By Tezra Kisakye
In a world where smartphones have become constant companions, are we more connected or more alone? In “How High Does the Sycamore Grow?”, Tezra Kisakye explores digital addiction, social media validation and the quiet loneliness that can exist behind a glowing screen.
Moving from the endless demands of notifications to the forests, rivers and mountains of Uganda, the poem invites readers to rediscover nature, genuine human connection and a sense of self-worth beyond the digital world.
We carry it around like it is worth our lives,
Our very life,
And now we fail to live without it.
Although it wears a facade,
One side makes us laugh,
The other eats our brains from the inside.
We cry and laugh alone
Through sleepless nights,
Yet swear we are not mad.
We live unaware of its ugly face
Because it presents itself like a shiny book,
But inside, a circus for cheap popularity.
We carry this thing around in our pockets
In anticipation of an insufferable “what’s up?”
And a not-so-instant “gram”.
It feels like tickling to our minds,
And all the while, it is ticking
Like a bomb waiting to happen…
Tik… Tok…!
We beg strangers to connect
Just to fill our incurable loneliness
And gather followers, swipe by swipe, by swipe, by…
Nobody looks into each other’s eyes anymore,
Our faces glued to the screen
While our hearts turn to ice.
We have moulded our own slavery
And called it d-i-g-i-t-a-l,
Only to become servants to our “freedom”.
But I want to scream,
And I want to strip myself naked of it all
And bathe among the Bwindi forests.
I want to be one with that which is alive
And dip my feet into the depths of the Nile,
And fellowship where the wildflowers are.
I want to call every tropical creature by its name
And walk its trails untouched by civilisation,
My heart to skip not because of Outlook notifications,
But from the colours of the sun-kissed earth,
And from all the voices of Mount Elgon,
And for once, never wonder what I am worth.
We should beseech Mother Nature
And suckle from her bosoms once more,
And sip from the riches of Murchison Falls.
Oh, how I yearn to hug the sycamore tree
And ask her how high
She grows.
