Jaja said “Mwatta” with a silent m 
“Tuula Wansi,” sit down, “grandchild I’ve cooked a good meal”
And down, I sat
On the prehistoric hand-me-down chairs that encircled our dining table
Rested my forearms on the hand-woven stain-eroded tablecloth
And I brought the cassava to my mouth
To a tongue easily aroused by the flavors of my Jaja’s cooking,
A tongue that stumbled the linguistic hurdles of my Ugandan heritage

Jaja said, “Nkwagala,” with a silent n
“I love you, too,” I would’ve said, but that’s not what she wanted to hear
Jaja waited expectantly for me to bless the food
Profess gratitude and make a martyr of the man on her metal rosary
As a votary, I released a prayer from my lips
A prayer spoken by a tongue raised to be fluent in the Lord’s glory,
A tongue that will be razed to ashes when I’m dismissed from purgatory

Jaja said, “Gw'oyagala” with a silent w.
Is there a girlfriend, she asks
And I know scripture says,
Our country says,
My Jaja says
I wield a tongue that must only meet that of a woman,
A tongue that is doomed to trust too earnestly
Those he believes he’s bound by blood, which is as good as water
Bringing home a son, not a daughter 
And when his own home’s the ground for slaughter
The flagged wavering fag might as well not bother

I feel my tongue say
“Jaja”
He, with a silent s
Is delightful, the woman I love
And I swallow the cassava, infused with blood
From biting down on my treasonous tongue