My Grandpa Lusaka Poem by Preston Mwiinga

In Lusaka, my grandpa's domain,
Once mighty, he stood tall and plain.
Not as bright as Luansha, his brother fair,
Yet smart he stood, with pride to bear.

No picnics or leisure, he sought not the game,
Still, his children flocked, he was not to blame.
No gambling or gold, like Copperbelt's hold,
Yet he had his part, his story told.

Away from Western and Northwestern land,
Yet he built his mansions, grand and grand.
His money stashed, safe in BOZ's hold,
No hunger felt, his story told.

No fisher's net, like Luapula's song,
Yet fish he had, to him it belonged.
Central's rise and fall, like Idi Amin's tale,
Still, he stood by, without fail.

But now, wrinkles line his weary face,
Weak and feeble, in a weary place.
His investments fade, like a haunted house,
Cholera rampant, kids roam the streets, no spouse.

I long to see my grandpa rise,
To clean his streets, beneath blue skies.
To care for him, to maintain his pride,
Or else, to watch him slowly slide.

Let's restore the smile, to grandpa's face,
Clean his streets, with care and grace.
Maintain his investments, hold them tight,
For Lusaka's glory, let's fight the fight.