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Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe'st was born born, presumably, on 25th February, 1990; in Obem North village, Labongo Layamo Sub-county, Kitgum District, Uganda, East Africa — His parents are Duculina Lamunu and Gastony Odoki Nyamong, the 4th of the six children born. He is a teacher of English and Literature, besides being a literary writer. He's a number of published works both online and in anthologies. SERVE THE POETServe the poet more papers, the first ones are done; then listen how to serve him: take the poet in a big, a very big hotel, where blood is served, (In the chapel of soldiers) — then serve him not any cup of coffee, tepid, cold or hot, half-burnt, or black burnt. Serve him the cracking clips of the blood bathed quill, and just a pot of paint, to dress the wounds. Only un-nursed wounds smell worse than weeds. Greater miracles are performed by the barrel of the pen than the guns have ever done. Serve the poet more papers, with dog-eared pages, over-stained with perfect dirt: life is not well-shaped; it has wounded lips, like the lips of abnormal godchild. Take the poet, in a big, a very big hotel, where diabetics are served sucrose in the salt, or salt in the sugar… serve the poet chloroquine, to mend our broken shoes (eaten by teeth of nails on our beds), for the healing power of chloroquine lies in its bitterness; once the bitterness is over, the sickness is healed. Serve the poet more papers, for your silent lamentations outnumber the seashore sands. Only grieved words can describe; words are sharper than swords. Tears shed on papers are easier heard than the thudding feet of ten thousands swordsmen marching for genocide, in the still of the night. Serve him not the people's meat, but the barrel of the pen; sit back limbo, quiet on your bed of pain as he surges the panting pus: don't bite the hand that treats you. Once the pus is pierced, the pain is over; and what is more -- the sick world is healed. RUPING AND ANYADWEE Ruping: O beloved, I am your beloved man; Ruping is your beloved lover, Son of Luo, the son of Kakanyero. I sing this love song for you, The daughter of the lily, The lily of the wet valley, Anyadwee, of Gulu Town. The river between us Roadblocks us from loving each other. O, my most beautiful rose, The rose of the green valley, A white man surpasses you with color O. Oh no! You are a white woman, Ay! white rose in black skin. I came to this sugarcane garden to work, And then pay your dowry; I came this sugarcane garden to work And then marry you, Little though they pay me, The mangiest salary, Our Akumu marriage must enter, But one barrier stops me from loving you: Your lovely sister wants me to marry you, But your brothers hate our sweet love. They want to break us apart. Your lovely mom wants me to marry you, But your father wants to cut off my neck Because I am deeply in love with you; Be says I am not good enough to marry you, He says he doesn't speak my language, He says you don't know my language, He says my tribe eats people, He says my culture is barbaric, Barbaric! Barbaric! Barbaric culture! He says I don't have Matooke plantation, O he says I don't have a herd of cattle, O he says I don't have AK47 for his rearing cattle, O he says I don't look presentable, O he says I am a black charcoal: Ruping is as black as a well burnt charcoal! O my beautiful woman, O my beautiful Anyadwee, Must I miss a woman because of these objections he counts? O no, my beloved O! My love for you is so natural, My love for you is so emotional, My love for you is so international, My love for you is like God, Everywhere, everywhere, my love! Even if I don't have money, Stay with me till I die. True love never dies, But the love for worldly things dies And dies forever and ever more; It fades away like a beautiful shadow! Your name is a vase of roses, Smelling sweet perfume From the Kenya Highlands, Where the white settlers drove The black laborers with whips. Your eyes are a pair of stars; Your beautiful legs are twin golds, Glittering like the beauty of the Pearl. But my only worry is you might leave me O!, Under the pressure of your people, Who say I don't belong to your tribe, Who say I don't know your language. But my love doesn't know any people. My love doesn't know any race, Be it black or white, yellow or green O, My love doesn't mind any race O. It is blind to those xenophobic ones, Be it a European, an Indian or an African, True love never ever discriminates O! Be it an Australian, Japanese or Chinese, American or an Aaaaaaaaaaaa! My love never ever underrates, My love is not the Apartheid Policy. I am a proud African. You're my beautiful black beauty; Your skin is the skin of Shea-nut oil, Glistening like a dust of goldfish. Anyadwee: Ruping, my beloved man, Look into my starry eyes, I have something to tell you: You are the joy of my life; If they refuse our love, I will fall dead before them. I love you not for money. I love you not for your tribe. I love you not for your language. I love you for you are my joy. Money cannot buy love; I will love you till I die. My love for you will always be, I love you not for your color. I love you not for your race. I love you not for your culture. After all, I am an African girl, I know how to cook malakwang, With nice tasting rotten cowhides, Pasted with thick sim sim paste; I know how to dress like an Acholi woman, With hems dragging on the ground. I know how to kneel before your papa; I know how to kneel before your mama, With both knees stuck on the ground. I will learn Acholi language; I will eat what you eat. Don't leave me, my love, Just because I don't belong to your tribe, For true love springs the heart, From the depth of the heart, Not from the depth of the tribe, Nor races, nor languages of the world. Ruping: O my sweet daughter of my mother, My reverend mother-in-law, Anyadwee, I love you From the depth of my heart. New moons come and die on my head, While I blow thee my best flute, And sing for you the loveliest song. Many, many beautiful ones are dying for me, But unluckily I have no more vacancy In my heart, except the one for you, Anyadwee the Beautiful One. Who else is like you? You have filled the missing chasm My former wives left in my heart; They could not understand me, But now I have got you, O baby, The daughter of Gulu Town. They say the beautiful ones Are not yet born, But since beauty lies in the eyes Of the beholder, I behold that the most beautiful one Is now born, and that is you, Anyadwee. I came to this sugarcane garden To work and then marry you. My ancestral cattle have gone to Kotido; Our cattle have gone to Kotido, Cattle raiders came from the Far East, And kidnapped our cattle. Now I feel the blowing dry winds In the Acholiland. If the cattle were there, I would marry you with the whole kraal; If granaries still stood on our compound, I would marry you with the whole barns. Daughter of the moon, Ruping would have married you. I came to this cement mine, To work and then marry you. My mother wants to see you; She wants me now to marry you. I left Natasha the City Girl, And followed you, Anyadwee. You are not a lady of makeups, Lipsticks on the lips, Eyeliner on the eyelashes, Lucifer's claws on the fingers, Miniskirt above the thighs; You are a simple village girl. You are not like Natasha the City Girl, With a python skin; You are a simple village girl, Well-mannered, sweet tongued, The host of innumerable ceaseless guests. O daughter of the lily, The valley of the red roses, Love me the way I am, The poor orphan child: Mother died in the Great War, Between the regime and the rebels. My real father died in the Great War, Between the regime and the rebels. Anyadwee, hear my flute: The child of a poor man Lives by his own hands. I want you to be mine, baby girl. Will you marry me, Anyadwee, The daughter of the moon? Anyadwee: Yes, I will marry you, my beloved one. True love comes from the heart, Not from the West, nor from the East, Not from the North, nor from the South, But from the heart of the heart, Of the two in the love. Not from the mother, nor from the father; Not from the sisters, nor from the brothers, But from the depth of the hearts Of the two in the love. Don't enter into two people's issue; I will marry you, my dove: Pay deaf ears to rumormongers. The clouds are pregnant with golden rains, The winds of love are blowing: Take me away O beloved, Take me away where nature sways gladly, Take me away among the roses, The dandelions, lilies and golden marigold, And show me love, and kiss me. I am tired of hearing artificial natures, I am sick of noise, smokes, teargas and riots; Take me far from the madding crowd, To the green mountain sides, Where pastures bloom for the sheep. I am tired of the sickening city life, Watching orphans on the bare streets beg, Watching blood of the innocent flow; I am tired of the stinking city life, Full of nasty, weird and disgusting life. Take me away from the muddy roads, Full of pothloes and job-seekers, Of mothers and children caught In the hungry jaws of wheel killers. Take me away from this dirty games, Full of lies, murders and violence, Of politricksters, assassins and rioters; I want to feel the cool winds, Blowing on the head of the mountain, Where waters run deep with warm love, Like in the Garden of Eden. The son of the king, My handsome Prince, Ruping, do you love me, And won't you leave me O? Ruping: May I drop dead, my Princess, If ever I drop you like a rejected stone. I swear by my dead mother, Whose breast I sucked till my teeth were full, That I, Ruping, won't leave you. Many men have conned you, But dropped you like a rejected stone. They left the white ants on the anthill; You are the white ant they left: Your skin is like the wings of white ants. Your neck resembles the neck of Abino jar. Your eyes are a multitude of stars; your teeth sparkle like diamond dust. Sadly, truly, Many men have deceived you With the greatest lies of their lives, But they have damped you like a rubbish Into their dustbin of their history ... Men are like women, You never can trust them with your heart to keep. But I trust but you, Anyadwee; They say all men are the same, But I disagree with them all; All men are not the same… All men are not the same, but equal, So my love for you will never change. River doesn't flow back to its source, Anyadwee; You are now so ripe and nature must take its course. You are the brightest star at night, In whom my broken heart delights; You are the heaven on the earth: I will you till my last breath; I will take you away from the city, To my people in the local community. I will take you to the mountain side, Where we will play hide and seek: I seek you. O when you hide, I will kiss your dimpled cheeks, And make love blooms in the wild, Where no forbidden fruit grow white. Anyadwee: I love your love song, darling; You're killing me here softly… Tarry not, take me now home, And I see your papa and mom, Where I see the sky, blue sky, And we become one, you and I, Till I become a loving mummy, And you become a loving daddy. Hold my hands and take me away, Take me forever, now and today. RUPING AND ANYADWEE (The Ugly Ones Are Already Born) Written: 15 Dec., 2017 Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st Soft words are patiently said: Good things are for those who wait, For the beautiful ones are not yet born. So I patiently waited for tomorrow's presence, But they were sweet soft words of afterlife; All I have ever seen is tomorrow's absence. Soft words soften hard hearts. The treasure in my box of chocolate; Did you ever see my brown box of memory? The whole box was stolen while I slept, Snoring on my bed of thorns like a toddle. You must have seen my Gwele; It is a bed made of bagged cotton wool, And bundle of sticks hard enough to break your ribs. Those bundle of sticks I crossed them on the bed. Soft words really soften hard hearts. "Don't worry, Ruping, women are like waters! You never can finish them all! They are as many as the stars of heavens, All women are the same!" They often comfort me like a crying child, Whose loaf of bread has fallen on the soil; They made me wonder if they have tasted all women, That all women are the same! That the beautiful are not yet born, And spilled milk cannot be scooped back. All they say are like a flying flag of a mickey mouse independence. "Are the ugly ones already born?" I ask them. "Anyadwee is one of the beautiful ones already born! If not so, when will the beautiful ones be born? You mean to say they're born if I am dead?" I ask them and their mouths are now tall, Like the beaks of marabou birds, With burning anger running through their spines. They are my clan men after all. I must rise up tomorrow as if I am mad, And travel to Kampala, city of the people, And search for my lost wife in the city squares, Until I bring her back home; If not, then how will I endure the cruel mockeries of my kinsmen, age mates and village men? How will I, Ruping, son of Okayo-Tobi, live here, In this jealous village of Kakanyero? How? How will Ruping stand the fierce roaring laughters Of the village women from Kakanyero and Kakamega, Who come in quest of waters from the well Dug by my forefathers ages ago in Kakanyero, And they are to walk many miles away back homes, Because their lousy government failed to bore Mere holes of boreholes in this region, while they gallop for tax payers' money, And bend their funny heads extending Some nonhumanistic noncomposmentistic Nonprofessional nonconstitutional Nonstoppable combatant and neo colonialistic presidential age limit, While village women leave their homeless houses Through bushes in search of clean drinking waters: Leaving their houses before their husbands are done, Before the last cockcrow like Samaritan women, Before their babies wake up hungry And begin demanding breastmilk From their flat milkless chests, Because foods don't satisfy them in the first place? The clan men gathered their grey heads against me, With thousands false accusations, choices, And hidden intrigues, seen in their red eyes. They have chosen seven virgin women for me! I wonder if virgin mothers are there. They say I must choose one from their choices, Or take them all at once to replace Anyadwee, Who is gone already, they say: Gone never to return like the stubborn new colonialists; They say she is in a safe custody of Mugaga the rich man. I wonder if there is any safe custody, Because they remind me of my very police; You never can be safe in their hands, Even if you were imprisoned like Mandela. No, I will not tarry about. I will wake up tomorrow with machetes in my hands, And never listen to their words of the dead, And make the biggest surprise in their lives; Not just a surprise, but a great wonder: I will prove them all wrong, If they think their artificial love will conquer me. My love for Anyadwee is a natural spring of living water. I will let them marry their artificial virgin women, Whose beauties are made of makeups, And let them know, true love conquers all, And that true love is not forced; I will marry who I want, Like the government kills who they want most. Yes, I will travel to the city on foot tomorrow, Though my legs will swell like those of Oliver Twist, With machetes in my naked hands, To gather back what belongs to Caesar. They say I lack elderly respect for them, And that I think childish thoughts, But they with their elderly thoughts Forget to remember my right to choices. They threaten to excommunicate me If I break their mouths and follow my ways, By not choosing their ready made choices. No, I follow my heart; Life is what you choose, to be or not to be. No w Weapons formed against my love shall prosper; I am my love defender, she is my world… The girl bloody mosquitoes bit me for, The girl I endured bitter cold nights for, The girl I postponed sleep for, The girl I refused to eat food for, The girl I risked my whole life for... I will never ever succumb to their hollow-bottomed threats; My heart is my king, and my fear is my enemy. Where my heart is is where my treasure is, So come elephant-rains or flames of sunshine; No cartons of traditional and political threats Shall frighten me from my love of life. I will fry my groundnuts tonight, And roast my long cassava, and pack them up, And fill up my long umbilical corded calabash with water, And all my safari necessities ready to go Before the people of Kakanyero are awake, At the red dawn of Lakana, And then I rush to face the wild cat in the city, That catches people's chicken at night, That has bribed Obina with five cents To lure and turn the head of Anyadwee from me; Obina will take the share of the price too, For accepting to be used as a cat's paw. Still, soft words are said to win my heart of stone. They say many moons have passed now, And that foreign girls are stubborn; They pack all your things in secret, And leave you a broken wall of Jericho. Yes, sometimes I don't doubt that That could be a brilliant reasoning; I hear they conspire to sacrifice my Anyadwee To the hungry gods of their forefathers. They say secretly that she is a slave girl. A slave girl? Let them try! They will milk a male wild cat! They will fan the flame of third world war! But I know Anyadwee from A to Z; She is a daughter to Balidina Lakang, And Jack Lumoro. She is a born of Kakamega, The neighbor of Kakanyero. She not a spiritual slave in a spiritual prison. She is a free born, not born with the side rib; Differences should not make a difference. RUPING AND ANYADWEE |
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