The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

January 5, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Pixabay image

 

By

Mbizo Chirasha

 

Drum Roll – Pandamu, Pandamu, Pandamu – Pa Pa, Pangu, Pangu, Papangu, pako, pedu, pangu, the 2018 drum beat. Compliments of the great New Year Comrades. Hello 2018. 2018 left Grace and the Elder Comrade in 2017 waiting for the rains for a proper Gushungo harvest. Yes time is both our healer and the killer.

A lot of interesting stories, we enter the New year with new and militant tenants at both State House and the Munhumutapa Dome. It’s amazing, really amazing and interesting news. To our Zimbabwean 2018 President Mnangagwa, we believe that a new hat must be placed on a renewed head, which means a nice hair cut or something better of course.

The Brave and Solidarity Voices call for a non-violent Zimbabwe, a non-intimidating Zimbabwe. We are looking forward to several changes in the economic, political and social landscape. We are looking forward for tolerance. Down with political tribalism, discrimination of people because of their political affiliation. We need a new political and economic fresh air. We again call for a serious opposition that is not bent on just getting perks, positions and creating fissures.

Let your Alliances take the governing to party to a challenging task, Down with violence, frivolity and factions. We need a mature and a tolerant politics. We need parliamentarians who respect voters (citizens). We are not happy as your citizens at the moment because of frivolity in parliament and in our streets. Give us hope and be real torch bearers.

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign will always continue with the struggle to reshape Zimbabwe through poetry and verse. Thank you to Solidarity Voices from Sierra Leone, Nigeria, Ghana, Kenya, Pakistan, United States and India and of course our Brave Voices from Zimbabwe. ALUTA CONTINUA Tuck Magazine- Together We Rise!- Mbizo Chirasha

 

 

 

 

THE SELL-OUT

 

 

Was born starving, mama’s lips cracked from thirst,

On her torn tired back my life comes first,

Hospital 30 km on foot might as well just hire a hearse,

Calves swollen, feet blistered this life is a mess,

Giving birth is criminal mama is now hell’s mistress,

On a placard she writes I have had enough of this stress,

Toi toing in the street, next thing she opens her eyes and sees a nurse, Black eye, broken ribs, labelled an insurgent standing up for her rights was a curse, Unpatriotic is da law’s verse,

A treason trial they say is wat she deserve,

Cause like a sell-out is the way she behave,

But tell me who is the sell-out?

Aluta! continua a boy of 14 screaming,

Indoctrination of a brain that can’t comprehend the meaning,

Feeling, like for my people even death I am willing,

For freedom I’ll accept bullets and napalm like shillings,

Believe me, my father died like a dog so for that I am killing,

At 22 a veteran of the struggle the damage I suffered no one is treating, Promise after promise day after day who is the system fooling,

Decades later I am still a slave of the system sinking,

Stomach empty destitute living so I am asking,

How did we come to this the economy stalling,

My contribution to a people’s liberation they questioning,

Cause I dare ask how did we come to this they giving me a warning,

All my private lobbying,

Hoping they fix this disease but they ignoring,

Like an Eagle soaring my dismay is growing,

I take to other means to get them noticing,

This plight of my people and children calling,

I sold out the struggle is what they saying,

But tell me who is the sell-out?

Born free they say I was,

A better life they say I am enjoying,

Educated is what they say I am,

I should be grateful for this life,

Jobless, penniless,

All that investment in education got me nowhere,

When I ask my elders they say I am ungrateful,

When I look to the other side they say I am a sell-out,

Because I dare ask when will happiness knock on my door,

They are rich as we all know but they are still haggling like a vendor at the market place searching for more, I want just enough but when I ask they declare war,

Calling me an anarchist for demanding what’s rightfully my right, right? For refusing to be party to the depletion intention of the nation’s wealth I am labelled a sell out!

I thus stand before you man and before my creator,

How am I a sell-out?

Because I toil on the land deep in the marginalised rural areas for no monetary gain, For an ungrateful system that offers me peanuts for my sweat and pain, That gives me the peanuts when it desires,

Without a thought for my urgent need to make some peanut butter for my children’s watery porridge, Whilst their kids bloat on steaks with cool distilled water in the fridge, How am I a sell-out?

When humiliation was my parents’ daily bread sending me to school, Daddy paying the fees so his son wouldn’t be labelled a fool,

Tears in their eyes when he capped my head now that was cool,

Only to be jobless and roaming the streets the system is cruel,

But their children with poor passes get posted to parastatals and high office, Yeah we see what you doing thinking we aren’t notice,

How then am I a sell-out?

Is it because I stand in que at the country’s poorly funded hospitals, Whilst your children fly for five star treatment abroad,

How am I a sell-out?

When I am educated at the local universities that you so praise, Claiming it’s the best education system in the world,

Your child at the slightest hint of higher education flies to the moon, How am I a sell-out?

When I drive a small 2 litter engine in pot hole ridden roads to work, when you drive turbo powered V8 engines to a dinner party next door, How am I a sell-out?

When I am arm twisted into bribery and corruption,

When in actual fact it is the system doing the arm twisting,

How am I a sell-out?

Is it because I noticed that the poor are getting poorer,

The system favouring the richer feeding on the flesh of the poor,

How am I a sell-out?

Because I opened my mouth to highlight the fear in my neighbour’s bones when the youths walk past his gate, National security services personalised to protect the elite at any rate, How am I the sell-out?

When selective law enforcement selected me today,

Because I decided to question the decisions made yesterday,

How am I a sell-out?

Is it because I am sitting on the dusty street corner in the ghetto singing your praises, yet I refuse to kill my brothers whom you say are no longer your sons but your enemies, How am I a sell-out?

Is it because I protest against a system that’s under sanctions deciding to sanction me, Or because I work for the fulfilment of the dreams and ideology of the liberation, Yet at every turn you act as my hurdle pushing for a counter revolution, I wonder,

Who is the Sell-out here?

 

 

(By Aleck T.Mabenge  – I am a passionate poet who writes for the love of poetry and as a way to have my voice heard on a broad range of issues. My poetry is influenced by the socio-economic-politica­l issues of the day worldwide. My hope is my message reignites the dream of our fathers of a prosperous, peaceful Zimbabwe whose people look forward to brighter future free of social ills, disease and injustice)

 

 

 

 

NEO-LIBERALISM

 

 

Neo-liberalism

When capitalism fails the rich

(it always fails the poor), a jism

reinvigorates the corporate bitch:

let’s call it bow-wow socialism.

Good ol’ Uncle Sam, he saves the big banks

with tax-payers’ money, tax-payers’ sweat;

Wall Street billionaires, give him thanks

for winkling you fraudsters out of debt!

Dog knot socialism for plutocrats,

the broker-dealers’ contingency plan;

ill-gotten gains made by ill-gotten brats

devilling themselves in the frying pan.

Where Bob’s your uncle, the Reserve Bank feeds

cronyism, and the First Lady’s needs.

 

 

 

MANIFESTO

 

 

In addition to our dear spouses

and our allocation of small houses,

we will have an escort in every town,

growth-point and village: novice, hand-me-down,

school girl, slut… whatever takes our fancy.

We will relegate to sties all nancy

boys, to kennels all dykes, who will be cured,

in God’s good time, well and truly skewered,

by patriotic soldiers with long poles.

Sell-outs will be buried in ant bear holes

after overturning, or hitting trees.

All judges will be given factories

to asset-strip; and Generals will get mines,

with free access to anything that shines.

All policemen loyal to the Party

will be allowed to keep their bribes. Hearty

support will be given to servile priests,

and Chinese will be entertained with feasts

using cattle from sycophantic whites:

Rhodesians with insatiable appetites

for Four-by-fours, biltong, safari camps,

the nostalgic smell of paraffin lamps.

Aliens will be cast into outer

darkness. The First Lady will obtain her

beauty products from Harrods and Dubai.

We will encourage white people to die

because it’s only then that we can trust

Blair’s kith and kin. “Eternity or Bust”

Is our slogan. We affirm that bullets

are mightier than ballots, and true lies

make a nation healthy, wealthy, and wise.

We will double the strength of the forces,

give them live ammunition and horses

to crush traitors who disturb our cities

(especially girls who bare their titties.)

We will not tolerate freedom of speech,

freedom of assembly, freedom of each

and every citizen to criticize

our Excellency: all knowing; strong ties

with Kabila; Africa’s Jesus!

Nations prostrate themselves when he sneezes,

and the world entire is shaken to bits

when Big Boy squats on his people – and shits.

 

 

(By John Eppel – John lives in Bulawayo and has 18 publications of poetry and prose to his name, including collaborations with Julius Chingono, Philani Nyoni, and Togara Muzanenhamo)

 

 

 

 

FOR PARTIES

 

 

We don’t form political parties

To squander in birthday parties

Among a few frontline families

Not for mountainous party cakes

But to take stock, weigh stakes

And ensure baskets of common food

Are equitably shared for common good

Liberation Party, having fought for us

Should not become a price to buy us

Flaming Party, stop sucking our land

Like bedbugs; vomit our motherland

So we brighten our oppressed faces

So potable springs gurgle in all places

 

 

(By Nsah Mala – an award-winning poet and writer, motivational speaker and youth leader from Cameroon. He is the author of four poetry collections: Chaining Freedom (2012), Bites of Insanity (2015), If You Must Fall Bush (2016), and Constimocrazy: Malafricanising Democracy (2017). His short story “Christmas Disappointment” won a prize from the Cameroonian Ministry of Arts and Culture in 2016. In December 2016, his short story “Fanta from America” received a “Special Mention” in a BAKWA Magazine short story competition. In July 2017, the internationally acclaimed and award-winning Franco-Ivorian writer Véronique Tadjo quoted his French poem “Marché mondial des maladies” in her novel En compagnie des hommes. His French poem, “Servants de l’Etat”, won the prix spécial e-cahiers littéraire de Malraux.org in December 2017. His poems and other writings have appeared (are forthcoming) in anthologies and magazines like Stories for Humanity, Modern Research Studies, Spill words Press, Tuck Magazine, Dissident Voice, Scarlet Leaf Review, Better than Starbucks Poetry, Miombo Publishing, Parousia Magazine, Vanguard HIV/AIDS and Sexuality Awareness Anthology 2017, The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign, and Best ‘New’ African Poets 2017. His French poetry collection is forthcoming)

 

 

 

 

NEW YEAR

 

 

New Year…

Year after year….

Life turns away its pages

Burnt away a few weeds

Planted and watered new seeds

Bestowed with fine dreamy buds

Sprinkles fragrant flowers

Honoured with sweet fruits

Never stops showing paths

Never gives up teaching facts

Ever fresh lessons….!

As precious as diamonds…!

To cope up the storms and avalanches

To accept the mysterious songs of life

Smiles coated with sorrows

Sorrows covered with silences

Profits flourished with frauds!

Sparks and perks popup here and there

Bubbly lives foamy waves

Whipped well all ideals

Whirlwinds blew off all dreams

Hopes bloom at the threshold of new year

Tossing all sands of deserts

Breathed new birds with new spirit

Into the veins of new year

You always create situations

You also create solutions

We run, jump and galloped to get you

We strive hard to be what we are…

You strike us hard at the root of heart

To test our purity in words and deeds!

 

 

(By Nagasuseela Panchumarthi – Bi-lingual Poet, Editor, Critic, Translator, Organizes Poetry Fests, workshops, Summercamps, Poster designer from India)

 

 

 

 

MODERN WORLD

 

 

Claudius has lost his treachery!

Macbeth has lost his ambition!

Cassius has lost his envy!

Satan has lost his pride!

They are all here in this world!

Not one alone, but all !

But all in one or all in all!

They made Christ,

Mohammed and Krishna

Powerless to be born again!

 

 

(By Gopichand Paruchuri – Poet – Lecturer in English – Interest in Literature – Keen on Travelling, Head of the Department of English and Vice Principal at JKC College, Guntur,Studied MA in English at Acharya Nagarjuna University)

 

 

 

 

OH AFRICA

 

 

Stop the isolation

We are not your accusation

Like you we are human

But from us you ran

Stood the discrimination

We are also a nation

We are all human

Why treating like animal

Our eyes always rain

Why Africa always in pain

why here is backwardness

Of all the goodness

We ve been here happily

And also peacefully

Not until you came

Hidden was your aim

For long period is slavery

Here filled with misery

This is too much

For us it crust

Our children are dying

Only us know the feeling

Yet we are still strong

End it will despite the long

You present us as inferior

while you as superior

Like you we are also his image

In Him firm is our courage

The reports of ours are negative

Despite the more positive

The truth you turn

In stigmatized we live on and on

Here civilization start (s)

From astrology to art

Great we are

Powerful we are

Love and peace in our heart (s)

Always standing for that

We are courageous

We are not a virus.

 

 

(By Ezzidio Rahman Conteh – Born Abdulrahman Conteh with the pen name Ezzidio Rahman Conteh, is a young writer and poet from Sierra Leone. He is currently a law student at the IMAT College through the University of London International Program. He is passionate about peace and human rights and believes his writings will help bring change. As most of his writings are focusing on peace and human rights. His writings have appeared in many literary journals both print and online)

 

 

 

 

WINE

 

 

They were dreaming not singing

as they drank the first flowering

hoping and thinking holding on to the future

as it rolled over the hillsides

They stepped onto the vines and

fell before their brothers

the sun tasted fine the fire of the moon

stole their hearts, they were fine

Sleep came easily morning

brought a new understanding

cut vines crush the grapes

plug holes in the inner light

they dreamed but did not sing

only later did the clouds hovel

rain fell they lifted their cups

over steppes folded desire, laughed

Sunlight tasted like a beautiful thought

drifting down from sacred precincts

fields would continue to glow

stole their hearts, they were fine

They were dreaming not singing

as they covered their lips in joy

thinking hoping cutting the vines

and pressing the juice in time

 

 

(By Neeli Cherkovski – Our solidarity voice from California, United States)

 

 

 

 

IT IS THAT I WISH TO HOLD

 

 

A peaceful nation where human rights are not violated

Transition of power without shading of blood

Where our highly qualified military serves interests of people not individuals

Where we can criticise stupid decisions, made by our ignorant leadership

I don’t wish to be in a country; where politics is a vehicle of violence

Violence leading to loss of life and property

Not to talk of our great nation’s integrity

I want to be in Zimbabwe where everyone is treated as a Zimbabwean

It is that I wish for my Zimbabwe

 

 

(By Tinayeishe Edwell McDaniel – An ancient young voice who believes who believes words can be used to get through life obstacles. Who in the time where almost everyone has lost hope of Africa being changed from dark to light continent, I still brace up to speak from ancient language of the old voices as young person with hope of Africa)

 

 

 

 

BOUND BY BITTERNESS

 

 

The trauma of injustice

lives in our soil and soul;

we die of dreaded disease –

bitter toxins contaminate

the human flesh we consume

as our staple diet.

Vigilante barbarians and

self-seeking justice

has destroyed our humanity;

we have forgotten how to

feel and feed others.

We are too wound up in

our own pit of despair

and inflected ferocity to listen.

Our ears are open but our insight shut –

Hate has infested our enslaved auras

and calcified our bones.

We use our words to

slay not save;

we observe not that

we kill the wounded

who suffer our same fate,

for we are too tightly strung.

Ironically stuck to a mental rung

in our arbitrary frenzy

to unseat the sachem.

We cannot be healed

by intro-focus but by feeling;

feeling the fear and pain

of those who travail

as we too endure

and wail in our trouble

We must feel not as fools

but as the freed.

We reason not as slaves

but as saints.

We fight as victors not victims

for a soldier who fixates on death

is already defeated.

He who conquers has trained

his eye on the living.

We overcome when our swords are raised against pain not people;

for what shall we do with our own rant that obsesses with vengeance; to rip the heart of

the cantankerous viper

who halted our treasured lineage –

are we too then not killers.

We only truly heal once we embody

the writhing and wounding

of massacred souls around us

who are colourless in death;

once our hearts are touched

by injustice not race.

Our fight for freedom

is about them;

It is in looking through the panes

and pangs of a wider world

and knowing we have been called

to carry the dying and to

uplift the frail and falling.

Only then will we be free.

When we believe that

only those black like us

suffer the fiery furnace –

we become the masters

of our own bondage.

Hatred has never liberated a slave –

it is his thinking and

awakened sense of worth

that snaps the chains from his feet.

it is his hunger for peace

that has him walking free.

There is deliverance for those

who find peace in pain –

it takes time to die to self

but that is what we must fight for;

for Madiba’s wisdom.

A wisdom that pierces

the darkness not the dead;

for our eyes are trained

on our victory

not our war;

Let our mourning therefore

birth a Madonna who

portrays a victory

wrought in toil.

 

 

(By Beulah Kleinveldt/Jambiya – Jambiya is an emotive writer and storyteller who weaves the tragedy and victory of the human experience into a tapestry of memorable imagery and metaphor. She speaks with honesty on the socio-spiritual challenges of our time. Jambiya’s works are trail to a feast for those accustomed to the jaded perfunctory cleverness of modern wordsmith)

 

 

 

 

THE VOICE OF Temitope Aina

 

 

As the phoenix rises from the ashes of the flames

I rise again in a beautiful blaze

I rise from the debris of past mistakes

On the wings of love my heart will race

Traversing the realms of grace and harmony

I awaken in joy from nights of sorrowing

Everything must become new for me

My gaze and eyesight focused still

My wings pruned accustomed to heights

For this year I soar beyond the clouds

Hordes of darkness assail me in vain

For I rise full of vigour into celestial space

Above the hate and pain and past grievances

Into love with strength exploiting opportunities

My phoenix leaves the old year behind

My bird joins the eagles in their flight

I wish you new paths and strength to fulfil

As 2018’s doors open for my wings.

 

 

(By Temitope Aina– Born August 16, 1978, studied Accounting at the University of Lagos, Nigeria, love writing poetry, reading and classical music, married with three children)

 

 

 

 

IAM A GRIOT- GRIOTS OF THE SUN

 

I

 

We are children of peasants, sons of the soil suffocating

In poverty of nyamasoka and in the hunger of mutota

We are griots of karimatundu, our bellies

Are empty and our voices are hoarse from singing rhymes of grief

We are griots of tshaka, the black panther,

Griots of lobengula- the prince of the exodus,

Nehanda the of the goddess of the spear

We are children of Ntsoanatsatsi, the rising sun, those

Of thabatsabatswana, ancestor of the mountain

Children of murenga, gods of chimurenga.

 

II

 

I am an African griot,

I sing of Mau Mau and the maji-maji

I am a griot of acacia

I am the poet of baobab

My palms carry the land of nzinga

My breath smell the beauty of the land

land loved and hated

I am a griot of kimathi and sarowiwa

I am griot born out of silence and memories of the land,

this land of sun and moon

I am the sound of the beating drums, the child of wind

I am a griot beating drums, my feet, cracking, dancing, pounding dust for the ghosts of my land

I love the creases and dimples of this land

When this land yawn for rains, griots sing to the golden sun and the silver moon

Crocodiles swallow the summer and its scent.

I am the griot of the black sun and the black river,

Where crocodiles swallow poverty and its shadows.

 

 

(By Mbizo Chirasha – the Originator/Instigator of the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign( Brave Voices Poetry Journal-Tuck Magazine , Word Guerrillas Protest Poetry Journal – Zimsphere Magazine, Poets Free Zimbabwe blog- MiomboPublishing) Mbizo Chirasha is the participant of International Human Rights Arts Festival , Exiled in Africa Program in New York , United States. The Poet is a member of Global Arts and Political Alliance)

 

 

 

 

MY NEW YEAR RESOLVE

 

 

Plant ten trees some zinnia flowers grow

For my violin the lost back pin find –

The rug I did not buy and which is sold

Another of equal or better weave look,

That planter I missed search again

A book I could not get save for that –

And resume my hobbies of twenty years,

My tennis racket upgrade shoe spot

The nearby gym for two day a week work

Subscribe. My camera load a class avail,

Buy paint and easel and begin painting,

My guitar repair and a rebab order –

Two books of poems in the year publish

Of course quality time with family spend

With few friends ups and downs talk,

A certain travel and my eyes with scenes

Feast. With loves my heart speak out –

Few prayers long sleeps and laugh

A new perfume a tie and a white shirt

And be brave enough to give some gifts,

Think alone and savour deep dusks

Wake early to begin my work in time,

And gratitude be a resolve of the year.

 

 

(By Sadiqullah Khan – Dr Sadiqullah Khan is a gifted poet of immense insights and creativity. Writing on a range of subjects his themes are social, spiritual and politically aware. Looking the domains of day to day living, delving deep into the sufferings and joys he seems to be the voice of dispossessed and the vast majority of poor he passionately identifies, yet his art touches the high mark of existential writing, unique in style and composition, he appears to lead his own genre. He belongs to Wana, South Waziristan in Pakistan)

 

 

 

 

CHAKATANGA
CHAKACHENJEDZA

 

 

Chakatanga ndo chakachenjedza

Chakavatonga ndo kuvatambudza

Chakavaranga ndo kuvadembedza

Chakavapanga ndo kuvaparadza

Chakavasenga ndo kuvadonhedza

Chakati chavapiringa ndo kuvasvereredza

Chakati chavaporonga ndo kuvayeredza

Chakati chavasunga ndo kuvaregedza

Chakati chavavhiringa ndo

kuvanyengetedza

Chakavadzvoronga ndo kuvamedza

Chakavanhonga ndo kuvaderedza

Chakavatunga ndo chakavashungurudza

Chakaita sechoda kuvaronga izvo

chaivaveteredza

Chakaita sechinopenga izvo chaivasesedza

Kuita sechavafunga izvo chaida hacho

kuvatunga

Kuita sechovapembedza izvo chaida

kuvamedza

Chakachenjedza ndo chakatanga.

 

 

(By Prosper Kavunika – an Afrocentric social commentator who is provocative in his approach but at the same time advocating to bring back that decency we once had)

 

 

 

 

AVARICE

 

 

Avarice

In a public service vehicle

He called me

He urged me

‘Only one seat’

‘we are now moving’

Collected my baggage

Like a bag of potatoes sandwiched

‘To Caesar give his due!’

Tripped because it’s Christmas!

The jalopy meandered

The snail speed on farmed roads

Potholes that can dam lakes

The blue traffic thieves waved……

‘Your license,

Your seat belts….

Your speed governor

And they shaked hands

Smiles of camaraderie!

Like sardines in a crate we felt

The horrendous accident to witness

In the morgue some ending

In the hospital others to enjoy

Broken ribs and wounds

Courtesy of the good enforcement.

Like the day Dawn’s am certain

The morgue chaps demanded

To be greased

To be oiled

A scratch on the back

And the dead must pay…..

Avarice that bleeds

To develop our nation

Avarice that is piety

Avarice…!

 

 

(By Patrick Kamau – a graduate in literature and special education from Kenyatta university. He hails from Murang’a County in Kenya. Currently he is a special education teacher. Kamau loves reading, making friends and writing poetry. His dream is to publish an anthology in collaboration with other like-minded poets)

 

 

 

 

ARANI SONG

 

 

Arani

remember songs you stole from your father’s pouch

&

the way you made our bed in the form of those reggae

how you kicked my lips in kisses and said in a hush

‘Africans a-liberate Zimbabwe

I n I a-liberate Zimbabwe’

on your tongue Zimbabwe became a dream

soft

&

you would say

‘soft dreams are scared of being broken by nightmares’

&

I would weave another dream in the night of your ears

‘Africa unite

Africa unite

cos we are moving right outta babylon’

you and I became a volume in the voice of the dreams

in Zimbabwe, we kissed mountains and left prints

we dreamt laughter and cuddles

Arani before your exodus to death

I held your kisses in two eyes

your body and heart

Zimbabwe and Africa

&

I remember the last song your deathbed sang

“If a-fire make it burn”

&

I sang along

“make it burn

make it burn”

I picked the Wailers and your silence hailed my wails

Arani

our dreams are sleeping with Marley

I am aging

&

I see no stones rising

there is a small bone in the chord of our revolution

and I still sing Bob Marley around your grave every night

in memory of our songs in his mouth

and the Zimbabwe you died loving.

 

 

(By Oko Owi Ocho Afrika – a Nigerian poet. Most of his writings are centre around Africa. He annexes literature as a medium of emancipating the continent. He works as a Sub-editor with SEVHAGE Publisher. He is studying English in Benue State University)

 

 

 

 

SADZA REKUSUZUMIRIRA

 

 

Sadza rekusuzumirira

Mbabvu ndichiverengwa

Nepwere ndichisekwa

Aiwa ndaneta.

Shangu dzakapera,

Manyatera ndokutevera

Kufambira iro sadza –

Kudai raisevewa

Nenyama nemuto wenhoro

Unosevewa neni na Popi wangu

Ndaiti pada pamwe?

Hunzi hongu wakasuzumira

Asi kuhukura kwako

Sandi kwewedu wepano watinoziva Bhoki

Pfeka chikwangwari, zvikada wasuzumira pasipako.

Ko, iri bhasikiti hamurione here, kwarinobva?

Ko iri bhero kurembera muhuro mangu

Mati ndaba here kana kunhonga,

Kana kuita rekugadzira ndoga?

Nerweseri, sadza racho munorasa

Asi kana nemuti wose moisa muhombodo, mumapesi;

Kujikichira, kukora kudai, sandiko here kwazvinobva,

Ini muchindiverenga mbabvu, dzave ngani zviya?

Munoti pano ndakauya kuzokupedzerai sadza?

Iro rimbori misuwa mingani?

Kana risina usavi ndigotemura.

Kudai mabhini aikora

Ekwenyu aitadza kana kutyora mizura.

Regai kuda kusvibisa zita remusha nehunhu hwenyu

Husina hunhu, nairori sadza

Ramunombunyikidza muhapwa dzenyu

Muchinokandira kuzvirugwi zvenyu ndizvo senguruve zvikorere!

Idyai zvenyu, ini ndiri pamutsanyo;

Ipai zvenyu vanokodzera, vakodzeki, ini handikodzeki;

Kana ndoda izvozvo –

Tanga wanyorerwa nekudhindirwa pasi –

Pada tadzokera muRudhizha!

Ko, umbori ani panyama yehuku?

Haukodzeri kuve kana nzondora zvayo!

Tikakuti zvemukati tinenge tatokunyara –

Zvikada hausi kana nemunhenga pano!

Saka siri mwachewe,

Chimbovhurira vamwe nzira

Iwe hauna sadza pano –

Gara wafamba usati watirutsira nenzara!

Apa chekurutsa chacho

Mudumbu hautorina –

Unotifendera, apa kwakazara –

Haungambowanirwa kana nzvimbo yekuzorora.

Kudai ndaida kuimba,

Kare ndakaimba:

“Monday – handina kudya sadza pano,

Ndakarira tsombori!

 

 

(By Richmore Tera – Poet, short story writer, playwright, actor and freelance journalist who once worked for Zimpapers (writing for The Herald, Sunday Mail, Kwayedza, Manica Post, H-Metro) as a reporter but currently focusing on his creative work. Currently, he is the Associate Editor of Chitungiwza Central Hospital’s weekly online newsletter. His works have been read in Zimbabwe, Africa and the Dispora in various publications which he contributes to. He is the author of the monograph, “Here Leaves Silently Fall, a collection of poems, which was published by Arts Initiates in Namibia in 2009)

 

 

 

 

CHRISTINE

 

 

Her sobbing eyes reveal pain

She brought him a daughter and a son

But now remorse washes her love as rain

If she could wait it’s only in vain

He ran away from responsibility

Only to bring misery and uncertainty

She have to father the children too

Taking a husband’s role, who proved being a fool

Yes, Christine sob when she reminisce

How she fell in love with a hypocrite

When he used to pretend to care

Until she had love to share

He left them fatherless

Without a man to call, dad

As if he was dead

He chose to abandon his family when he’s needed most

Christine have to pay a single mother’s cost.

 

 

(By Sydney Saize – A freedom fighter spearheaded piercing the heart of misrule maladmistration, corruption and injustice. Socio-political commentator only narrates the political ills and suffers the consequences)

 

 

 

 

2018

 

 

2018 a new year to you.

2018 an illusion to me.

I see no numbers at all.

I feel no changes as well.

Lord!

help them obliterate

this insanity from the edge of their mentality.

They see a breakthrough

where a barricade never existed before.

They’re much expectant this time

of getting established,

but I don’t know how!

With their feet planted in air.

2018 a continuity in the discontinuity of 2017 to you.

2018 just a numerical din in my ears.

No concrete changes you should notice.

You dream of a revolution.

I know of the same being

of you and i,

nature and all,

as before.

 

 

(By Blessing T Masenga – a bold word guerrilla, a fiery poet through his writings tirelessly and boldly seek to strip nude the oppression and the violations of basic human rights)

 

 

 

 

 

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

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