What hurt that lad was not the mock of exams
which so brightly highlighted on his calendar
did tense him stiff.
Nor was it the darkness that night
when just as he’d gotten the pen on his page
power did suddenly chuck
leaving him, pen and books no alternative but
to find some other means of illumination
if still their nocturnal meeting was to be.
What hurt that lad was not the silence of desertion
which greeted him as when he’d moved for a candle
he found the canteen long locked and not a soul astir.
What hurt that lad was when his cell phone rang
when at last he’d retired to bed and was slumbering fast
dreaming the happy hour he’d eat lunch with his girl the day to break,
And opening the new come sms, lo!
"am sorry dea but am not gon come at lunch 2moro.
I got xam at 2 and I got read. gd nyt."
© by Hillary Kuteisa.
Used with the author’s permission.