MY MTOTO IS A 46ian

deep  into the sprawling surbubs of kawangware,
 hidden between the mabati mansionettes and the beautiful black slimy sewerage rivers.
 beneath the grey perched skies,
 to the swirling dusty winds, 
lies a ka mama...
 she is sweet..
 sweet as a ka three bob roster,
  yet fresh as the mbere guks,
 her walk ordained by the rythmique riddims,
long she has flown with air goteana
,  her favourite flight...
  i can't call her baby,
 she always screams 'wacha ufala jo'  so i call her msupa,
  to that she can smile,
 i can't take her for a burger,

 she has a thing for madondo,
 and oh well my pockets,
 sad state they be in,
 we don't do evening walks, 
'hiyo ni kuwaste sole ya njumu' she says,
  so we sit besides the roads,
  waving to every konda and dere,
  'niaje marto' 'vipi jonte'   answering to 'umecheki yule msee'  questions,
  and debating on 'yule dame ni...'  starters,
  yet she is a fine piece this ka mama,
 with a rangi ya dollar coating,
 hidden in the belly of the cold Kawangware,
 a forty sixian, my mtoto is...