The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

April 27, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Albert González Farran/UNAMID photo

 

By

Mbizo Chirasha

 

 

Drumbeat- “Raising Mukondi” Phase1 (Brave voices Poetry Journal 42 –The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign is this time of the year in partnership with the Campio Burns Group- “ From Ashes of the Fire”.  We are in solidarity with the burn survivors, Solidarity with Victims of Xenophobia, domestic and political violence, we are in solidarity with victims and survivors of burns, burning and domestic violence, we are in solidarity with the victors who managed to pull through defying the aftermath, scars, pain and trauma.

 

We say write it, say it, talk about it, tell a story. We say poetry heals and Words are a form of therapy. Let Poets from across the globe write on this CAUSE alongside victims of burns, violence, xenophobia and refugees’ maltreatment. Let’s tell our story through poetry, testimonials and flash fiction.

 

The Intervention is offered space at the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign Facebook platform (100 thousand poets for peace-Zimbabwe on Facebook). Campio Burns Group –“From Ashes of the Fire” is founded by Beulah Faith Kay, an advocate peace, life skills coach, Poet and a literary arts activist. She works alongside other great people around the world. The organisation is doing great through integrating burn survivors into communities as telling their story.

 

We are proud to say that poetry is a refreshing form of therapy that serves heals scars, wounds and burns from inner to the outer. We continue to invite our poets, new voices, regular voices, victims and now victors to send through poetry above mentioned Causes and Themes to MBIZO CHIRASHA. Thank you Nigeria, Kenya, South Africa, Pakistan, Cameroon, India, Zimbabwe, United States of America, Liberia and Zimbabwe for taking part.  We are looking forward to have more poets in the next 5 set of journals, journals.

Here is a brave mouthful from Beulah Kay, the Founder of Campio Burns Group- “ From Ashes of the Fire”-“ “Raising Mukondi” is a Campio Burns Group project (www.campioburns.blogspot.pe) partnered by the “Zimbabwe We Want Poetry” Campaign led by Mbizo Chirasha.

 

The project is a consequence of Campio’s “Face to Face with burns” Campaign and bears evidence of global awareness and the literary activism of poets and writers across the world. Activists who have been touched by the stigma and brutality of burns abuse of refugees, women and children.

 

Their pens speak and their ink never dries. It calls for the world to listen and cries out for xenophobia and burns abuse and stigma to stop! It cries out. This project has taught me that anyone can be burned… at anytime and anywhere anyhow. #awareness Edgar Langeveldt – recipient of the Prince Claus Award – Mbizo Chirasha.

 

 

 

 

BURNT

 

 

When life dealt me its cards I got burned;

New dawn new era;

To be celebrated not, for every day in the mirror I am reminded;

The pain, the hurt, the why me in every scar;

Marks of the unfairness of life as for me fire decided;

Flames screaming burn, child burn, but I survived.

 

The fuel of that pain only the universe knows;

How and why, I can’t say;

Friends I had, turned into foes;

Dreams of an even skin, even only when with others I play;

It is not love but pity that had them open their doors;

Pity or love, I survived.

 

Fire the instrument my poverty;

I hate that You and me are bound for life;

Bound with creams and medication, my only property;

Fire I hate you but can’t live without you my wife,

We intimately mingled and tangled as me you burned,

This skin of mine you robbed,

But strength in my soul you forged,

I SURVIVED!

 

 

(By Mabenge Aleck – 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-econo-politica­l issues of the day world-wide. 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)

 

 

 

 

CELEBRATION OF INDIGNATION

 

 

Therein I go again to register my pains

Having forgotten how long I’ve spent in this servitude’s den

Therein I go again shouting out my anguish

To the ears of yesterday and today

For they too, know how tears deserted my eyes

 

I think I died yesterday

I know it was not just today’s oppression

Of course not

But the heaviness of 1967’S lost

Weighed me down till death

 

My heart is now rusted

For it no longer pump blood but rusts of pains

I no longer count my hope in primes

For all I know now is in odds—3,5,7…

While they plot more chaos for me 2 4 7

 

I no longer fear marginalization

For I’ve grown affinity for it;

These days, tunes of tribal bigotry

No longer worry me for I’m used to it;

It’s being compelled to watch in dismay

How cattle raid my ban that kill the me in me

 

Aye, hope is a gem

but for how long will I wear marginalization

around my neck?

For sure, it’s more than a century now

That I’ve worn these shackles of enslavement

on my waist

always hopping and hobbling with a hiss all day

like a caged bird.

 

I celebrates indignation with no hope

For I only translate my pains into ink-fall

With flows of salt less tears that is tasteless

Plugging on pains of countless mass burial

My eyes witnessed at Nimbo, Abia and Benue

 

This ought to be a Satire

But I retired my insinuation

When I noticed it’s no poem nor fun

For it’s obvious they transferred Gene of Marginality

From my grandfather to my father

Then to me and now they hope for my child.

 

Melancholy people don’t talk much

Especially when their intestines are bonded with resentment

But I have to say this,

“Freedom! Freeeedom is all I cry for,

Get this shackles of suppression off me

Or risk seeing me go my way “.

 

 

(By Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan – From Nigeria (­Ebonyi State). A student of Medical laboratory science in Enonyi State University. Religion: Christianit­y. Hobbies:Writing,Read­ing,arguing watching football and playing video games)

 

 

 

 

NEWLY BORN or NEW BURN?

 

 

Born again or burnt again?

Newly born or newly burnt?

Roast my tears atop the sun!

Let it feel Uganda’s pain.

 

O ocean keep quiet!

as dead as a dead market!.

O frogs… Be drown in my pond of tears!

And goats… eat my laughter like banana leaves.

For the pains written in this scars,

will slaughter a legion of stars.

 

Acid… Washing away beauty…

on faces it deposits beasts.

Acid… stealing away babies…

giving grumpy old babies to mummies.

 

Just a drop on a skull,

Golgotha is set loose.

Just a splash on a coin,

Judas Iscariot coins fuse.

 

Save Uganda… save the child of Africa!

Save Uganda… Cover her nakedness with wrapper!

Save Uganda… from this deadly water…

Save Uganda… Save silver.

 

 

(By Ibrahim Clouds – Nigerian poet. He spends 90% of his time in seclusion, meditating, reading spiritual books and writing. He studied science for three years in Wesley college of science Elekuro Ibadan Nigeria. He is currently studying architecture in the polytechnic Ibadan Nigeria. He was born a poet, identified as a poet since he was 4 years of age and started writing 5 years ago)

 

 

 

 

I WANT TO CREEP INTO REALITY

 

 

I want to tread through the busy path of reality

And creep out of this hut of dreams

But how do I go

When I don’t even have legs to tread with?

 

I want to tread on the lane of light

And glow like the sparkling Ugbala

But how sure am I

That I will still be seen when sun open up its eyes?

 

I want to be tucked in between witty minds

As someone who ridiculed tyranny

With just rhymes of satire

But how true will this be in this hard way?

 

I want to plait the hair of reality

With the wool of prudence and doggedness

And give it a joy

Of blinding even the sun with her beauty

 

I want to tour round the globe

Through the lanes of my laconic words

And canoe also through the heart of men

With my spear-like words that sharpens blunt souls

 

I want to creep out of the walls of Facebook

Into the stage of Poetry

Where ears and eyes will come to hear and see

How I paint life with the crayon of words

 

I want to be heard not only with ears this time

But also with soul

As I sing out sorrows of the voiceless

With just my ink and paper

 

I want to dine no longer only in dreams

And drink henceforth from the goblet of actuality

So that my words will not live momentarily

But remain as an indelible echo in the mind of men

 

I forever wish to crawl into a writer’s reality

But how will this come

When I’m busy dinning with Cadavers

And basking all day in the medical realm?

 

I indeed want to love someone like I do for poetry

Someone who will help me crawl into the bed of reality

But when will this be

When my heart only receives requiem and funeral

At its attempt to dance to the tune of love?

 

O, Life

Bless me like a fertile Aní

And let my dreams bud into reality

For I will forever write the mind of Chukwu Okike Abiama.

 

 

(By Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan – From Nigeria (­Ebonyi State). A student of Medical laboratory science in Enonyi State University. Religion: Christianit­y. Hobbies:Writing,Read­ing,arguing watching football and playing video games)

 

 

 

 

TEMPEST

 

 

Frigid winds command

Wavering white flags

Consistently slashing courage

Weathered by insistent velocity

Deliberate discourse

Permeates each fibre

Detached from swelling rage

Foreboding residual strands

Will wither

Before the last gale

Impedes freedom

 

 

(By Temitope Aina – writes passionately and inspiringly and her themes are love, peace, harmony and self development. She loves to read African literature and is enamoured with poetry. She writes from Lagos, Nigeria)

 

 

 

 

THE LONE POET

 

 

Countries make and break

People go and come –

Movements rise and fall,

Causes flourish and die

Era is over era begins

Love is won and love is lost

Wars happen and truce made

Humans live as long

As long the decadent history rolls

Doomsday if occur

Universe in pieces shatter

Till suffering remains

Until love survive peace declare,

The last human when

All is done and all destroy

Shall be none other

The lone poet to the moon

Recite and sing –

The verse of parting

Of hope again that life return

And living the usual not unlike

His Paradiso of harmony

Or rescue thus

His belonging the humanity.

 

 

(By Sadiqullah Khan – The Brave Voices Poetry Journal Solidarity Voice from Pakistan, 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)

 

 

 

 

STORIES UNTOLD

 

 

The beast, an untouchable ugly

The unbeatable triumph written all over his ugly face,

It’s as if he had won his targeted prize

The system too broken to heed to a cry.

This ugly creature went scot-free because he was somebody in the government.

They said they were too afraid to prosecute and that I should bury my head in the sand.

Threatened with death and charged with trespassing at only seventeen.

She was only four years my junior.

And we knew nothing of the justice system.

Her eyes weak at the tiredness of tearing,

Her mouth sour with cries of help.

The ugly beast had stolen her innocence away.

I was bitter, bitter that I had no strength to help.

Bitter that the gunshot wound in my stomach failed my strength

Bitter that my mouth was covered with a sock and the foul smell nauseated me.

Bitter that my hands were in chains.

I had to watch as the animal thrust its huge rod into the beautiful young girl, her thighs squawking at the parting, the tearing of her flesh made me look away for a second, as my tears tore through my eye lashes.

I hated him and I hated myself for being in chains.

They talk of forgiveness, but how can forgive such helicity?

how can I even forget the exhausted face on the table?

how can I forgive the painful look of a last breath.

She was only thirteen but she died a thirty thrusting death

 

 

(By Nungari Kabutu Wilfred – student in Kenyatta university taking English and Literature, she is involved in writing and reading poetry with a group of other young writers from campus, she enjoys reading poems by Maya Angelou (her favourite being Phenomenon woman) and Okot P, Bitek. She also enjoys photography and swimming)

 

 

 

 

BACKYARD

 

 

I have yearned to see its beauty,

To view its epic formation

As I lie in the euphoria of wishes,

Dreams have been the stand,

The stand i have leaned on

As I reside in its vacuum.

 

I have fallen a thousand times,

But still I have failed to get up;

I have longed to see a glimpse of my face,

Decipher what “others” call beauty and ugliness

But within the confinements of my emotional organ,

Lies shattered pieces of agony

 

Most of it all I have loved

As I have fallen in love with scents and sounds;

But what I have to regain is my optical nature,

As I lie in my own backyard.

 

 

(By Vanessa Kalukwete – aged 20 and currently studying Psychology at the University of Zimbabwe. She is in her first year, second semester. She is a poetry fanatic and enjoys reading novels during her leisure time)

 

 

 

 

NIGERIA’S NEW GENERATION

 

 

For our sins, oh Lord!

nail to a plastic cross,

the skull of Nebuchadreza

or to gods, sacrifice pizza.

 

Everything is now upside down-

shame cat-walks in our town,

women’s breasts uncovered jingle-

to “in-cast” beasts into men,

whores and wars pollute the new youths-

oh Lord! send to us Gabriel.

 

Dignity died the day-

death ate the apple of grandmother’s “ice”,

her husband, the brave-

who angrily kick the bucket so nice.

 

Meekness lost her wrapper-

when our ladies advertised their buttocks,

in very short nicker-

they roam the street advertising in bumshorts.

 

The fish that swallowed uncle Jonah,

must be asked for lost good manner.

oh shameless! immoral! generation!-

the weed you smoke hallucinates nations.

 

Is that not the coat of arm’s eagle-

you are baking with falsehood oven?,

are those not the coat of arm’s two horses-

you are riding to night clubs in panties?

 

Walking with our head-

thinking with our feet,

from this brilliant madness-

Lord spare us some senses.

 

 

(By Ibrahim Clouds – Nigerian poet. He spends 90% of his time in seclusion, meditating, reading spiritual books and writing. He studied science for three years in Wesley college of science Elekuro Ibadan Nigeria. He is currently studying architecture in the polytechnic Ibadan Nigeria. He was born a poet, identified as a poet since he was 4 years of age and started writing 5 years ago)

 

 

 

 

CHILD OF THE REVOLUTION

 

 

Child,

This revolution

Is for the evolution

Of civilisation

 

A renunciation

Of spiritual incarceration

A call for universal emancipation

 

This revolution

Is for the resolution

For pent-up emotion

 

A devotion

To a religion

Song for your liberation

 

An incantation

For spirits to awaken

A libation

For their wrath’s cessation

 

You are a child of the revolution

Make no aberration

Nor any digression.

 

 

(By Richmore Tera – a Zimbabwean poet, short story writer and freelance journalist. He is the author of the poetry monograph, “Here Leaves Silently Fall” which was published by Arts Initiates in 2009. In November 2017, Tera was appointed as the Zimbabwean Ambassador of the Museum of Words by the Cesar Egido Serrano Foundation, a non-governmental organisation based in Madrid, Spain, for advocating for unity and peace through his works)

 

 

 

 

THE DAWN

 

 

And from the horizon proudly broke

A dawn golden light rays amplified

Realising the reasons of being

Precious mos. spelt of splendour

A genesis that assures that

Today shone a different ray…

Hope undoubtedly brought in.

Crafted smoothly and the son

Drafts and plots for the latter

Brawls meant victors triumph…

 

 

(By Wilson Waison Tinotenda. A poet and flash fiction writer. The editor of Deem.lit.org and its founding father. A human rights activist, an ardent follower of the Zimbabwe We want campaign)

 

 

 

 

THE BORN FREE

 

 

The born free,

He is man much unfortunate

Man much abused

And man much propertied.

 

Despite all the suppression and much oppression to submit,

The born free brags about peace and tranquillity that is availed by much subjugation to conformity.

 

He is man much coloured ill

And man much disadvantaged.

 

 

(By Sitidziwa Ndoya – Poet and Writer)

 

 

 

 

VULTURES IN DISGUISE

 

 

The sprouting of life.

Began in darkness.

Conquering the malice of the evil.

Oh—-stay alive —-dear child.

Inspire of where you are breathing.

Nobody to play with.

Without toys to amuse you.

A loner, kicking the unseen.

A recluse moving alone.

Your actions in pitch darkness.

Gives hopes, wishes, happiness.

 

Breathing you are, active you are.

Dear child, a source of jubilee to your parents.

Pride as you grow big.

Even though the loving mother is worried.

Loses shape like a drunkard addicted to traditional brewed beer.

Most of the time mother being sick.

Eating the unpalatable.

The father working tirelessly.

Oh —for you —-precious child.

 

Gruesome pains for your journey.

Out of darkness into light.

Waters, sweat, tears and blood shed.

In some cases even loss of life.

For the transformation to the world.

Hell! A high price to be paid.

 

Your battle with life and death.

Squashing dark spirits, becoming a warrior.

Ululations, tears of joy greeting you.

Welcoming you child from the unknown.

If only you knew!

You would had stayed in that lonely world.

 

For the glittery you see would be like Hades.

The freshness of the world will suffocate you.

The celebrations of your arrival.

Oh —-dear child —-will be sorrow.

Tenderness to be replaced by anguish.

Lingering are the unfeeling vultures.

Waiting to devour your life.

Greedy destroying your future.

Vampires sucking all emotions.

 

 

(By Chrispah Munyoro – currently a student of Applied Art and Design, Graphics and Website Programming at Kwekwe Polytechnic College in Zimbabwe. Munyoro is a talented writer, journalist and a dedicated Design Artist. She is natural linguist, fluent in many languages among them English, Shona, Esperanto, Setswana, Swahili, Italiana and Yoruba. She began as a columnist writing feature articles in the Gweru Times in Midlands Province Capital of Zimbabwe. She has worked as a Midlands Chapter Chairperson of the Zimbabwe Association of Freelance Journalists. Munyoro was once a Zimbabwe Representative at Zone IV Regional Youth Games in 2014 Bulawayo in the boxing discipline. The multi-disciplinary artist is registered under AIBA the international body of boxing. The Writer, Artist, Poet, Journalist and athlete has been writing poetry since her tender years and she has participated in various writers, poetry, journalism and sports)

 

 

 

 

DYSTOPIAN THOUGHT

 

 

At least –

We have street light

Although hanging to broken pole –

A default expressive

Would be politician who border

On selection, – the rotten system –

Systematically deranging

 

But, we have a street light

Hanging on to broken pole –

I was once given an infusion

Whose bag of liquid was held

By the force of an arm ten feet above –

 

At least. There was a bed to sleep –

We are better thinking of those

The history book says they killed

One million and we see infants

Gassed today. At least we are better –

A street light hangs to a broken pole.

 

 

(By Sadiqullah Khan – The Brave Voices Poetry Journal Solidarity Voice from Pakistan, 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)

 

 

 

 

TY WASTELAND

 

 

Afternoon, visible rays of the hot sun,

Filtered through the dark grey sky.

The undulating hills overlooked a gritty wasteland below.

The landscape stood imposingly and sullenly, as though

It was been haunted by the witches of melancholy.

Hills that were once carpeted with thick forests

Stood forlorn, empty and weary. Her rugged valleys once

Soared of spectacular beauty. Today her verdant face is no more.

 

Once, sweet smelling flowers attracted men and bees here.

Once, the turaco chirped in her lovely woods.

Once, its rapturous melody brought joy to our hearts.

Once, its red shiny feathers graced the crowns of nobility.

Once, the forest provided water for all.

Once, honey dripped abundantly here.

Once, her woods supplied wood for all.

Once, her faune provided cures to all ailments.

Once, the sacred shrines and totems enjoyed its protection.

 

The gods in their secret places spy and balefully,

Frown at those who neglect the path of the sacred python.

The brooding landscape stares on in disbelief, seeing everyone

Turning its back for pursuit of alien paths.

The defilers of the land increase dailylike raindrops on a drizzling morning.

Blood, spilled at every road junction.

Desecration has stamped wrinkles on every smiling face.

Multitude wander from place to place in quest of solace.

The drummers left behind, play out of tone.

The singers left behind to sing, produce a cacophony.

The dancers left behind to dance, do so awkwardly.

 

 

(By Beyia Ngam Emmanuel – Ngam Emmanuel is a Poet, Writer, an advocate of political justice and a High School Teacher. Ngam graduated from Higher Teacher Training College that earned a Diploma in Languages (French and English). Writer, Teacher, Poet Emmanuel enjoys reading and gardening)

 

 

 

 

 

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

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