In the quaint little town of Butare
Is a haven of welcome and calm,
Where pizzas and hamburgers beckon
And melange is not to be found.
Where service is friendly and rapid
(At least by the standards we know)
And comes with a smile and a welcome
(and ketchup that really does glow!).
Its aisles are piled high with life’s goodness
That try and entice you to sin,
Like succulent takeaway pizzas
And bottles of pineapple gin.
The Lebanese brothers that run it
We trust to look after our needs.
In English, or French, or Swahili
They’re always there ready to please.
As we perch up on high on our terrace
Observing the shoppers below,
We sip on our Fantas and coffee
And linger, not wishing to go.
And when we eventually gather
Our bags and our books and our phones,
It’s not without feeling a little
As if we were leaving our home.
But at least we all know we’ll be back there
The next time we all are in town.
‘Cos the prospect of lunching in MATAR
Would wipe away anyone’s frown.
So let’s drink a toast to our MATAR
And give it the credit that’s due,
Its waitress with apron so orange,
Its ketchup of luminous hue.
Its water all chilled in the cooler,
Samosas all crispy and brown,
Its omelettes so tasty (though pallid),
Its waitress with never a frown!
So if you find yourself in Butare
All thirsty and tired from the road,
Remember – just call in to MATAR,
And let all your worries unload.
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