the graveyard.

The grave at the back lay further,

it housed the father to my grandfather.

It was unattended,

guarded by shrubs and not cemented.

My father said it was a tradition,

living in modernity was a complete fiction.

So a ritual was conducted-

embracing great grandpa and the affected.

On this day they slaughtered a goat,

sojourning at the graveyard for a feast.

busaa was siphoned from the magical gourd;

and the mirth after was evident of a people misguided.

His name was invoked,

repeatedly to cushion him from the piercing cold.

Wangila was great grandpa’s name,

so I am, sharing his character and fame;

no more proof for reincarnation,

my existence was an adequate affirmation.

In great grandpa I lived;

in me he exists,

life after death.

Bunguswa Writes.