Meeting Nabwire.

She's got a figure,
This lass in green,
Eight's just but a lure;
Hers is disturbing once on the scene--
She is a Miss World!

She existed as a dream:
Haunting me every other day,
And opium,
Wiping worries and healing with a say,
And I died to stare into her eyes.

I thought she's a racist,
Till my complexion raised no fuse,
I thought she's a materialist,
Till the forex jargons died in use,
She's for my heart.

I wobbled in her world;
With a sack of loneliness,
And remains of my heart-- for good,
And therein I vowed never to mess,
Let I want beating from above.

We exchanged our sorrows,
And shared the little bread of fortune,
Whilst cursing our foes,
And tightened our hearts' chords to play one fine tune,
Throughout the bleak morrows.

(c) Pius Khisa.