By Guest Writer
Poem: We celebrated the arrival of the tarmac roads.
Little did we know that accident was her cousin.
We thought we were going to cruise.
But you came to bruise and make our homes, grounds of soil, and mounds of graves, courtesy of your claim.
We grieve, our sons and daughters.
Who come off the motorbikes?
Crashing onto the road surface.
Lucky ones leaving the scenes alive.
While others are gathered in pieces.
You have become a slaughterhouse.
With stains of blood spread across your lanes.
Like in Murchison Falls National Park, where others are shot dead.
Like the lake, where others drown.
People are dying so fast without being nursed by their loved ones.
Survivors limp.
With broken limbs and skulls Locals weep.
They cannot believe that they are just accidents.
The illiterates say that there is a cause.
That it is witchcraft, ‘bulogo’.
The elites say it is spiritual.
That is fate, nchwamu gya Ruhanga.
I come to say.
Drive-by drinking is killing us.
Phones as we drive, ride, or walk are a suicide.
That call and message can wait.
If not, it may be your last one to take. Remove the headsets; there is no music in the grave.
Boda bodas Riders.
Don’t compete for the fastest ride.
Your life may be the price that you won’t live to see.
You would rather be late than speed up to become late.
The author is Wilson Kiiza, the Executive Director of Bugungu Heritage and Information Centre, an organization that documents Bagungu culture and history.
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