DAVID RUBADIRI
(19 July 1930 - 15 September 2018)
An African Thunderstorm & Other Poems (2004)
Stanley Meets Mutesa
Such a time of it they had
The heat of the day
The chill of the night
And the mosquitoes that followed
Such was the time and
They bound for a kingdom
The thin weary line of carriers
With tattered dirty rags to cover their backs
The battered bulky chests
That kept on falling off their shaven heads
Their tempers high and hot
The sun fierce and scorching
With it rose their spirits
With its fall their hopes
As each day sweated their bodies dry and
Flies clung in clumps on their sweat-scented backs
Such was the march
And the hot season just breaking
Each day a weary pony dropped
Left for the vultures on the plains
Each afternoon a human skeleton collapsed
Left for the Masai on the plains
But the march trudged on
Its Khaki leader in front:
He the spirit that inspired
He the light of hope
Then came the afternoon of a hungry march
A hot and hungry march it was
The Nile and the Nyanza
Lay like two twins
1
Azure across the green countryside
The march leapt on chaunting
Like young gazelles to a water hole
Hearts beat faster
Loads felt lighter
As the cool water lapped their sore soft feet
No more the dread of hungry hyenas
But only tales of valour when
At Mutesa’s court fires are lit
No more the burning heat of the day
But song, laughter and dance.
The village looks on behind banana groves
Children peer behind reed fences
Such was the welcome
No singing women to chaunt a welcome
Or drums to greet the white ambassador
Only a few silent nods from aged faces
And one rumbling drum roll
To summon Mutesa’s court to parley
For the country was not sure
The gate of reeds is flung open
There is silence
But only a moment’s silence—
A silence of assessment.
The tall black king steps forward
He towers over the thin bearded white man
Then grabbing his lean white hand
Manages to whisper
‘Mtu mweupe karibu’
White man you are welcome.
The gate of polished reed closes behind them
And the west is let in.
2
The Tide that from the West Washes Africa to the Bone
The tide that from the west
Washes Africa to the bone
Gurgles through my ribs
And gathers the bones
That clatter into clusters
Rough and polished
To fling them back destitute
To the desolate river-bank.
The tide that from the west
Tears through the heart sinews of Africa
Boils in my marrow
Dissolving bone and sinew.
The tide that from the west
Washes the soul of Africa
And tears the mooring of its spirit
Till blood red the tide becomes
And heartsick the womb —
The tide that from the west
With blood washes Africa
Once washed a wooden cross.
Master of the African Night
The sun hangs low on the hilly west
Printing long, sharp shadows
On the darkening hill slopes.
Lone weary boys
With the trudge of heavy hooves
Of morning and drowsy cows
Villageward turn.
Behind smoky huts
Fires crackle and pots bubble
Whilst full-breasted girls
Feed grunting babies to sleep.
Darkness swallows day
3
Heaven wakes
From the dark clouds
A silver moon stares
As from the bowels of shadowy huts
Dark bodies emerge.
Softly through the night
One hears the boom-didi-boom of drums
At first slow and timid
Then strong and sustained
Thudding and thumbing urgently
Filling the night with quivering agitation
Stirring blood.
A rush of jingling feet
A clattering wave of clapping hands
Songs rising to screeching ululations.
As rhythm grips rhythm-filled muscles
Bodies twirl and writhe
To the swell and ebb of urging drums.
The fires fade to ashes
The night chills
As one by one
The dancers dissolve into night
Leaving all quiet
For the cynical owl
To hoot his goodnight.
In the freezing darkness of the forest
Mysterious
Life is just on the wake
As an angry, malicious, contemptuous roar
Tears the night like thunder
Sending the drums to sleep.
Simba —
He stands and looks
Then cynically yawns
A burning majesty
In the inky darkness of night —
Master of the African night.
