NOTE: While serving as a Christian missionary in East Africa, this unpublished poetry collection 'Let My People Go' was written as a reflection of the daily struggle around me. - Peter Kayode Adegbie


Marriage is a Miracle Here

Anna Kasumu is Kampala’s belle,
at last she is going to be a bride, lithe
like a gazelle, fresh like the stream
at first light, she laughs like a tinkle
of bells on a field of chrysanthemums
and her words dribble like early rain
when she announces her wedding to me.
I see joy dance in her eyes and love
stir her heart like new wine  as we dance
around my office, priestly restraint cast
aside in the euphoria because, marriage
is a miracle here and Patrick Alonza
is a good catch. But she returns rigid
as a scarecrow, loose shoulder straps
and large insomnia bags, she sobs
torrents that run off my table, she’d failed.
No, Patrick didn’t know, she’d gone alone.
No, she’d never told him either of the night
at the Ambassador’s party when floating
on wine she spread her flowers under
the shower of the ambassadors guest.
One indiscretion and one major waste,
a scarred life and a marriage lost.
Marriage is such a miracle here.


Albert Matekiriza’s Choice

“I want to marry her.” He says,
His jaw juts out steady
his face like a sculptor’s work
set in stone, his eyes burn.
Albert’s love for Ruth Katelezi
is rich like the sea, it is straight
as a knife, it glows like a cluster
of stars on a dark night, it doesn’t
ebb even when she texts positive.
“Yes, I’ll marry her.”
“But she is dying”
“We’ll die together”
Her eyes draining and wet
shine in wonder at him,
at his thin smile
and clenched chin.


In Memory of Lawyer N, 1999

He clings on to life, hanging
his bones out daily till dusk;
a flood of thoughts drain him,
as he watches the sun’s lazy walk
through morning clouds, then
the long strides on craggy lawns
and the race across empty lots,
and sleepy houses on forlorn streets.

The city is tired, her regret
pungent as she yawns waiting
for caskets as men and women in
shades of silence clutch in vain at hope.

He scratches his leopard like spots,
his fingers rake a barren skin.
He peeps at the day’s end, remembers
his unsheathed dance, ever fresh
in his memory; now he can only
watch the sun scribble him a parting
autograph vanishing in his sky
behind where no one can advocate.


(C) Peter Kayode Adegbie