MY TWO KINGS OF THE MEAD

They come staggering or crawling back home every dawn or dusk or just gives up by the trench near the gate, it's my prodigal one and his father; my two kings of the mead, they have been binge drinking today, it must have been a good day at mungetho, Saturday's usually are, it's when most women need water fetched others fences trimmed and gas cylinders refilled. Today was particularly special, it was the last Saturday of the month, and the beginning of a new semester for the "comrades" and 'fresher's' at the local university so open season it was. Nobody knows how to ferret out a coin than an alcoholic at six in the morning. Snout to the ground, ear to the wind dragging at a borrowed fag as if it was the last piece of tobacco on earth, he looks out for that all-important haunt that will be the vehicle to his removing his "lock" and then he is good for the mid-morning loiter.

I needed My prodigal to oil the gate today he was mteja most of the day sleeping under the mango tree. He and his bum father pass out so often on this contraption that welcomes you to out derelict compound I am of the mind to get some of the tents from our IDP days out and elect them by the gate for the convenience of my two kings of the mead, for when they come back home late at night singing preemptive dirges full of the grog. I thought the kasober program from our deposed governor would help my two kings, but the bottle & shit slingers at the local government proved to be that much stronger.

I wonder what will become of my name, my beautiful name, will it disappear with the mound of dirt with which they will hurriedly cover me with once the maggots call out my number. This wretch of a prodigal doesn't seem like he could sway a mangy dog to lift a leg up for his entry.

I wish like his biblical equivalent he would leave my sight already find his way into someone's pigsty in the middle of the night and that he makes acquaintance with a blunt farm tool or two, truly he has proved to be the product of his father's loins and purveyor of grief for his mother. Now as I while away my time singing requiems I contemplate him and his sire to their graves at least my death by a thousand vexing knives will have been hurried along and easily forgotten after they become dunes for me to lay wreaths upon and pretend they are what they once were; a son and a father whom I once held dear and not the two rabid zombie dogs that they have become and that need putting down. Maybe then and only then I might be able to salvage what was left of my long-gone sanity long gone at the behest of my two kings of the mead.