The Village Boy

With muscles and height I adored,

His teeth I adored,

White as snow I dare say,

His heart as pure as a baby’s

A warrior amongst the warriors,

For his people he knew to defend

Strange how he gazed

Like the future he knew for sure,

He, my dear friend was the village boy


Hatred and Anger he knew not,

A smile he always had,

For today he could say

Was the only surety he had

My dear friend I tell you,

His voice was music to my heart,

Many adored his steps

For he moved with grace,

And he knew no race


With sadness he laid to rest

The fallen heroes he called them,

Love he preached for friends and foes,

I tell you, he walked in humility,

Strangely he walked in sovereignty,

How I wish I would be near him,

His hand in mine he would lay

The village boy my friend,

Was sweeping the village

And cleaning the households,

Of its dust and filth


Do you understand my friend?

That which I try to say,

Of whom I speak

Yes the village boy

He who brought love peace and joy,

But he who the village showed pain

Oh! How I wonder so

For I looked at his eyes

When they matched him off the streets,

To the village square,

Oh! How I wonder so


When I looked at his bruised back,

When he was lashed,

Before the women and children,

Stop I wanted to say,

But fear,

Oh my dear friend,


I tell you my friend,

For this was the village boy,

The one I adored

The one I cared for,

Do you understand my friend,

Of whom I speak of

Yes my friend,

He was the village boy


 By: Beatrice A. Ouma


















The Dance

Often waits for the dark,

For the spark,

Many times at dawn,

When the desire is born,

Begins with the beat,

Beat by beat but not in street,

Louder it gets,

Slowly it wets,

Together they dance,

Pleasure in chance,


And steeper,

Up and down,

For the white and brown,


With no measure,

Then it is done,

In minutes gone,




Sweet Adora (2016)

My heart beats for you,

Sweet Adore,

Every beat,

Spells thy name,

Sweet sweet Adora,

But will you ever know?

As every time I try to say,

I get tongue tied,

My heart beats louder,

My pores open up,

And I can’t just say it,

For fear of the unknown,


I see you in my dreams,

Amongst the cream,

Holding my hand

And confessing your love,

But will you ever see it

In my gentle eyes

As I look at you with admiration,

Will you ever see it in my eyes?

As they give me away,

 I can’t say it,

For the fear of the unknown


I laugh at the thought of you,

Sweet Adore,

Keep your memories close,

Sweet sweet Adora,

But will you ever feel it,

The touch of my love,

When am close to you,

Will you ever feel,

The air of love around us,

Sweet Adora,

For I may not bring myself to tell you,

For fear of the unknown


I yearn for you,

Sweet Adora,

From my Crucked Rib

In deep thoughts today,

I hear we were molded from clay,

But was she made from my crucked rib?

And put in my crib?


She’s not a straight script,

If you catch my drift

With the asides,

And the decides


She’s as strong as a stallion,

But she’s also a chameleon,

Today she’s cold, tomorrow warm,

And at times she breeds the storm


She’s not red or white but pink,

She glows at the sight of my ink,

Her “yes” used to be a “No,”

But there is even more!


She’s a natural artist,

The makeup would say the least,

And with the hill’s heels

She lives as she feels



Crucked I say,

Yet without her I can’t stay,

She’s the oil,

And together we toil,


But again I ask and wonder,

This question I ponder,

Was the woman made from a crucked rib?

And put in my crib?


I AM TOLD (2019)

I am told,

That black is no longer beauty,

That in those days of Instagram and snap chat,

A lighter shed carried the day,

And the answer is cosmetics,

Those that will make her lighter,

Enough to get the likes and the approval of men,

And it doesn’t matter

if at the end she will look like a burn victim

Or a stripped zebra,

Just as long as she is beautiful


I am told,

In words so bold,

That the ones with the big behinds are the beautiful ones,

In those days of socialites

When a woman’s body was good business

And the answers to cosmetics,

Injections to sometimes pump them up,

It doesn’t matter 

Those things may not be propositional,

Or that sometimes there are health risks

As long as they are beautiful


I am told,

That is all about Red lips,

Make up even before they wake up,

In those days of selfies

For them to colour their eye lids purple,

And lashes green,

As long as they conform to the standards of the day

And it doesn’t matter

Whether at the end she looks more like a scare craw,

As long as she is beautiful


I am told

That it’s about big boobs,

In those days of Facebook,

When a woman’s beauty was about her chest

And so she will go for surgery

So as to please the men

To hell with the risks and side effects

And it never matters that she is playing the hand of God

As long as she is beautiful

Speechless 2019

I am speechless

With words chocking me down my throat,

But speechless,

A mixture of bitterness and pity,

And none wants to give way,

These girls who have fought so much,

To get space in a patriarchal society,

Are  yet again objectified

They dress and look like dolls just to please men,

And they are convinced that they are queens,

Or is it slay…queens


I am speechless

And I will speak with tears in my eyes,

For the mother who takes her daughter to  school,

So that she can be empowered

Only to be swept away by the power of material things,

For the father who looks at his daughter as his pride,

Only to get aside and a sponsor’s ride,

And get so convinced that fake nails and painted lips,

Have made her royalty,

Or should I say…. Slay queen


I am speechless

And I can only watch as tables turn,

And sponsor seem to be the way to go for young girls,

Aren’t they the sugar daddy’s of yesterday?

Now made fancy and I guess acceptable,

But where are the women leaders?

Where are the women mentors who claim to be feminists?

To tell them that big behinds and light faces is not royalty

Oh yes I remain speechless


But my thoughts are wild,

And I can’t get why respectable men

Some even leaders should behave like dogs,

I mean literal dogs,

I want it so I will have it mentality,

I am a man and can’t keep it in my pants fatality,

Perhaps it’s about money and power,

But I don’t think they see these girls as royalty

Or should I say… slay queens

Still Slaves {2019}

We would like to call ourselves free men and women,

Tell our children of the great songs of freedom,

Resonate with the sounds and drums of liberation,

But the truth is we are still slaves in our land,

Gone are our colonizers and the white supremacists,

But we replaced them with black slave owners,

To take and break as they want and feel like,

Years down the lines we are still slaves,


We call ourselves independent and sing to our national tune,

Yet we are still slaves,

Of a Government systems that demands and never gives,

An education system that is meant to drain the youth,

Politicians with rhetoric’s and very little to give as solutions,

We are still slaves of fruitless periodic elections,

Yes we are still slaves to disease and mediocre healthcare systems,

Years down the line we are still slaves,


We fought for human dignity and pride,

And said the white man divided us so as to rule us,

Yet we are still slaves to the very tribalism we fought,

We elect thieves and murders in Government just to satisfy tribal supremacy,

We easily go to war and shed blood for political egos,

We are slaves to corruption and impunity and they dare play propaganda,

Corrupt and inadequate police and security systems,

As we have let the politician play the supremacy card,

Years down the line we are still slaves,


Years on we are still fighting disease and ignorance,

Still building roads and hospitals on paper,

We are still slaves to poverty and inhuman treatment,

We like to talk bad about them,

But we are still slaves to the white people and Asians,

We are still happy to marginalize women, youth persons with disabilities,

We are still slaves like the kitchen Negro settle for crams,

And the field Negro toiling in the sun

Years down the line… we are still slaves