooters from their eyes.
Every evening after school. I love it when they discuss their homework as they graze goats. Reminds me of when I was young.
One or two has pulled out his elongation  and peed on me while his friends aren’t looking. I’ve felt offended.

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I’ve tamed my anger and haven’t  swallowed, eaten one up.
Lord knows I’ve tried. And it’s been.
Their balls have hit me in the face.
It’s hurt but I always dust my face and return their balls.
Their goats have drank from me, with their unblushed teeth and nose dripping of mucus. Their cows too. It’s too much.

I’ve seen many a woman’s creation. But I haven’t told a soul. Those that don’t cover their slit, I’ve gazed. And they and I share a resemblance until they cut those bushes. I like looking but I’ve overgrown that.
I only listen and can’t look beyond my lips, and if I did, it’d be the blue sky of day and the stars at night over and over again.
The bushes around have told me alot.
They say they have seen men unbuckle their belts, lower their trousers and shamelessly leave a heap of nasty things.
They’ve seen women’s navels as soap and water caress their body. And sponge scrub their frame.
They’ve held their clothes as they purify.
They’ve heard Ssengas spit chants and pull flesh.
They’ve seen alot, and they’ve intimated to me. I know. Everything. And say nothing.

I won’t say I’ve seen your neighbor get naked and do bad business with your daughter on the grass that covers my belly.
I won’t say I’ve been soaked by the blood and more that spilled on that grass.
I won’t tell you how she cried, laughed and cursed all in unison. I won’t.
I won’t tell you nothing, it’s our secret; the vultures, the sky and I.
Even God doesn’t know. He must have been reading a book, he didn’t look, he didn’t see. I didn’t tell.

Vultures have circled above me. I’ve only been left with empty dreams of flying, soaring high in the skies.
If I could fly, I’d never have to feel the excruciating pain in my eyes.
These birds throw their flying toilets straight in my eyes and there isn’t a single thing I can do. I can’t even visit an optician. It hurts.

It hurts I don’t sleep. I can’t sleep.
I’d love to. Like you do, but can’t. Mosquitoes buzz in my ear all night. Crickets compete for my audience and owls for my attention.
I’m always awake, counting stars, listening to the frogs snore.

I’m tired. Let me return to middle earth to my father’s father’s dwelling. Deep down.
I’ve been here a thousand years, I’ve seen alot. I’ve heard alot. I’m tired.
I’ve said too much today, I’m tired.
Hope all will be well when I’m gone.
I’m tired. Let me dry up as the good old well I’ve been.

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