After bouts of kachasu
we sleep drunk
to wake up in running battles
with hangovers
that seek refuge
in our heads.

We find no peace
in this village
protected by spirits
not of our ancestors
but from the bottle.

Flies invade
in ghostly numbers
armed with missiles
we lie and die
on our stools
in toilets full of diarrhoea.

Our crowded numbers
flare tempers
fire impatience
to seek refuge elsewhere.