Mbote Kakinga lived where there was a lot of sand.
No, not at the beach, but in Bechuana Land.
Well, it used to be Bechuana land, now it’s Botswana.
Colonials gave gone; kicked out the Bwana!
Mbote used to be a poacher, a hunter.
Then became a guide, a Tourist Industry punter.
He would guide tourists, with cameras, to see the wild life.
Sometime it would go smoothly, sometimes with strife.
Mbote took a tour group to Mwanza,
To view hippopotami, questions to answer.
A fellow guide, Mbele Kabinga,
Was a most daring soul, sometimes he would linger.
Linger too long near the hippopotami,
He’d been told not to do so, often, and why?

“They can come ashore, charging, and fast!”
“All you will hear is an explosive blast.”
“The river water will flow to the bank like a wave.”
“And, amid such moaning, you’ll be impossible to save!”
But with Mbele, such warnings reminded him of his mother.
In one ear, the danger failing to recover.
Not registering at all, and out the other.

On this particular African day,
Mbele felt frisky, inclined to play.
He boldly walked along the river bank,
Calling to the hippos like some demented crank.
A Hippo bull took exception to this,
Opened his jaws, a fearful abyss.
And unhesitantly charged at Mbele real fast.
Only to frighten him, not for repast!
Mbele endeavoured to step aside,
But was swept up in those jaws, and, sadly died.