They paint their eyes;
And lips and nails
With a god called cosmetics,
And thereby look “GOOD”
In borrowed beauty.
And along the road,
With stagnant beauty,
They move with informed enemies.
The ghosts whose beauty fades in time.
Like the owls’, their fingers are tall
And tatty to complement their death.

Check their handbags and see
What they will never forget to carry.
The mirrors that at all times
Keep reminding themselves of the beauty
That is not theirs-
And the perfumes and combs,
For improving their death.

Look at how they pile themselves
In what they call “women trousers”
And the outline of their “sewerage”,
The assumed pride.
They harbour innocent decisions
Because they are behind the “mother book”

Look at how they dismantle,
The passengers in their travel,
With their fried hair styles, tight yawning skirts,
Baked lips-grilled ears and nose,
Tattooed bodies and over cooked stench-
Evaporating from their armpits,
Full of dead perfumes and oils,
Like fed- up public toilets.
The meal of the hungry men.


Where are the hungry men?
Here exist some goods,
Come and enjoy this marketing game-
Goods that bargain for themselves,
With divergent prices-
Including the giveaway prices.
Come, snatch one for desire
And dig graves in advance for your corpse.
Here you won’t lose………….

Nabende Emmanuel Leonard Chipukizi










© NABENDE EMMANUEL LEONARD CHIPUKIZI