By Nyana Kakoma | October 17th, 2014

Photo by Edward Echwalu
Photo by Edward Echwalu

Until there is no ear to hear the prophets.
It shall come to pass
That as long as men pursue themselves
In the pursuit of happiness
In the pursuit of dominance
In the pursuit of gratification
That they shall only destroy one another
Until there is no ear to hear the prophets.


For the white man shall drain the black man’s land
The black man shall sell his brother for some silver coins
The Christian shall preach their Jesus as long as his coffers are full
The Muslim shall use his coffers to destroy the Jew
The feminist shall denigrate the man
The man shall subjugate the woman
The father will provoke his child to wrath
The child will rebel against his father
Until there is no ear to hear the prophets.


The irie man shall harvest his leaves
The Mexican man shall sell these leaves
The American man shall kill for these leaves turned to powder
And some unknown teenager shall acquire a masterful addiction
And smite his veins with needles
And lay in his couch for hours
And drown out every other hint of life
Until there is no ear to hear the prophets.


The media man shall broadcast the good news of sex
And shall invite the poor Hispanic to bare her body
Even the desperate black girl shall come
With her white sisters as anchors of this salvation
And men shall read this gospel
And empty their loins
And lose their minds
Until there is no ear to hear the prophets.


Indeed the weak and even the strong
Shall not suffer this unfair tension
And the gun will seduce the host
Albeit it shall be the bomb
Worse still the gas that kills
And many shall fall at their feet
And cower in despair
When the winds and pungent smell of death
Fill their eyes with tears and mouths with wails
Until there is no ear to hear the prophets.


As long as men shall pursue themselves
There can only be one end,
And this end with a scythe appears
But its forms and cloth are a varied lot
It will come as famine, as disease
As the wars that ruin fertile lands
It will come as murder in the streets
Dissension in the bungalow homes
And there will be division even unto death
And no one will be able to use their ears to hear the prophets.


Joel Benjamin Ntwatwa loves art and its aesthetics. Keen on poetry, prose and drama in that order. He has been a silent observer of the Ugandan literary scene for over two decades and is planning to add his own work to it. Currently, his prose and poetry is available on Hope…Never Runs Dry.

Read his other poem: Becoming A Man


  1. Carol Beyanga
    October 20, 2014           Reply

    Wow. A beautiful way of putting this across…

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