Ojijo, performing his poetry piece, "Ohmundu Uhmundu-On HIV/AIDS, at Uganda National Museum, June, 3Rd , 2012) from his poetry book, FirePlace Stories: Ojijo's Performance Poems & Quotes.
story time! story time! story time!
tell us, tell us the story!
story time! story time! story time!
teller, tell us the story!
along long long time ago...a very long time
ago (of course not longer than your trousers)
along time ago,
in the lands far beyond sight,
across the plains,
up the hills,
and down the valleys,
along time ago,
in the land of chicken,
in the land of maize,
in the land of big biceps and bigger triceps,
there lived a man,
there lived a man called samson ohmundu
uhmundu alias omosafisafi,
samson ohmundu uhmundu was a man writer,
ohh yes! he loved to write,
he could write and write and write,
and every time he wrote he would sing,
ndikore manade ndikore manade yawa jowa,
ndikore manade ndikore manade ndikore manade
yawayawa,
and then,
he would sing again
ndikore manade ndikore manade yawa jowa,
ndikore manade ndikore manade ndikore manade
yawayawa,
and he could write in all books,
he was talented, samson
he could write in any open book,
he could even write in half open books,
and even the closed books, he would write on
them,
samson,
and all the time,
he would sing,
ndikore manade
ndikore manade yawa jowa,
ndikore manade
ndikore manade ndikore manade yawayawa,
and so it came to pass,
as days follow night,
and as pleasure follows sorrow,
that in his village, the young virulent men would
go to the farm and to the hunt,
but their vixens and sexists would remain to
take care of the home,
leaving only the naked children, running with
bow legs and potbellied stomachs at home,
leaving only the old geezers,
and even older geezers,
and when they came back home.
they would find their books written on,
and they would ask,
who wrote on our
books?
on our books, who
wrote on?
who on our books
wrote?
books? ours? wrote
who?
and samson ohmundu, uhmundu alias omosafisafi
would sing,
ndikore manade ndikore manade yawa jowa,
ndikore manade ndikore manade ndikore manade
yawayawa,
and after many writings and many books being
written on,
both open books and closed books,
both his books and others books,
the vilalgers sent him away,
samson was sent away,
to a far off town,
to boma,
kapango,
the place of renting houses,
and when he was in the nyamburko, the vehicle,
he would gaze through the widnows,
and he would see books,
books,
samson would see books on the road side,
books half open,
closed books,
books on bicycles,
books seated, books walking,
books books books,
books everywhere,
and he could bite his lips
and lick his lips,
and whistle in dismay,
and he would hum in his voice,
ndikore manade ndikore manade yawa jowa,
ndikore manade ndikore manade ndikore manade
yawayawa,
and so with the thirst and hunger of writing,
and the memories and imaginations of his
journey,
and with the appetite and greed of his nature,
and with the desire and race for his end,
when he reached his destination,
he asked for the main library
and when he got there,
when he got there,
the library,
the main library,
all that was heard was,
ndikore manade ndikore manade yawa jowa,
ndikore manade ndikore manade ndikore manade
yawayawa,
and again,
ndikore manade ndikore manade yawa jowa,
ndikore manade ndikore manade ndikore manade
yawayawa,
and yet again,
ndikore manade ndikore manade yawa jowa,
ndikore manade ndikore manade ndikore manade
yawayawa,
then,
there were no more books,
then,
he had written in all the books,
and so,
since he could also write on the covers,
he decided to do something he has never done
before,
and then,
ndikore manade ndikore manade yawa jowa,
ndikore manade ndikore manade ndikore manade
yawayawa,
and then,
silence,
and then,
silence,
and then,
wololomama, wololomama,
wololomama, wololomama,
wololomama, wololomama,
aiiiiyaaaaaa!!!!
aiyaaiyaaiyayayayaya!!!
noooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!
samson ohmundu uhmundu alias omosafisafi!
the pen,
could not write anymore,
and so he shook it,
up and down.
and then he shook it,
sideways by sideways.
and then,
he shook it,
this was and that way.
but lo and behold,
the pen stopped writing,
and he refused,
he went on,
and on,
and on,
and when he went to the doctor,
he shook it the more,
and then,
miraculously,
slowly,
it started writing,
it was writing,
but in red!
