I am Alexander the Great

From the dim shores of Lake Victoria, where crocodiles dwell,

I awaken my endongo to a stranger's sculpture.

In the days of my breathing, I sang to the lions,

when tales of Alexander in Greece I heard;

I sang of my pride to be his DNA host,

to the laughter of the entire African race.

But the thread of reality spun a deadlier threat,

a storm from Israel that the Palestinians received.

Look down upon Africa! The reincarnation appears,

with an office of flags and glittering decorations.

The son of Yoweri Museveni, the dictator's heir,

with the skin of his land and his madness ablaze.

He crossed the military ranges, daring his mates,

to awaken the enemies where change can be fulfilled.

At the Nile River, the satraps gave way;

through the passes of the steppes, his four-wheeler carries him.

“The Ottoman Empire shall not exist,” he said,

“as the crown of my people shall pass to my head.”

Through the deserts of my mind, the oracle spoke,

calling him a dreamer of all illusions.

From the fact of his birth on the shores of Dar es Salaam,

to his declarations of support for the evils of the world.

I cannot embellish his wish for greatness in this poem,

because it’s written neither for a king nor a role model.

Though I see the lunacy of his dreams,

my mind laughs at his pretentious fantasy.

Let the poet plays this witty song

while the truth of Muhoozi unfolds:

The world is too big for the scope of his lineage,

as we are all descendants of the same heritage.