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The Past Future War
the oldies think they’re gold the futures eager to occupy spaces
the seedlings think they’re rubies the pasts unwilling to leave positions
the former crowns the latter the future, the latter insists on being in charge,
yet never call themselves the past. as the formers remain inexperienced.
the past decides for the futures, the oldies think they’re justified
decisions require experience. the seedlings are just entitled
the oldies think they’re gold the oldies think they know best,
the seedlings are but, newbies the seedlings deserve less.
the justified wear their medals of toil Why have the entitled,
the entitled tire rather too quickly if not to bequeath your titles?
the justified preach hard work pays, the oldies think they’re gold.
the entitled are not believers. the seedlings think they’re rubies.
the oldies are certain they’re intelligent,
the intelligent assert subordination,
like at a latter age comes sage.
sexual morality and cave ways.
The seedlings rejoice in their ignorance,
the ignoramus want life on their own terms,
they’ll know better when they come of age.
gold belongs in the ground.
Mane
I was taught my hair
is a disease, grass to cut short; dispose of
those weeds. Routinely scoured bald for school, while
the Indian kids played with their hair ribbons. Teachers zealously
hunted us with scissors, to make paths on our scalps. They grinned ear to
ear as they mutilated our bodies. We were taught our hair was shame. They
called our hair unkempt, for they couldn’t fathom that a mane sprouts not to be
kempt. To them my hair was shabby, for they saw it through the colonialist’ gaze
whose mandate they elevate. Employers demand qualified men cut their dreadlocks to
get hired, weighing competence by the length of the strands. Do clients seek our tresses
or our prowess? They say men who plait hair are bayaye.
Count the country’s biggest crooks filling
public offices with hairless heads. Forever too quick to dictate what a
respectable man should dress like.
Today, I grow my mane carelessly,
shear when I want, not when
they tell me. those who find
me feminine call me she/
girly, to emasculate
me. I am flattered
for woman is a synonym for beauty. What my
mane does is accentuate
me. I bask in their stares as I whip my
hair; contempt or reverence.
A crown of pride I wear.
Mark Kennedy Nsereko is a Ugandan writer. His work reimagines beauty, draws darkness, and reveals bits of what keeps him up all night. His writings have featured in the poetry anthology I Promise This Song Is Not About Politics and Brittle Paper.