By Omadang Yowasi

I itched for a blind date a while ago

Kampala, they say, isn’t buildings.
Like home isn’t a living house.

It wasn’t an affair with affinity,
Experience drove me like a high kite
& I feigned an urgent call to madam.

She came wearing Kampala lipstick
Like dust-coated walls of Bombo Road
With high-waist jeans like a piston.

I fished out a few coins for a Rolex
To satiate her empty, noisy stomach,
Wandegeya was warm with neon.

She spills laughter like Bwaise Channel
& her perfume is boda exhaust,
I’m losing myself but she’s got a hold.

Kampala holds me tight like a lover
& her kisses sweep us down the park
Where she sobs in mixed confusion.

I hug her with a passionate embrace
& a rain of tears wets my shoulders
As she curses men who feed her

On a penny but dump in her channels
& still find a way to call her an ugly queen
By day and a Miss Beauty by night.