The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

September 25, 2017 HUMAN RIGHTS , Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Reuters photo



Mbizo Chirasha


Today’s offering is a lamentation in solidarity with our sisters and girls subjected to abject suffering due to sexual abuse by those who condone moral decadence and still wallow in the poverty of dignity. GIRLS have a right to peaceful life.

Thumbs up to KATSWE SISTERS in Zimbabwe for exposing the rot perpetuated by shameless animal humans abusing young girls subjecting them to disease and immorality.

Other poems in this powerfully packed piece continue to expose and voice the decay in our ragged economic fabric, while the first family devour a fatty amount of 20 million dollars (US) on one foreign trip and also squander taxpayers’ money in shopping sprees.

We as Brave Voices continue to lament against the large claws of dictatorship ripping the country apart. Zimbabweans are sick, they have a heartburn of freedom, they suffer from the leukemia of one family state rule, they are groaning under economic hemorrhage as corrupt fat cats and ZANU-PF stalwarts loot the rich marrow of state (KUDYA NYIKA NOMONGOWAYO).

We will continue to expose and voice this madness wreaking havoc in state corridors. Thank you Word Guerrillas- Barbara Mhangami, Nyashadzashe Chikumbu, Blessing T Masenga, Sydney Haile Saize, Catherine Magodo –Mutukwa, Jambiya, Samukheliso Chuka, NEHANDA – Mbizo Chirasha.







I wondered lonely
in that dark lane of thought
drifting softly,
a cloud in a white sky
whose gray sun reigned
black mud.
Painting our gold skin
with leprosy,
from the mud pools of
stagnation we constantly fell
Teeth chattering,
my eye curtains were blown.
roof high, in that
mental asylum.
waiting for the already
train of thought from fate.
Always stumbling on the
hem of the sun coat
I got every morning.
To fall in the dirt,
never being allowed to wash
It nor see it clean.



(By NYASHADZASHE CHIKUMBU I’m a young man, Poet and Writer, whose very ambitious, and strives for complete self-expression. Very interested in all words of art strives to see art gaining its former glory)








Myth and lore has it that faint voices echo deep within the edifices of the Great Zimbabwe ruins;

chants of differing dialects –

protesting for the ancestral Shona who erected the City of Stone

for monarch and masters;

the priestly seat of

political power and pomp –


Ndipeyi, minimum yangu

Ndipeyi, minimum yangu

(I’ve done all my housekeeping duties

So please, give me my minimum wage)


The ancient muffled voices grieve

with stricken sounds of lamentation;

they sorrow for deliverance from an ancient pneumatics of tyranny,

distress and torment.


Forces of the underworld taunt and provoke a people who are largely ignorant of the malevolence that permeates the atmosphere under the guise of brotherhood and negotiation.

but only for a season will the pleasurable aftermath of compromise and terror linger.


Burning despair and “solid darkness stain’d” will soon visit all who dare shake the hand of King Lear.

The crown will soon be displaced

for the end of time is near –


Flinch and let these prophecies

sear your mind dear King;

invincible you are not.


Zimbabwe Zimbabwe

attend to despairing gloom

that summon the spirit of Grace –

Oh ye friends of this nation

stretch forth your staff and

see the Nile turn to blood.


“Farao Farao,

regai vanhu vangu vaende”!


Let my people go!



Ndipeyi, minimum yangu (from The Servants Ball by Dambudzo Marechera)



(By Beulah Kleinveldt – 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)








Her hope’s night stars
Of up-to-nothing patriots
Who by elections the state idolized
But past the victory frustration scourged

And others to suicide flew their passion
And to rebellion and treason
thumbing down leaders and officials
Inciting pandemonium no pen can pen-
Her hope’s Crime ridden ghettoes
of downtrodden out-of-work militant youths
And free working sheepish loyalists
Bound in satisfaction at the Expense of their patriotic idiocy
The worst failed and exploited people-
Her hope’s Crime Alleviation team
dodged duties into the thick forest of their frustration
Between deployment site
And suspected crime scene-
In frustration, she is seen by the country roads
And in caves, in townships
And niteclubs: as a thigh vendor
Marketing crumbs of her stale hope.



(By B T Masengaa bold  word  guerilla, a fiery poet through his writings tirelessly and boldly seek to strip nude the oppression and the violations of basic human rights)








“Tora gidi uzvitonge”,
They told us as they
Handed us bullet- less
Preaching justice,
That I wonder,
Whose justice,
Which justice…..
If not juxtaposition of lost souls;
Democracy becoming destruction,
Strategic displacement of value
Now their main priority,
The Blackman in the Whiteman’s
The hypo -critique state,
Metonym of a forgotten struggle…..
Violence their fist possible
Pass for sanity,
Their delusions a pragmatic
mechanism of their madness.
Political bigotry,
Deceptive socialist rhetoric,
Replacing a once existing
Independence euphoria;
Nihilism their only hope,
A confused nation,
A troubled nation,
Existentialism is their only plea,
Freedom they cry for,
But a whim of toxic air and sjamboks
they receive.
Creating desolation in the name
Of peace is their art.
Now I stand in my beloved country,
Tear jerked…
For I am but a languishing human,
In hostile exile…



(Kimberly ss chukka – is a rising poet, writer and advocate of girl child rights. Her writings are influenced by her daily experiences and her surroundings. Her poetry is mainly paradoxical, depicting unbalanced Zimbabwe social landscapes. The Young poet has passion for Arts journalism and listens to Jazz and Soul Music)








May fire consume you for Lusting after the unripe flesh of the girl child?
May you turn into a white conflagration for even thinking that you
Had the right to her body for twenty-five cents.
Goddess burn you alive at the stake for your
Twisted sense of manhood.
For your lack of conscience and compassion,
Which breeds the evil stirring in your loins for the body of a child.

May the blood in your loins turn into molten lava
For ignoring the image of your girl-child in her.
May the lava explode your blood vessels for your cold heart
Towards a girl who sells her body for bread.
You look away at those eyes that beg you to show mercy,
You take off your clothes and tell her to “hurry up”.

May the Mother spit you off the face of the earth,
For pushing your putrid manhood into helpless flesh,
Of a child who still has a doll under her bed,
Who believed in the magic of butterflies until
Bringing bread home became about survival.

To those who sit and drink beer, those who watch lasciviously
From the bar, scratching, scratching your untamed and Unashamed male parts,
May you choke and gag on your
Sanctimonious silence as you watch children’s bodies being
Broken on the bed of lust by your fellow men.
Bravo good men, Bravo, all you good men who do not rape
But who care not that rape happens on their watch,
Under their gaze. The girls are violated because you, good men
Do Nothing!
So disassociated are you from your humanity the you no longer
Evil flourishes dear good men while you do NOTHING.
Thank you for nothing.

And to the so called Government of the people:
Eat cake, spend millions on frivolous trips with large
Entourages. Ignore the potholes and the
Hungry children holing out begging bowls on roadsides.
The shadow of evil looms gleefully over Zimbabwe.
May The Mother, the Goddess and our ancestors
Who fought for our liberation judge you



(By Barbara Mhangami a fierce social justice warrior, with passion for safety of women and girls and community building. She remains invested in the continent of Africa, its development and its people. She writes about Africa and considers herself an African woman in America)







I’m deaf my ears are cursed by slogan.
I’m a fool, my mind is schooled (if not fooled ) in a curriculum of propaganda
I’m blind my eyes are blinded by the religion of the dead
Whose sweat from the brows shall eat bread
I’m a defiant poet; a militant patriot
Expressing my concern as a citizen
Protesting of your cowardice that made me a wanderer
A destitute; an economic prostitute
I’m mad, my madness is about you
Words misbehaving
I write what is right
Of you being wrong
Forcing me to be down
Down on the ground
Robbing me of my liberty
I’m a clown
Stripped nude of my dignity
Freedom is torn
Mercilessly in pieces.
I’m that raw meal that your stomach failed to digest
Causing you constipation
Tears and heartache
I’m a disappointment disgracing your maladmistration



(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)








Scatter brained bastards

Despicable scoundrels, miscreants

To constrict thoughts

Their heinous mission

Societal light snuffing out

Civilization fast sinking

What a disgrace

Intolerance like a bird of prey soars

Despondency, despondency

Its ugly head rearing

Ubiquitous vibrations of violence

Under siege, under siege

In the strangle hold of tentacles

Engulfed in thick smoke

Bludgeoned by intolerance

A nation on the brink of death

Divine intervention now







Because I’m Homesick



How overwhelmingly heavy
the baggage of a wanderer,
exiled from self…
there’s always something, a
block of something impenetrable,
I’m fading into the shadows of
blank-ness forced into thoughtless
a piece of me was left back there,
basking in the rays of yesterday
where inspiration of desperation
conceived ideas now somewhat
vague and elusive,
No…I can’t taste the words on
my tongue
how then can I dish out my thoughts?
on this island that is no man’s land,
feeling like this,
like loose parts with no mind at all,
I heard about mother…
of how she’s begging and pleading
with those in the wind to bring me back
I too dreamt of myself returning and
reuniting with the feelings I thought
had long been buried with distance,
Ah, home…



(By Catherine Magodo-Mutukwa – a poet and fiction writer who believes every woman is a story to be told and heard. She takes time to weave words of experience from untold stories of women who have loved and laughed, cared but cried, their feelings or unfeelings in light of what life has bestowed upon their different paths.
Her works have also been published in various online journals and anthologies








The feet are heavy

To me they belong no more

Heavy as rolling boulders

That threaten to push me into the depths of oblivion



Will anyone miss me

If i be here no more

My red blood flowing

My white bones crushed

My black soul standing


Commanding the dead corpse to awake



From the sleep that crushes dreams

Painlessly screaming dreams

That beg for life

From lifeless rolling boulders

Rolling boulders that are my feet

Crushing bones that belong to my body


My body

A temple to be worshipped

By many unknown strangers

Will it come to you

If it belonged to me no more

A valley of dreams crushed by rolling boulders

Boulders that are my feet no more




(By NEHANDA – a fast rising poet, a  gender  issues  interventionist, bold and rustic, an observer of social injustices with a watch out eye for the development of mass consciousness)








Villagers feed on new diet of slogans

Peasants imbibing the lyrical taste of ice-cold political alcohol,

Saved with roasted, salted propaganda nuts

Propaganda gods and goddesses smuggling new breeds of manifestos

Paparazzi snorting rumor nicotine for tomorrow editorials and opinions

Half-baked news candy cakes and roughly cooked opinion chocolates

Vendetta – fodder for masses

Rumor- fodder for povo

Concrete streets blistered by hatred posters

City faces scarred by ballot graffiti

Dreams of toddler presidents frozen into tasteless ice cubes in state cold rooms

I see systems steaming away into abortion and condom republics

Revolutions burning away into banana republics.



(MBIZO CHIRASHA Founder/Campaign Servant of the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign, a Poet, Writer in Residence, Social Justice Activist and Publisher)




The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

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