By Gloria Mwaniga.
Oh Yeah, its evening.
The banker says,
Happy that finally he has a few hours
Away from long queue of clients.
The cobbler puts down his tools of trade
And eagerly pours out the contents of his tin to count,
Ten, twenty and thirty shillings…only
Seven kids and a materialistic wife to go home to
The college girl looks at her watch,
Aarrggh when will this lecture ever end,
she sighs, looking at her watch,
Its Friday evening after all
Time to party, drink and dance.
Hands on hips, she watches the setting sun,
Being a single mom is so hard
Putting on a straight face all day long,
And spending long lonely nights alone,
Tossing and turning
The lady adjusts her belt tightly on her petit waistline,
And adds a little more rouge on her lips
Just a sneak of perfume behind her ears,
She hears the car roar at the gate,
Her heart misses a beat,
She rushes out to meet her lover.
Today is a special evening.
The workaholic husband looks at his watch,
Well, let me put in a few more minutes,
And wind up that report,
Three hours later,
He is locking the office door,
His shoulders sag
At the thought of his nagging, unromantic wife.
The daytime …lovers sigh.
Why are their stolen moments so painfully brief?
Now it’s already evening,
Time to return the hotel keys
And walk back to reality,
To the boring, unexciting routine called life,
The university graduate sighs, frustrated and sad
Another Friday evening,
No calls from prospective employers,
The bug of joblessness
Bit like an untimely frost in mid June
Yet evening must come,
So that every man can face his fears,
And face up to his own limitations.
That the body may rest,
In its own imperfection.