The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

October 27, 2017 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

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Mbizo Chirasha


2018 is an election season in Zimbabwe and the campaign season has begun, any Dictatorship always employing stringent measures to protect its Napoleonic machinery from media interrogation and scrutiny.

The de facto President of Zimbabwe, Disgracing Grace Marufu Mugabe has since appointed a Minister of Cyber Security, Threat Detection and Mitigation in the person of Patrick Chinamasa. The Ministry is and will act as a sentry or vanguard of the state against the Freedom of expression by the voices of REASON on Social Media Platforms.

The establishment of this rights cutthroat machinery is to stifle freedom of expression and silence Voices of Reason on Facebook, Twitter and WhatsApp, what a dramatic irony in Zimbabwean politics as the full Minister becomes the Administrator of tweets, whispers and jokes on social media.

In reality this is a serious watchdog of the dictatorship to silence us. The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign will not be silent, the Brave Voices shall speak until the Freedom of the Masses come, until the jaws of violence, the claws of hegemony, canines of corruption, molars of looting and fingers of autocracy break in this once beautiful country called Zimbabwe.

Aluta Continua to our contributors – Brave Voices, Viva to the solidarity voices from the United States of America, India, Bangladesh,  Ghana, Kenya, Nigeria and South Africa, Viva SOLIDARITY to our publishing partner Tuck Magazine, Canada. A great thank you also to the Producer of the International Human Rights Arts Festival and his team for exhibiting and reading the Brave Voices Poetry Journal Poetry come November 2017 in New York. Thumbs up to our readers and moral supporters around the globe. Feel free to contact us at [email protected]

Brave Voices, let your pen and your voice defend you and the suffering Zimbabwean masses – Mbizo Chirasha.








A longing for just a mere change
of political management,
to some individuals means their death wish.
To others it means their total freedom.
But to a few, that alone
depicts a sad picture of their public trials and life imprisonments.
On this side it predicts relief and prosperity
yet on that side it invites sheer deprivation and want:
just a wish!
Imagine a wish.
If you long for this kind of a wish in their country,
it’s either that you will get a praise and a large following
or you’ll be sorry for yourself
you’ll get deserted and placed under surveillance.
Some wishes are better not wished for,
I just suppose but why?
I still do not know.
To him the same wish that brings on so many sullen faces
hope and grins,
leaves upon his own visage despair and frowns.
The longing that persuade elation to dance in the streets,
invites violence to stain the roads with blood.
The very wish that looks that it can erect a nation
sometimes proves that it can lay it waste.
The very same wish that makes a nation heaves a sigh of relief,
makes it get threats of being thrown into an abyss of grief.
It all depends on who’ve contrived to know your wish.
Just a wish.
A mere wish.
Just a wish.



(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)








He died, praise God;
He went to heaven
And demanded his place with
The 24 elders,
Insisted on immediate audience
With the Most High God,
Complained about the Son of God
Not having even started on his mansion.
In heaven they only lift up
The name of the Most High
So instead of telling him to go to hell
They, as in Peter (of course), gave him a big chabaa
Which landed him straight into
The the pit of hell where today,
He is still weeping and wailing and gnashing his teeth.



(By Roberta Tuckson – a restaurateur who started writing seriously a few years ago. She published her first book of poetry, Talking Robbish in 2014 and her first children’s storybook, The Children of Abuta Village in 2015. She studied in Ghana, West Africa where she’s from and now lives in Nashville Tennessee, She writes under the pseudonym, Robbie Ajjuah Fantini)








If you play your hand in the hope of sensual offers of success, ponder the false imagery of hope

and indulge superficial calls of happiness, then that god owns a part of you.


It is mammon’s mental games that hold you captive as he webs a band of restlessness tightly around your desires and draws you in, one glowing sceptre at a time.


a god that manipulates your nutrition.

your dwelling place,

your habitation.


Chains of bondage dragging you inside the mangy walls of dark and damp dungeons from which you can be saved.


Yet you will never be free

if you appraise a crafty warlord;

bound by your inner rebellion and secret nurturing of what should be burnt and banished.


Stop sharing space with the dead from which you should run;

find no pleasure in popcorn peace

lest you be submerged in a sticky abyss of no return.


As a dog returns to its vomit so is the man who puts his hand to the plough and looks back;


a mere salt encrusted figurine mounted in mid air,

the shrine of a soul who refuses to let the warmonger go.


Such is the nature of mammons games –

The fiendish fashion icon.


If you play often enough it will drive a stake through your heart and own your soul; slit your throat and leave you bleeding.


Disengage from the possessed materialist;

from the “Fuhrer” who promises bread but gives a stone.

Disregard leaders who steal your meal.


Stop the games,

protect the back of your brother;

Join him in the firing line –

be the media spine,

and together you must cry,


“This is my living space,

my country,

My home –


This is,


“My Struggle”.



(By Jambiya – an emotive writer who weaves the tragedy and victory of the human experience into a tapestry of memorable imagery and metaphor? She speaks with honesty on the spiritual and social challenges of our time. Jambiya’s works are a must read for those accustomed to the jaded perfunctory cleverness of modern wordsmiths)








To resume on where you left

Our home now a forlorn citadel,

The bloody fields you ceased

In your toil, a quest to sovereignty

Now belongs to the despot.

Our emancipator now our persecutor

The prophecy by Benjamin Henson

Clinched woe and is in prevalence

Patently the struggle will go on.


To reminisce the odd, hatemongers

The new and mutant foes drive us

To the precincts of the domains

And lures this black blood, sent

To the deeps and crags, places of distress.

The fruit now bored as the despot

Pails the yield, where are you

To rekindle the phrase

“My bones shall rise again?”



(By TYNOE WILSON – a rising Zimbabwean poet, a Word Slinger and a rights Activist. An impetuous mastermind so zealous to out the muddling and crippling societal affair through stanza)








Death is buried there into death

Hunger strikes on its own last breath

No spine to shiver, no heart talks

At life’s craving poverty mocks

Dig up the truth from living corpse

To watch, to weep when wisdom warps

Now harmony should resurrect

With peace that has never been wrecked.



(By Munia Khan – a poet and short story writer, born on a spring night of 15th March in the year 1981. She is the author of three poetry collections: Beyond The Vernal Mind (Published from USA, 2012, To Evince The Blue (Published from USA, 2014), and Versified (Published from Tel Aviv, Israel, 2016). Her poetry is the reflection of her own life experience and her short stories are mostly fictions based on reality. Her works have been translated into Japanese, Romanian, Urdu, Italian, Dutch, Spanish, Russian, Greek, Indonesian, Bengali and in Irish language so far. Her work has been published in several anthologies, literary journals, magazines and in newspapers)








No echoed, no voice
Jus the wind blowing
A graveyard silence,
No one dares to speak
Its disrespectful they say
Don’t you say a thing about them…….
It is a crime they say,
Wouldn’t want to miss you my friend
Hushed up like a child
Tears brewing up inside
Untold stories hidden inside
I say you don’t know the world we know
For you it’s a happy hunky-dory old situation
For us its sleeping early Because that’s the only way to escape reality Like a knife hanging over your head



(By Alfred Masunda – Poet, Founder at Avante-garde Association of Young Artists. Studied at National Gallery of Zimbabwe School of Visual Arts and Design)








Haunted by the illusions of her independence?

A country whose freedom fighters fought hard only to capture themselves in return.

What hope is there for a Country whose pride is but a mirage dented with falsehood?

A mirage that darts on its consciousness when her national anthem rings in foreign lands.

What hope is there for a Country suffering from self-imposed amnesia?

A country that forgets so quickly of the innocent blood that cries for unity yet only fragments of its wholesomeness hangs loosely.

What hope is there for a Country whose leaders are misleading her flock?

A country where your second name is your gate-pass or your curse.

What hope is there for a Country where guns ring supreme yet the rule of law is gagged?

A country where the law is raped in broad daylight by her makers and guards.

What hope is there for a Country where nurses can go on a strike for five months?

A country where the bourgeoisie flies out to foreign hospitals and the pauper claps in return.

What hope is there for a Country whose integrity has disintegrated?

A Country where integrity values are valueless. People act clueless, some ruthless and some careless.

What hope is there for a Country where children are teargassed?

A country where brutality is praised by her casualties.

What hope is there for a Country whose economy is growing malignantly?

A country so rich yet so poor.

What hope is there for a Country where religion is hypocrisy?

A country full of churches, mosques, temples and prophets, yet so unholy.

What hope is there for a Country whose heart is fractured by hate and suspicion?



(By Dedan Onyango – alias MTEMI – a Masters student of Literature. He is budding poet and literary enthusiast. He hails from Kenya, a land which inspires his creative life)








Now I don’t speak in hide
I have to be out in the open
I have to speak out
To be counted
My voice to be heard
I’m tired of the confinement
I have to come out of exile
And speak my thoughts
Even if it means to be victimized
Or put on the cross to die like Jesus
I’m ready to die for freedom
I’m ready to liberate my people
I’m ready to wipe their tears
Mr Bob I have got news for you
I offer you my soul in exchange of their liberty
My poetry has long denounced cyber security
My voice has long shouted freedom, FREEDOM!
We can’t all perish in sheer silence
We better stand up and die against corruption.


(By Sydney Haile 1 Saize – a Word guerrilla, a fighter of human rights, a Word slinger in the Campaign against despotism)








Childhood, dad left when I was conceived
His gene did mold beauty, the beast now
Struggling for survival in the hamlet awry
Gumbling, hustling conjugal visits for not
More than a dollar note. Some to blame me
For these deeds but my reasons never told
Confused on what to call it though the quest
Points to survival in this economic depression.

Some scores, mocks and take me for a joke
Even my conscience is painted black, Perceived
To be a villain not the victim how absurd it is
On my verge, A victim of circumstances , how
Beautiful. I pay the bill and some dues from
Revulsion sacred bounty, Yet still names I am
Called, Harsh and cold hearted are my sisters
And brothers not concerned about my affair.



(By TYNOE WILSON – a rising Zimbabwean poet, a Word Slinger and a rights Activist. An impetuous mastermind so zealous to out the muddling and crippling societal affair through stanza)





14 OCTOBER 1793



Garçon, pass my whetting stone.
I have a guillotine to grind
For her highness, the fist lady
Dressed like a retarded dandy
With rubies congealed blood,
Red as wine in skull borne.

Her shoes will pave our roads,
Her lands will house the destitute.
Closets for the child prostitute;
Grow food in her garden paths!

You have painted our days too bleak
Cruel woman of foreign birth!
Too quick to swing electric chords:
Lightning tongues castrating veterans.
Pray, if you ever knew reverence,
Pillow ‘neath your knees for your brood
Ere your bed of unmarked earth,
And mighty cry of “Vive la Republique!”



(By Philani Amadeus Nyoni – a Zimbabwean born wordsmith. He has written award-winning poetry for the page, the stage and the screen. He has also written articles and short stories for various publications, local and international)







I hear my dad still saying

Still saying ‘Woza malamulela’

Then I was blind as a bat

Now the veil is off my mind’s eye

‘Woza malamulela’ now I say

As the pregnant skies open up

Those drops severing this bondage

Severing those devilish schemes

‘Woza malamulela’ children shout it out

That our people may not be manipulated

Trading their precious votes for food

Voting with their stomachs not their minds

‘Woza malamulela’ we shout loud and clear

That our people may not be set up against each other

By crooks masquerading as their benefactors

That our people may not be proxy warriors



(By Jabulani Mzinyathi – a Zimbabwean to the marrow. A firm believer in the peter tosh philosophy that there will be no peace if there is no justice. Jabulani is a pan African and a world citizen)










After fuddled in thought,

Around 12 a.m.,

In the serene night

I depleted my thought

Which was flitting through my mind.

My thought I proffered no ears

But nature reasoned with me.

When depleted,

It was just like a cannikin tipsy with water

And then disgorged.




Night piggybacked me

Decoying me to drift off

And letting me not to take to heart

The scene of dratted, bloody war –

Which my eyes caught

In the placid gyring screen

(Men were moved to war)




What stirred men to bloody war?

What impelled men to gyre in war?

In the serenity perception of mind

Heart will proffer them answer

After the taste of juicy ZOBO-BLOOD

Running spill from their heart.



(By Martins Tomisin – I’m currently studying at Olabisi Onabanjo University, Ago-Iwoye, Ogun State where I have earned awards and recognition. Some of my poems have been featured in numerous literary journals, magazines, and anthologies. I love painting colourful rainbow-of-thoughts on paper. I vehemently believed that, “life without poetry is like a soup without condiments; without it, life will be flavourless, distasteful and unrhythmic)








This country feasts on our sweat

Country carrying bad ballots and good coups reaping tears

Country that died many times before death

whose revolution never saw the golden sun,

 country where bullets feed on crocodiles in rivers

tear gas  is the scent of the streets-black cities

Erasing memories of love, a country whose heart heave with slogans and vendetta

A country on a death bed, eating the present and pocketing the past-humming the last tune.

A country, where dogs bark to their shadows, mothers yell to nothing

Foxes howling against the unsurrendering moon

We walked along the spirit of this country, a country that feasted our blood for supper

A country with a heavy mass of history and unfinished dreams, a country

Whose Masses breakfast religion and propaganda-riff-raff

Cry my beloved people!

See Fundis writing cultural graffiti in red ink on lampposts, the country  born out of  the

laughter of the rifle

People crying for the country sold for bread and tea



(By Mbizo Chirasha – Founder, Editor and the Promotions Executive at Large of the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign)








Dear Statue

Which are you?

Statue of Liberty

Or Statue of freedom,

Statue of Bondage

Or Statue of Slavery?


Dear Statue

Which are you?

Statue of Apartheid

Or Statue of Xenophobia

Statue of Nightfall

Or Statue of Brutality?


Dear statue

Which are you?

Statue of Change

Or Statue of Waste,

Statue of Hardship

Or Statue of Recession?


Dear Statue

Which are you?

Statue of Religion

Or Statue of Politics,

Statue of Python

Or Statue of Crocodile,

Statue of Dance

Or Statue of Smile?


Dear Statue

Which are you?

The Cross of Jesus

Or the Rope of Judas,

Statue of Bible or Budget?


Dear Statue,

Who beats the drum

That you dance and smile naked

Are you this shameless?

The Statue of millions

One Statue,

The future of millions

No Statue,

One Statue, So strange A Stranger.



(By Ngozi Olivia Osuoha – an outstanding poet from Nigeria)









getting dimmer right through the night
my soul getting darker right through this life
a punch or two maybe three, i’m knocked out
blak texts king i need your light
more so your laugh
so does your mom and the goddess you love
i can’t be strong for anyone
i fail myself the pool is agape i drown in my sin
they say look what a good guy that is
they see not past the smile and the charming
so i stay away from where the crowd is
in this darkness a glimmer of whiteness
the rope noose will fit like a necklace
is it lynching if its self-inflicted?



(By Sinkende Mashayangombane – a Son of Ntu, a part of a poetry collective called SoNtu (sons of Ntu) advocating for the knowledge of God and self. his poetry comes from the heart, from day to day experience, from a 360° observation of the society he lives in and the rest is prophecy from the universe screaming loud in the eardrums of his soul. he is a sensitive soul that feels everything, sees everything through bi-polarised eyes and writes it all down, in verses and chapters)





Inspiration- Good NEWS GOOD NEWS GOOD NEWS to all Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign (BRAVE VOICES POETRY JOURNAL) PARTICIPANTS, Your poetry will be read during the International Human Rights Arts Festival in November 2017. This is a big stride in popularizing and strengthening the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign. Results and Responses of the Festival will be posted, Great thanks to regular poets of the Campaign- VIVA BRAVE VOICES VIVA!





The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign


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