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The
Seasons of My City
By Sitawa
Namwalie
My city is a
kaleidoscope of shifting moods,
A place of
heaving seasons,
Sometimes it may
disturb,
Mostly it will
fascinate and please.
Today my city is
like a striking woman,
She is
beautiful,
Stepping out in
all her splendour,
Leaving gapping
admiration in her wake,
The day is
picnic perfect.
At other times
the city is like a man,
With a large
beer belly,
Lumbering, with
his floppy man-boobies, flapping in the wind
Hot, heavy and
significant,
The day tires
easily.
And then the
city gets moody for months,
Like a
menopausal woman, bad tempered and disconnected.
It turns grey
and cold, skulking under a foreboding sky.
It doesn’t know
itself.
And we, fold in
on ourselves and wait for the mood to change,
Hoping we won’t
be found out,
To become the
brunt of a withering tongue slashing.
And then again
it becomes a young girl,
Nubile and vain,
Changing
hair-styles to entice an impatient lover,
Brilliant
butterflies,
Hover like
perfume.
Orange,
yellow-green, iridescent-blue, purple and red,
The young spring
day shifts and turns and ages as it sheds its beauty,
Suddenly the
city takes on the hue of new lovers,
Caught in an
upset quarrel,
Their laughing
faces thunderous,
They cry bitter tears of passion,
Hiding, we all
run for cover,
To avoid getting
drenched.
Sometimes the
city is a thief,
That comes like
a starless night,
Inky black and
filled with apprehension,
It is out to
steal your heart.
If you’re not
careful,
You will fall in
love and never leave.
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