Despair? No. Emptiness. No! Fancy? Maybe doom … maybe fortitude.
Mourned at the graves in the European Cemetery in Entebbe. Saw the face of inevitability, not in my mortality, but again and again in the shameful decrepitude of my nation.
They are not my zombies, but they are. Not my past, but my wretchedness.
… When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
- William Shakespeare; from Sonnet LXIV
- Entebbe European Cemetery: The perfect idyllic resting place …
... so idllyic that a shallow, open public piss palace has been erected on it.
***
zom.bie noun \ˈzäm-bē\
- : my past, my reality, my end
- : a mixed drink made of several kinds of rum, liqueur, and fruit juice
The defacing of the graves is a reminder that in my country, nothing lasts ...
... not even our zombies.
