My Going

By Pius Nyondo 

I shall pick up a rope, of course

No treasures. Just a bunch of frustrations.

I shall not head south, this time

My crime shall not need judges,

Magistrates and lawyers.

It will be a matter of the heart, of course

A bunch of frustrations, of course

A crime of conscience, of course

A point of no return, of course

A moment for a do or die pronouncement.

I shall wait, for twilight

While seated in the heart of Chikangawa Forest

Beneath a pine tree

To make use of the rope

The K500 rope

That will define my fate

My car – the latest version of BMW models –packed

By the roadside on the M1 road shall smile and,

Thank me a bunch, of course.

For my going

Will make her rest, bring about a new beginning.

I shall feel pain, of course

May be

For sure

I shall cry, of course, but to no avail

For I will be miles and miles and miles away from the rest

Alone in Chikangawa Forest.

Friends will come, of course

To sympathize with my two week old Nancy

Poor widow!

18 year olds don’t make poor widows!

Much more when they get betrothed to

Men they never dreamed of tying a knot with.

But that will be the end

No talk about my rubbish

My accolades in sexcapading

My knighthood in beerscapading

My HIV, awarded to me as a hit-and-run goer

At Sinners Live Long Bottle store.

May be the mighty one up there

Will whisper into the preacher’s ears

To say to the crowd:

This man lying here

Was not as good as we thought, of course

He married this under aged girl

Against her will

Beat her up like a bull.

This man was not very good, of course

He was achidyamakanda

Sleeping with school going girls

Infecting them with HIV.

The preacher will be booed at, of course

For speaking ill of the dead

For talking ill of a man who

Lived a good life

Offering tithe on daily basis to the Church

Good sums.

But Nancy will smile, of course

And my soul will rest in peace

For that will be the truth

Nothing but the truth.

Just wishful thinking, anyway

For no one will be courageous enough

To say ill of the dead me

And it shall not be true at all

It will only be a dream.

Such shall be my fate

As dreamt on my reed made mat.