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| Retired. Relaxing. Is he enjoying the labor of his youth? A grandfather passes the time in Nakapinyi, Mukono district. |
It’s the day when we remember workers of the world. I do not know what made me look through my scrap folder, but I found this poem, which I wrote in October of 2009, shortly before I went to Nepal. I cannot remember why I wrote it, what the ‘inspiration’ was, but it is clearly about a vegetable seller struggling to make ends meet, and failing to impress his wife. I dedicate it to all working men out there who are going through tough times, who cannot seem to fill their pockets with happiness, however much they try. I normally don’t publish poems, though I have written quiet a tidy pile of them, but I do hope you enjoy this one.
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The cabbage
He collapses as he pushes the cart to the market
He lies burnt out on the pile of unsold cabbages
Though his weight and sweat ruin the stock.
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she hates the necklaces I buy at clearance salesso I wonder if I married a princess.
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The hat rests on his nose
To shield his face from passing eyes
That shine like suns in hollow skulls.
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she serves me bread without any butterso I wonder if I married my mother
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His battered body yearns for the balm in a smoke.
He takes a crumpled cigarette from his pocket
But his palms, wet with sweat, ruin the matches.
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she makes love to me in autopilotso I wonder if I married a harlot.
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He smashes the hat onto the unsold cabbages
Then the cigarette that he failed to light.
Rage in his feet. He stomps it all into the dirt.
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The poem is dated 4th October 2009. I cannot think of what I was doing on that day that I wrote this poem, but does it capture the mood of a frustrated worker?
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| A fruit seller waits for customers in Lainchor, Kathmandu, Nepal |
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| Salute women for their ability to multi-task. Here is a hair dresser, vegetable seller and baby sitter. |
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| An egg hawker in Lazimpart, Kathmandu, Nepal |
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| Unrecognized labor. A boy hawks firewood in Soroti, Uganda. |
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| Fruits of labor. Sorghum harvest in Katakwi, Uganda. |
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I should be particularly on for this labor day. Normally, writers are not considered as laborers. People always think of a worker as someone who has a boss, and earns a regularly salary. But I think I am a worker too, though I mostly idle around the house farting and hoping for a big break — I think it is coming soon. Finally, after a long struggle, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. I was shortlisted for the prestigious Commonwealth Short Story Prize 2013, for a short story I wrote way back in 2002 but has never been published. You can read about it here. I do hope this short list opens doors for me, and puts me on the path to becoming a writer who earns a living from his fantasies 🙂
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