Modernity?

Pardon my nativity,
Am a village born with less creativity,
But alas i know a rose,

Yes yes yes my friend,
Modernity perceives me as such a foe,

But then would i be wrong,
If at such i say she looks like a crow,
Painted on a dampened wall?

Her eyes shaded,
Her lips duracoated,
And oh those Dumu-zas sheets on her head,

She dresses like a camel,
Bracing for a sandstorm,
She walks like a hyena,
And talks like a hurt dog,

City girl they say,
City trends they say,
City life i hear,

Civility....
If such is...
Uncivilized i remain.....
The village boy,
The village bred...
Yes i the villager....

THE BLACK CHILD

sunrise,
sunset,
another day for a black child,
scarred by the african earth,
tanned by the sub-saharan  sun,
yes my friend,
this tone i coat,
this skin i wear.......

they call me darkskin,
and hence quote all problems,
darkskin problems they say,
darkskin troubles they say,


the more they talk,
the less they know,
i aint blessed with shoes and shorts,
no do i eat from plates with forks,

my meals are GOD sent,
my dreams but gold dust,

and yet i try,
try to tise above the shacks,
try to fly up the ranks,
 flights of a black child

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...