MASTERPIECE

MASTERPIECE

I was carefully and thoughtfully

Knitted in my mother's womb.

My body was moulded and painted

With the intention and purpose

Of thriving, of not living in doom.

He who created me knew

That my eyes were meant to be dark brown

And not light blue or light green;

That my nasal canal was meant to be free,

With air passing in and out of it freely

And thus without any space for flu.

It must be true

That there was a script that was written for me,

A script that was dedicated to my story.

This script was written before the beginning of time.

The words on that script dictated

That I would not have a receding hairline;

That my hands needed to be of a specific size

So that they would be inclined

To hold a microphone

And speak the words that were written on the script

Refined and sublime.

Aye, my lips were created to chime.

My teeth were made so evenly spaced

Without any big gaps

So that in conjunction with my plush tongue

My words could easily rhyme.

My eyes were fashioned with pupils so deep

So that they could search the soul

Of my future wife.

My colour was unmistakably chosen

From the Creator's great colour chart 

Not so that I could dwell in poverty,

Not so that I could be discriminated against,

Not so that I could be called a nigger

Not so that I could be ostracized,

No!!!

I was given the colour of a black berry

So that I could be the sweetest fruit,

So that I could reign with vigour 

In the land of the youth,

So that I could stroll though Kampala's streets

Flaunting the prowess of my melanin.

I was created with the colour of a King.

Never did the Creator's script

Have a scene about me being a son of a dark nation

Or an heir in a "dark continent".

He did not stitch patriotism into my heart

With the "great"  idea that I would survive in a developing nation

Or that I would dwell in a corrupt nation.

I was not created to lack originality.

My brain was not sculpted to be subject to only uncle Sam's innovation.

No! I was created to thrive in a continent with riches.

Right into the centre of my heart He stitched 

The wisdom and knowledge of the great Kings of Ankole.

Right into my heart,

He plastered the innovation of the Ashanti.

Right into my heart,

He moulded the aorta of the Zulu

That pumps courage into the rest of my body.

When the great Creator painted my heart red,
As the bright colour of love,
Never did He envisage divorce for me in His plan.
In the script that he wrote about me,
There was no act and no scene in which
My future wife signed a prenup.
Instead, His plan for me
Was for my love for her to last
Until the very end of time,
Was for us to grow old together
And hold each other forever
Like how nine holds nine in the number ninety nine.
When He was moulding my eyes,
He knew that I would need them
To look at her beauty so fine.
Aye, to behold such beauty divine,
One needs the right set of eyes.

I was wonderfully and gloriously 
Created for good works.
I was not created to break hearts 
Or to tear other peoples' worlds apart.
I was not created to have sick cells.
I was not created to cry in pain because of malaria, HIV, cancer, diabetes or sickle cells.

He created me knowing that the power of healing was stored in my heart.
I am not a product that was created defective with a crack.
I was set apart
As a beautiful creation of art;
As a masterpiece, a perfect piece of artistry. 

A Poem by Bruno Edgard.

THE BARD: A MAN IN HIS PRIME

THE BARD: A MAN IN HIS PRIME: A MAN IN HIS PRIME Constantly faced against the elements, One has to wonder if a Man is useful with his time. A Man wakes up early in...

A MAN IN HIS PRIME

A MAN IN HIS PRIME

Constantly faced against the elements,
One has to wonder if a
Man is useful with his time.
A Man wakes up early in the morning
To prepare for his nine to five.
The fresh, untainted air from the early morning dew
Makes a Man appreciate life anew.
The pain of His yesterday is therefore
Stripped away by the calm
Soothing silence of the stars.
The appearance of a shooting star
Is a testament to the fact that
The Universe will be good to Him that day;
"Make a wish" the shooting star says.

The early morning moonlight
Seems to tell the Man what to do.
It tells Him that in its splendour
The fullness of life is true;
"Today, everything that is good will come upon you".
It speaks to His heart
Without banter or slander.
It informs Him that just like its light,
His fortunes today will shine bright.

The early morning sunrise is like
A glimpse into His future.
It rises up in majesty,
Its radiant rays swallow up the earth
In light and brightness that is unwavered.
The cool wind that brushes across his musky face in the morning
Is a sign that His day is going to be filled with gloating.
Therefore, it is His day.
Today,
He is destined to conquer the earth,
Destined to cultivate and harvest the earth's hard turf.
Isn't it His sole purpose here on earth?
Isn't it His purpose
To rule over land and over all animals?
Isn't it His purpose
To multiply, fill and conquer the earth?

Yes, He looks at the sky with hope
Because he knows that something extraordinary
Is allowing Him to cope,
To cope with the pressures
Of being a Man in a feminine world.
To cope with the heavy burden
On his shoulders
That is brought about by being tagged
With the title of "bread winner".
That morning,
He starts to believe that thriving
Is not beyond His scope.
He is a Man in His prime.
And today,
He is looking forward to showing this prime.

A poem by Bruno Edgard

THE BARD: WHERE IS THE VOICE?

THE BARD: WHERE IS THE VOICE?: WHERE IS THE VOICE? Someone, anyone; Please indulge me. Please tell me; Where is the voice? Where is our voice? Who do we run to? Wh...

WHERE IS THE VOICE?

WHERE IS THE VOICE?

Someone, anyone;
Please indulge me.
Please tell me;
Where is the voice?
Where is our voice?
Who do we run to?
Who do we turn to?
Who can speak on our behalf
When neo-colonialism and capitalism
Cut our economies in half?

Who is the next Kwame Nkrumah?

The next Jomo Kenyatta?

The next Muammar Gaddafi who will tell it as it is.

Who will have the guts to say "NO"

To western faces who benefit

From the destruction of many African places.

Who has the guts to Mandela
Our motherland; Africa
To a great PRO-AFRICANIST effect?
Whose bold words and coarse voice
Can coerce our corrupt leaders
To reflect on the fact
That Africa is alive?
That Africa is a living, breathing being;
That SHE is free to be herself.
She is not a slave.
She deserves, no!!!
In fact, she is owed
Dignity and respect.

Who can tell the rest of the world

That we have our own culture?

That we have our own music

And our own tulips.

Who can voice our concerns

About the dangers of GMO?

Who can stand on a hill

And proclaim to the vultures?

Saying;

"The concept of human rights already exists

In our cultures"

"Whoever said that we are insufficient?"

"That everything that we do is wrong"

"That we cannot take care of ourselves"

"That we need to dance to the tune of Uncle Sam's belt"

Who can speak for us?
And by us,
I mean ALL OF US.
Yes, Africa is one;
In her full, splendid
Beautifully shaped body.
...For a body that is divided
Is the true definition of death;
Different parts of the body
All wanting to go their own way.
Each part of the body
Being controlled by different nerve endings.
This phenomenon causes her to feel hurt.
Can you hear her?
She lies there in the street.
She is wearing a torn African print dress;
Screeching, screaming;
"Mpwera!" "Mpwera!"
Why is she screaming?
It is because she has different men holding
On to her dress, wanting a piece of her.
They are men of strange colors;
White, brown, yellow et cetera.
They are holding on to her
Like they own her.
Inside the get away car,
There is a man of native color.
He is the get away driver.
He waits for the men of color
To bring HER parts and their asses into the car.
After this is done, the get away driver then drives
Them into the white night.

Where is the voice that will unite us?

The voices that we had have either been killed or dethroned thus;

Where is the voice that will put humpty zulu back together again?

Where was that voice

When it was needed in the streets of Cairo?

And in the streets of Benghazi?

Mother Africa's heart froze in the wake of 2011.

She refused to pump blood to her left shoulder.

...Where is the voice that will hold her

Firm and steady in it's righteous and zealous hands?

Where is the voice that will whisper into her tingling ears

The sweet romances of a devout lover?

Who will speak on her behalf?
Who will speak on our behalf?
Where is the voice that will

Bring us together?
So that together,
We will raise HER.

A poem by Bruno Edgard.

THE BARD: TOWARDS MIDNIGHT

THE BARD: TOWARDS MIDNIGHT: TOWARDS MIDNIGHT ................................................ She looks at me And I look at her. She is beaten and disheveled. An...

TOWARDS MIDNIGHT

TOWARDS MIDNIGHT

................................................
She looks at me
And I look at her.
She is beaten and disheveled.
And I can't properly breathe.
Our feet are both grey and cracked
From war.
Her battered dress is a short, dull red and yellow,
Though it must have once been bright and as long as the Nile flows.
I can't see what I am wearing but my shirt and trouser feel torn.
We are both sitting with our backs against the wall.

We stare at each other in silence.
We are in that place,
In a place beyond violence;
A tired, dull and emotionless silence.
The fire that is in between us is steady
But it is slowly running out.
So we sit there,
Looking dryly at each other.
The hut that covers us has walls that are painted with soot.
I cannot move,
And from the looks of it,
Neither can she.
What are we going to do?
Are we just going to sit here and whither?

At the corner of my eye,
I feel a stinging sensation.
The cause of this sensation
Is a very bright light outside the hut.
It is probably from the moon.
It towers over all things
And conquers all darkness
By dispersing it with light.
..........................................................
What do we do?

Is this what fate has led us to?
Is this what destiny prepared for the year 2022?
....Her eyes are still beautiful,
They are colored a dark brown spectacle.
In this still night,
They especially seem to have a poignant glow,
Beauty and sorrow mixed in radiant flow.
They forge together to form a rainbow.
Those eyes;
They have no more tears,
No more fears,
No more nightmares.
All they have is a blank expression.
........................................................
Where do we go from here?...........