I'm Sorry

I'm so sorry
That when you fell down
I didn't help you up
I'm sorry
That with a stroke of a pen
I couldn't make it right
I'm sorry
That I hurt your heart
And what's more?
Didn't feel contrite

I'm sorry
That in my parting words
I didn't utter a kind or gentle phrase
I'm so sorry
That your teary face
Was treated common place

I'm sorry
That I've caused everything that's good
To now be misunderstood
I'm sorry
That all the pleasantries exchanged
No more feel like they should

I'm so sorry
That even truth when told
Now has very little hold
I'm sorry
What were innocent words
Are in a venomous veil

I'm sorry
That I can no longer sooth
Your nagging distress
See I'm sorry
That even my words
Cause you moments of stress

I'm sorry
For leaving you bare
When I should have returned your stare

I'm so sorry
That we will never repair
That innocence there
When we walked on the path
In verbal regale
Bathed in our love
And voluminous care

For this and and for more
While acting a fool
I'm sorry

Isaac's Wells

Your wells are dry Isaac

Who has covered your wells?

The Lord has promised you water

So why does Israel roam?

Surely Abimelech cannot prosper

To gain yet not sow?

Rename your wells, Isaac

Rename your wells, Isaac

Your inheritance possess

They may chase you away

Again and again

But, no man can claim your place

Nor prosper their wells

Encamp in Gerar, Isaac

Re-open your wells

Do not despair, Isaac

As they stop up your wells

For they quarrel with the Lord

Sitnah will be their name

Even as you wander in doubt

Have faith in the Lord

For your next well will be Rehoboth

And you will flourish in this land

In Abimelech's plight

He will recognize God's might

Discarding his discord

For peaceful respite

At Beersheba encamp, Isaac

Pitch your tents yet on nigh

Remember that your father Abraham

Was promised this land

Re-dig your father's wells, Isaac

They are dry no more, Isaac

They have been refreshed

A Christian Man

A Christian Man let’s his yea be yea

And his nay be nay.

He dwells not on the adoration of man

But the acceptance of God

A Christian man raises his children to believe

In the stories of men he never knew,

about a man he never met.

He is leader among PhD’s

Yet a meek follower,

of a carpenter.

A Christian man is slow to anger,

measured in speech

And patient to listen.

He answers your call without hesitation.

A Christian man,

dedicates himself tirelessly to the welfare of his family

He is not swayed by the popular

Nor influenced by fads.

He is stoic in his morals,

Unyielding in his beliefs.

He fights for the salvation of his children.

He stands because he must.

He is like Joshua in battle,

relentless in Gospel pursuit

A Christian man,

reviews all the songs on God’s album,

so the lyrics come easy.

He ministers in his home,

and his walk, ministers to others.

He is convinced of his salvation,

Even in the face of uncertainty

He bears the weight of uneven tribulations

His spirit ministers when he is gone

His verse is his song

His bible his orchestra

To Matthew he writes

To Luke, he listens

With John, he has argued

Mark, chastised

Of Revelations, shows fear

He pursues Exodus

For Leviticus’ sake

In his memory is Psalms

A Christian man walks

Because his feet search for the path

His shoes show wear

His clothes are soiled

He labors in strength

“Glory’ his constant cry

Meek and mild

With sensitive heart

Yet Strong and mighty

In confrontational stance

He repents with conviction

Forgives with sincerity

For, I hear Joshua’s war cry

From the mountains on high

I cry unto you O’ Lord

That I can be

A Christian man.

©2008 SKK

The Watering Hole

I recall a local Zambian watering-hole called Municipal Sports club (Muni’s) with fondness. It’s where all the “who’s who” of Lusaka would congregate to drink and supposedly solve the world’s social ills. This was a ritual to get ready for the rest of the night. The preparatory bantering and arguing -while under the influence of a lot of alcohol- would lead to more drinking, arguing and the occasional fist fights.

Saying guys would solve world issues may seem fat fetched. However to state otherwise would be to cheat the many men gathered of their prime belief -that their voice mattered. To suggest they keep the discourse on a country level would not give credit to the assembled intellect. Conversations were not focus on local politics unless it was about our beloved football which always involves politics.

Any topic could be engaged with some expert discourse. What is happening in Kyrgyzstan? You’d get an answer. How does that spill in the Puget Sound affect the environment? Another answer. Why have the World Bank’s policies not worked in Somalia? You would get an answer. How did Bush win the election? You would get an answer? Is the AIDS virus manufactured? Answer. Note; there is nothing in my writing that suggests that the answers proffered would make any sense, but, you would certainly get the bar-side politician point-of-view. I have seen many a fight manifest when a person over-questioned the veracity of an answer.

You see there’s a machismo in drinking your 14^th beer, still having the ability to hold yourself straight while having a somewhat lucid conversation. Your peers are usually more in respect of your constant gulping and call for another beer than they are of your scope of knowledge. Now if you can also chat up girls while almost motherless and drunk, you’ve kicked it up a notch. Therein would lay the key to your success; beer, girls and the ability to argue.

I neglect to mention that while rambling at about 2AM in the morning, many of these ‘intelligent’ gentlemen had wives and children at home. If they were true believers, then they walked into the house after work just long enough to drop off their briefcase and maybe, change their clothes. Otherwise, it was straight to the watering hole. The die-hards would not even go home. It would be a straight line from the office to the club. The round table discussions would be in session. Presence at these conferences was vital. Upon arrival back at home around 4AM, there was an accepted expectation that wives wake up to ensure that each pundit did not sleep without food. Needless to say that each conference panelist would have already availed himself of numerous items from the club kitchen.

The watering hole fed the macho attitude bred into many young Zambian men. Negative attitudes and ideologies towards women were nurtured here. “Yes, it’s a man’s right to have more than one woman. In fact, it’s expected.” We became well versed in the game of cat and mouse. Intricate battle details were shared between sips of Mosi (local brew). We were taught how to avoid being caught if your girlfriend showed up at the club -while you were working another girl- “here’s what you do.” Mountains -of what then seemed like useful information- was piled into our heads. Its sole purpose was to build us into the drunken, womanizing, briefcase businessmen we were destined to become. Love was considered a sign of weakness, “So she dumped you because she caught you with another girl? Forget that @#$%, there are many other chicks!” You dare not respond to this with, “But I love her!” This could cause you to be heckled and derided for the rest of the night. “Here have another drink!”

So now, having evolved into a Christian, wife loving, immersed father, I look back and wonder how we made it this far. We should be dead. Many guys continue/d to play Russian roulette with sex in an environment rife with AIDS. Many of the pundits have died, or are dying. If you are familiar with the way some African countries address this crisis then you will know that it is considered an unmentionable. When you ask how a pundit died you will be told, “He was in and out of the hospital.” That is the complete answer. Very few will actually say, “It was AIDS!”

So you may ask, what has happened now. Has the club closed? Are there no more pundits left? Has there been a change in attitudes? The answer to this may scare even the strongest of heart. The pundits are still there, lined up waiting in the wings to take an available chair. So we spill a little beer for our fallen comrades., those who listened to the bad advice and died too soon, those whose children have never heard the words "I love you", those who didn't designate a driver and never made it home, those whose wives have left them. In the immortal words of a popular rapper, "This is for ma homies!" or in the language of my forefathers and one of my brethren standing at the Muni's bar “Iwe barman; leta ubwalwa!” - (Hey barman, bring more beer).

Written by Soneka K Kamuhuza©2005

Sing Tenor

Who sang this damn song?

I don’t like the words

The beats too fast, the drums all mashed

A disconcerting pitch, a whiny twang

Shut up and let me try to catch up

What’s the matter with this melody?

Don’t want to hear your version

It’s bad enough on its own

Lip synching won’t change anything

It sucks, you sound insane

Forgot that you had to have talent?

To have your chance at glory and fame

Picked out some outfits, tried a new game

Trying to represent? What a shame

Noticed no one singing along?

You’ve misrepresented yourself

Hardly can pronounce your name

You’re not on a billboard, heck not even a sham

You’re still that loser, no hip in your step

Singing loud doesn’t make you heard, it creates more noise

So how about you sing tenor

Ten’or fifteen miles away

Or solo, so low we can’t hear you

The again, your best bet is bass

Basically not at all

Soneka Kamuhuza 2008©

Loves Music

We’re dancing through life rifts, rhythm in song

On wings from an angel, subtly concealed

Love is an organ, unique in its sound

To kiss deep in alto, hearts filled with bass

If this isn’t your song, the melody’s wrong

We’re in legato, the harmony’s grown

Dreams are the reason, to keep swaying in sync

Each reason for living is etched in this tune

Sopranos are listening, to join us in throng

But that’s just what love is, a symphony strong

You know about this love thing

How it sometimes goes wrong

Nimble fingers can play the wrong key, skip a refrain

Miscued love beats, misguided metronome

Raise your voice forte, the song has begun

Your loves in full measure, C sharp has won

What voice do we use, to rhyme with this tune?

Soprano seems obvious, but baritones past

Convene with the altos to back up the sound

My loves in your bass clef for harmonic sound

Touch my crescendo, only you know how dolce

Enfatico to my heart, octaves crashing an eighth

Fill me with your lyrics, andante each line

I want to hear your ivory, both black and in white

So again in this stanza, I call out your name.

Play me your love song, that sweet chorale sound

Written by –Soneka K. Kamuhuza©

Dear Employee

I recently called the Human Resources (HR) department to discuss what to do about your tired behind. You see when you were employed, we gave you a job description. Yes, it's that piece of paper that outlines the very things that you are expected to do for your paycheck. It's not very complicated. You do this, we'll do that. I'm still struggling with the you do this part, because as of today, I'm wondering what we pay you for.

In my conversations with HR they have failed to recognize the fact that I really don't think you have any leg to stand on. I firmly believe that an illustration of your mediocre work ethic and Venn diagram of where your tardiness and laziness intersect would convince anyone to fire you. After all, you're trifling, constantly late, barely here when you are here and as they say in the vernacular, suck. Being around you has become like sucking on Zimbabwean lemons in a drought. I apologize if these letter comes as a surprise to you, but my smile has simply been because if I cried, it would happen every day and I might get committed.

I am convinced that somewhere in your past you must have been adopted by sloths. You see the sloth predominantly lives in one tree. He is so lazy and slow that fungi grow on him. That accounts for that greenish film on him. In fact there is a particular insect that is able to live its whole life cycle on a sloth. The easiest way to locate a sloth in the jungle is to look for a pile of dung at the base of a tree and then look up. You see, once in a while he makes the slow decent down to the base of the tree to relieve himself and then slowly goes back up. Did I tell you he hangs upside down for most of his life? I have to confess, I have come by your desk looking to see if you have a pile of dung underneath it. Your work seems very reminiscent of someone who has blood rushing away from their head and to their lower extremities ala sloth.

Personally I have nothing against you except your employment. You see I was raised to understand the relationship between work and compensation. In the bible there is a parable about a servant who is given one talent (coin) by his master and told to do something with it. Well when the master comes back he has done nothing with it. So the master basically rebukes him because at the least, he could have put it in the bank and received some interest. The master also takes his talent and gives it to the servant who had the sense to multiply his talents. Of course the lazy servants argument is that the master is a hard man and he was scared etc. Moral of the story? You -my one talent returning friend- are lazy.

Most lazy people have one thing in common, an entitlement complex. A root disease that leads them to believe that there is something about them that should make other people put up with their crap. Some believe they can get by on looks, friendship, personality or good grace. It is a deep seeded misconception that takes root and doesn't seem to allow said person to see through the shrubs. In most humans we have a subconscious, conscious, and creative subconscious. Our subconscious acts automatically, our conscious makes us aware and our creative subconscious ensures that we act like us. The creative part is the part that tries to keep us normal -as we believe we are. That's why there are many crazy people who can't stand their medicine, because it does not make them feel like themselves as they see themselves. Normal. See the irony? So in your case, you're lazy. You draw the inference.

Now please understand, life is quite complicated I am aware of that, but it appears that you have more turns than an Irish maze or an Arab sheikh picking a wife for the night. Your ethical myopia allows you to collect a check for negligible output and professional sabotage. You're what we call a professional terrorist, blowing up productive environments in your wake. Just to be helpful I'll give you some much needed advice. Work has some very simple rules I'd like to help you understand;

1. Come to work on time.
2. Leave work on time.
3. Lunch is an hour long.
4. Do what the boss tells you to do.
5. Complete your work on time.
6. Come to work regularly.
7. Write in English.
8. Speak clearly and effectively.
9. Come to work regularly.
10. Leave your #$%^ family problems at home.

I realize that leaving this letter laying around for you to find seems harsh and cruel, but I'm sure the severe slapping fit would not have sufficed either. I am recognizing more and more just how lucky our organization is to have found me. Given your track record, how would they have made a profit? Nevertheless, you are here and we have to find a middle ground between jump starting you or throwing you out a window. This is my attempt at the latter.