The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

November 20, 2017 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Reuters photo



Mbizo Chirasha


Drumbeat – This 12th publication of the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign (Brave Voices Poetry Campaign) celebrates with all Zimbabweans, fellow Africans and the world. We all celebrate when dictatorship is crushed.

Mugabe, a full time African dictator had become a thorn in the Zimbabwean earth. His legacy is tainted with political misconduct, economic haemorrhage, social decadence and perennial effects of Napoleonic syphilis. Yes he is one of the cadres who brought the country from the tiger paws of colonialism but he lost the plot through his dirty gimmicks and his long stay in power.

He had created the Mugabeism cult and his legacy is also going to be remembered forr nepotism, most key positions in the party held by his close relatives, the likes of Jason Zhuwao (Nephew), Patrick Zhuwao (Nephew), Leo  Mugabe (Nephew), Ignatius Chombo (relative), Grace Mugabe (Wife) and many others. Mugabe stayed longer because of his use of violence towards members of his party and the opposition.

We say no to dictatorship. The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign continues to speak against human rights abuses in Zimbabwe. We say no to violence, we say no to despotic tendencies.

The coming leadership must restore and uphold the rule of law, it must respect human rights, media rights, gender rights, freedom of speech and freedom after speech. Zimbabwe should be part of global society. Mugabe had separated us from the global community because of his totalitarian iron fist.

We want to take this opportunity to thank our global, African, South African and Zimbabwean Voices with a special mention to Kenya, Nigeria, Ghana, Cameroon, Uganda, Bangladesh, India, United States, Spain, Zambia, South Africa and Canada. This article is a blockbuster, resembling a giant leap to freedom and the power of the pen.

Brave Voice, Let your pen and your voice defend you and the suffering Zimbabwean masses (YOUR PEN SPITS BULLETS OF PEACE) – Mbizo Chirasha.








To have stood firm in this epoch of coercion

In nature surrounded by busy ants and birds

The prognostication spelt doom, hereci outs

And the lands hope flees away, deeply down

No one acknowledge being the calf, all now

Seemingly bulls in the kraal with one motive

Then disastrous turns the odd at play, scary

It projects horn to horn, beast ramps beast

Savages of a lifetime whom inflicts more

Than they have assured before, now dancing

In the dust, led to the precincts, survival so

Harsh though on both ends, wish it be broken.

Tempest is the prevailing state of affairs

Fragments of the political apotheosis status

Impeded more as vehement fingers are pointing

You, you, you all blame each after the ramp.







I wonder, why my fate be a toil, a distress

Brought either by circumstances in prevalence

Or merely that muddling affairs, not to impress

Ever once, yet daily brother pledge his condolence.

Even that blazing zealous impede drastically

Thoughts are of being emancipated, Yet still

The echo of their voices is never perceived loudly

And that demarcation to have stood amid still.

Straining is the odd, Brought into servitude

Whipped, lashed, and my back to bent to the

Weight of humiliation, Treated with an attitude

In the domains everyone claims to have liberated

Alas I was yoked before, Yet still I am yoked

But now without clarity. Ghettos isentropic

Mocked and shame is all mine yielding reared

Agonising. Shall I rise, conflicts still be crafted.



(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)







What if I told you a gridlock dawns –

that a vindicator of few words

who shores from an endless firth

will emerge from amidst

the pandemonium of

war and bloodshed;

from the screams and

hysteria of mothers and babes.

A young warrior called

for a time such as this

who will undo the shackles

that strangled your throat.

What if I told you that

Goliath will fall and

the philistines

will be macerated,

forever incarcerated.

What if I prophesy

and this be true –

what will you do

when your days are free

as I said it would be.

what is your life’s plan

when your nimble fingers

ceases it’s hurried notes

and your ink flow clots.

what if my fracas bears merit

and my narrative be wise.

What will you do If I told you,

Justice stands on a ruined tower

and watches the city below;

His hand emblazoned

with arrows of war

and mercy for the poor.

His sceptor raised

against the oppressor

whose neck will be pulped

beneath implacable feet of steel.

gird your loins

ye people who wail,

Lift your countenance

oh you frail.

Heaven delays no more.

What if I am prophetic

and my verse be true

what will you do,

if tomorrow your sabbath

has come.

I will sail my bottle

on oceans wide –

in the hope that,

when unrest mounts

my notes you will find;

for what will you do

should that warrior

be you?



(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)








We are a free people –


Citizens taken for granted

Raped by noble hands







Beaten for exhibition


And intimidated by a corrupt government

Heirs and the first family.







Native voices; cries and shouts

Are just whispers, meaningless!

Like strange dialects

Mine ears can’t attend

Can’t identify

Unlike my word; your command

You’re bade to comply to any verb found

I am a god too!

When the night falls with darkness

The light varnish with remorse

But where is smoke must be fire

I am he, from the past

He, another head of Mussolini

I am he, from the beginning

He, again Hitler

Look within your hood

And behold, lo

I am he in this very hour

He but not of Germany

He not of Roman

But he, in the third world house

He of Harare

Yes I am he

Another demagogue!








I am the voice of the voiceless

I’ve to speak where you can’t speak

I’ve to stand where you can’t stand

I’m a freedom seeker

Mistaken as a rebel fighter

Fighting tirelessly but for the same obvious reason

Fighting to break the chains of oppression

Fighting to set the captives free

Captive in remand

Captive detained


In concentration camps

…. for the cause of freedom.

My people


Like animals; hunted!


And killed behind the public eye; -public consciousness!

for the cause of freedom

But whose freedom?

Our freedom?

You and I both we’re not yet free

Thou the system rest ‘pon the black shoulders

Though our brothers and sisters

Fathers and mothers perished in the woods

A couple of years long since

for the cause of freedom

I am Patrice Lumumba



Saro Wiwa


And in Zimbabwe

Call me Tongogara

This time I am mightier, avenging

And seriously dangerous

Counting a defeat already

Now I’ve to conquer all

Tycoons and bastards; those political tyrants

Falsely accusing each other for a clear ground

Enriching themselves; to full their bellies whilst we-

The povo lament in hunger and holy-poverty

Purblind is Mugabe

Co-operating hand-to-hand with Cheng Wei Sushi

Who’s after material gain

To rehab his empty hell

My people this is my time

Your time

Our time to stand tall

Cry and shout

That to rebel and protest we are about

Cry and shout

This time entertain no doubt

Cry and shout

Till lips with anger are near to pout

Cry and shout

This time much loud

For someone committed to our black movement

Cry and shout

That the detained must be out

Cry and shout!

For another brother Moses

Because an evil coalition is bound to collapse

I conclude

Cry and shout!

That SADC must shun fraud!



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








Feet, shuffling in great multitudes

Designers, naked, cracked, washed-

out, old and blind, black booted

sticking up our ends.

The corrugated attitudes

stamping over everything.

Clothing our faces with white dust

Splashing poverty, short skirts

Hanging lose our

moral thongs …ragged petticoats

our houses ..the stinking stench

of stagnation…menstruation.

Thundering their way to those

skin barbequing meetings.

Getting ready to inaugurate

the black skinned Pharisees.

All, in one exodus march

back to Egypt.

Waving solidarity that

victory flag excreting yellow

venomous sewage, seas

of cholera…death and deformity.



(By Nyashadzashe Chikumbu – a young man , whose very ambitious, and strives for complete self expression. Very interested in all words of art strives to see art gaining its former glory.  A Poet and Follower of Marxist Principles)








If the rays of their maladministration are here showing,

then we are wide awake to this reality:

the dawn is here; total.

Only the fools will wait for the sun

to shine and smite

to know what breakfast will best

fill the children’s starving stomachs.

The dawn is here, dawning!

Fill also the children’s jars with icy water.



(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)








In my complexion

A black bright reflection

Shines deep and wide

Across all borders

Of the universe;

With beams of love evaporating

Underneath the skin.

My creation is divine

Underneath the skin

What lie is not a crime,

But attestation of

Humanity that holds

The black race together.

Across the Sahara

Black stretches her arms

Holding the savanna

With utmost serenity,

As my Pan-African pigmentation

Cries for the world’s attention.

In the truest of time

Like the Nile

Criss-crossing the great lands of Black Africa,

An assurity of

Pride is blown underneath my skin,

Bringing hope to

The rest of the globe

For eternity,

As the pendulum swings

Side ways

Echoes of black superiority

Emanates from it.



(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 – A POET INSPIRED BY HIS MOTHERLAND)








And to you, leaning tower of hoary

Standing lonely crowded by eons,

Will Time crown you in wisdom or folly

For the wars you waged past your demons?

Not Bellona nor Ogun could cut you down;

Though Ares could not scheme to seam

A blanket of your skin, you were undone

By Aphrodite: love proved your mortal sin!

We are all lonely some nights,

And she was there for the darkest ones.

And you told her your mortal frights

For those you would deem your sons.

What was it she told your fear,

How did she hide the pain from the man?

Was it the night she kissed your tear

And told you she would be your mane?

Her blood warmed in fear and ambition

Kept you from sinking into the swell

Of perdition, chiding mortal pandiculation,

Left the scribe with more to tell!

Vanity is ambition and ambition fear

Of insignificance. That first kiss of sin,

Betrayal and crime shook the ether

Like Shango belching thunder and lightning.

Did you succumb to her right then?

Or was your heart taken before she wound

Her thighs round and you heaved to them?

Loneliness, was the cure stabbing the wound?

And you have grown together

Into the annals of time

Defacing what was once an altar

And fattened my rhyme

With a dream more frightful in nature

Than Quincy’s when consumed by laudanum.



(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)








This ship battered

Battered by the angry sea

The raging storm

Calm shall return

Safely on shore


This ship tossed

Threatened by angry waves

At the risk of disintegrating

Calm shall return

It was long decreed


This ship is captained

Captained by the greatest

He who commands the winds

Whose voice is heard by waves

Whose voice calms storms


There shall be calm

After the raging storm

The waves heed the command

Of he who is omnipotent

He who is the beginning and the end



(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)








I think even the sightless can perceive that

this war of words isn’t at all my battle!

For it’s indeed a tussle

of a heart and mind of a true loyalist

fighting conscientiously in body, speech and pen!


At present, I fully clad my garments of war, carry my firearms

and be at war with these deadly viruses

of fraud in Ministries

of egoism of legislators

of vote rigging in polls

of maladministration of tax payers penny

of aloofness of well-heeled

of animosity of dirt poor

of fastidiousness of children

of infidelity in marriages

of drug abuse among youth

of ill-governance and nepotism in public offices

of malevolence of comrades

of dwindling faith of clergy

of cynicism in fourth estate

of intimidation shot at the notoriously marginalized civil servants

a war here and there!


But anyway, show me folks

who on earth can’t comprehend that this is

a war worth




(By Kariuki wa Nyamu– a Kenyan poet, radio playwright, editor, translator, critic and educator, earned a Bachelor’s in English, Literature and Education from Makerere University, Uganda. His poems won The National Book Trust of Uganda (NABOTU) Literary Awards ? 2007 and in 2010, while in third-year, he won Makerere University Creative Writing in the Contemporary World Competition for the best collection of poems. He is published widely both in print and online, in anthologies such as A Thousand Voices Rising, Boda Boda Anthem and Other Poems, Best New African Poets 2015 Anthology, Experimental Writing: Volume , Africa Vs Latin America Anthology, Best New African Poets 2016 Anthology, Africanization versus Americanization: Volume 1, Africa Vs North America Anthology, Writing on Language, Culture and Development: Volume 1, Africa Vs Asia Anthology, The Mamba Journal for African Haiku: Issue IV, besides co-authoring a Children’s poetry and short story anthology titled When Children Dare to Dream. Kariuki, who also won the Babishai Niwe 2017 Haiku Prize, is presently pursuing a Master of Arts in Literature at Kenyatta University, Kenya) 








There was a Country

that rested quietly

on the shoulders of the Zambezi and Limpopo

Envisioned in the philosophy of its forefathers

to offer a home for colourful dreams of their children; to flourish & prosper. .

Then, after a mere scuffle & terrible bloodshed

Hungry wolves grabbed it by neck

and dug

their claws down its throat

To siphon its contents

and leave it lifeless

in blood-stained hands

of the few atop the powerhouse.


 Zimbabwe lost glory and promise, and trampled

When it left its arena to one evil god

Who has danced to one tune

for thirty seven seasons

And left thousands crippled

by hunger, unemployment, corruption

and a massive labyrinth of economic stress

As he tightened his string of dictatorship round their necks.


Zimbabwe murdered its dream

When it left the only man with a gun,

the only man with a knife,

the only man with strong army

and the only man with powerful muscles

To step on toes of helpless Zimtizens

as the world watched in awe

as if dancing

in one’s blood

is a pretty sight

to foreign eyes!


But whoever danced twice in the arena?

Sunset is here, with a surprise gift for us

A sudden whirlwind of revolution’s sweeping across the continent

And everyone’s dancing as if they’re drunk with it.



(By Wafula p’Khisa – a poet, writer and teacher from Kenya. He has been published in The Legendary, Aubade Magazine, Basil O’ Flaherty Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Lunaris Review, Best ‘New’ African Poets 2015, Best ‘New’ African Poets 2016 and elsewhere in the world. His poetry is revolutionary, combative and (sometimes military)








Cloth creases, even worsted, with old age;

tones, even tyrants’, turn cataract blue;

the folded hanky, stained with rheum; the shame

of water marks upon the fly; the rage

of effeminate fists inclined to slew,

limp-wristed, around gatherings of lame

duck eggheads that feed Zimbabwe to gold

diggers, carpetbaggers, corporations

with logos that excite children, excite

mistresses with gross appetites for old

holders of fierce contending nations,

feral dogs dragging promise into night;

dragging suits more wrinkled, more vaguely hung,

no longer moving like a second skin

though once bespoke. But now the lily folds,

the prostate nudges the bladder, the lung

is bunged, the lip minced; and the botox grin

like pressed cloth, dry-cleaning, coat hangers, holds,

holds an Italian design, choosy, slick:

a three-piece suit on a tottering stick.



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








Weep For Africa

Weep O Africa,

Weep Dear Africa

Weep Mama Africa.

There is a weeping, waiting to be wept.

There is a nation weeping to wait,

There is a country weeping and wailing

Weep, Mama for there was a country

Waiting, weeping, wailing.

A continent weeping to die

A people waiting to weep,

A breed wailing to live,

A specie wanting to be born.

Weep, wail, wait, cry O Africa.

Dear Mama, my proud black rose

O Wail For My Virgin Mama.



(By Ngozi Olivia Osouha – Internationally published poet, broadcaster and writer)







(for Danson Sylvester Kahyana)





Twilight sheds its light camouflage

Canoes of rains sail the dying sun!

Maelstroms of shattered liberties

Invade the kraals instead of cattle

Revving of Russian jeeps` engines

Barrack above palace of the kings

As the Resistance firepower pumps

National force into our living rooms

The rain seizes the sunset of dirge

laments to echoes, of setted sons

Waily graves, braves of our king, as

Rifles chant Musevenism in accent

Rained it did in Ruwenzori, we died.





Whenever Ruwenzori reigns, we live.

One day the mountain of our moons

Will rise above all nightfalls of here

One day the rain will be liquid again

Not bronze, bullety, biting and bitter

The cattle shall set for Uganda west

Set for kraals of peace and laughter

We shall then return like whirlwinds

Lift the kingdom from broken eaves

And drink Nile in bottles of new bars

See a new reign arise by Ruwenzori.


(By Wanjohi wa Makokha – the pen name of JKS Makokha, a Kenyan poet, critic and educator. He is based in the Department of Literature, Kenyatta University. He has written and edited several volumes on literary studies. Nest of Stones (2010) is his debut book of verse)






(To a leader for Zimbabweans)



Bring back the dignity of our flag and the sweet taste of our freedom,

Bring back sons and daughters, whose souls kissed charcoal in violence,

Bring back our gold, you buried under the bushel of greediness, Today we buy life with tissue paper,

Your tiny belly is full of our gems you tainted with our blood,

Rain is coming, Beware! the fall of your sandy Castle, African Napoleon,

Your rotten mango shrunk lips spit vitriol, dousing dreams of generations to come,

Your violent -chameleon tongue burns our forests once dangling with turgid fruits of peace,

Hungry Children are potbellied with breakfasts of scorching verbs and suppers of acidic idioms (kusvusvura zvituko),

On this tear-soaked land, freedom starts from you and end you with your disgracing bedroom dancing parrot, whose eyes glitter with death and breath hot with hatred,


Sit down African Napoleon, Rain is coming, Beware of your hammer of clay


Bring back the summer of our dreams and the spring of our freedom before we bring the rain,

You are a disease that blighted the flowers of our revolution,

You are the cancerous scar that wiped love from our now violent smitten faces,

Bring back the ballot you stole amidst the charcoal of thuggery, bring back the smiles to mothers who lost their seeds in the winter of death,

You are a despotic gangrene elections cannot heal, we need a godly ointment to wipe this your Napoleonic-caused autocratic syphilis, our country is no longer fertile of democracy, Hegemony sterilised the manhood of the state and kleptomania shrunk the womanhood of our country,


Sit Down African Napoleon!

Rain is coming, Beware! Of your glass head

You saliva is hot with gossip, your throat burns with hatred, while your frail limbs tremble with fear,

Every Napoleon is a coward, who walks along with puppies, your vicious puppies you reward with mustard and flesh burrowing canines and when they age, you do the Stalin!

This land is not an Animal Farm or a Pig Sty!

We cannot groan, roar, bellow and grunt forever,

We are tired of digging rot and eating filth!

This land is for me, for you and others, it’s not for you alone.

It is a land, whose colours of the flag carry the hopes of poverty scorched villagers you kill with that rough palm of greediness (bring back our gems you tainted with blood),


Sit Down African Napoleon!


You who have soiled the diapers of the revolution,

You who have soiled the pampers of freedom

You who soiled the napkins of peace

You who have broken catheters of life.

You who smash the bones, crunch the flesh, pluck the marrow and drink the soup of this land alone!

Sit down African Napoleon!, Rain is coming.



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








My Uncle, who is Somewhere

whom I sent a picture

Of the misty skies of my town

Sent me a message

Laden with question and exclamation marks:

He wanted to know

Whether that was really mist

Or the smoke

Of a concrete forest burning.

All I could tell him was that

This mist you see

Is the aftermath

Of last night’s heavy rains;

Don’t know when it will clear

Since the weather is still overcast

And promising more rains

To come tumbling

From the sullen skies of my town.




(By Richmore Tera – a 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 weelky 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)








A mindless rage has consumed me

No, no, no!

I have had enough of this-


This and Mugabe that.

I am tired of hearing the same story-

The same old story.

And suddenly killing seems a small irrelevancy,

To the interior happenings-

Inside the country of my brains.

I had been planning for this,

In my thoughts, a couple of-

Weeks back.

So there is this friend of mine who stays-

In Soweto, in Kliptown.

I had gone there to see him, and

I returned back with a

.38 service revolver and

A couple rounds of bullets.

Then I pack a couple of clean

Shirts and pants.

The revolver and the bullets

And leave for Zimbabwe.

And a couple of days later here I am

Outside Harare, only that

I have never left my room

In an East Rand ghetto suburb.

It’s only my thoughts that are

In this favrashi of existence.

Did I think, for a moment that

I could kill Mugabe. Yes!

I will wait for him, across,

Norton road, lying on my stomach.

I know that he is spending most of-

His time in Kutama nowadays.

And that he would pass through

On his way to Harare from Kutama.

I also know the car to shoot today.

And it would be that-

Second black Mercedes Benz car, and

I see the motorcade coming through

Into my foci, and I raise

That wobbly shot-gun.

Eager for my first big;

Terrorist bang!

‘SHOOT THAT CAR!’ my thoughts points

and I sight down the barrel and

I am no longer thinking.

But I am seeing my target moving before me

And I close one eye

Pull the trigger!

And I hear a deafening report.

Like an old drum being beaten.

The burning barrel ahead of me

Right at the tyres, dead centre, and

The rising, lifting, car into the air-

Fire, ash, dust and smoke.

And when I question my thoughts,

Whether I thought I could do it?

They thought I couldn’t have done it.


(By Tendai R.Mwanaka – Literary,Visual&Musical Artist/Critic/Mentor/Editorial Publishing Consultant)









No matter how shiny

No matter how small

There’s only one purpose

To make a man fall.

No matter the reason

No matter the aim

There’s only one purpose

A life is to claim.

No matter the colour

No matter the race

There’s only one purpose

Which is, to erase.

The bullets keep flying

without any need

For that only purpose:

To make mankind bleed.

If all the men’s bullets

Would turn into birds

To carry a message

All over this world

Then finally bullets

Would no longer do harm

And LOVE would be purpose

And our only arm.



(By Elke Lange – International Artist and Writer)








Zimbabwe courses through my veins

Makes my heart pump (skip, jump)

Sings sweet melodies in my ear

Zimbabwe is the harvest that I reap in dreams

Of which I could write reams

Zimbabwe is a smile

That never goes away

Zimbabwe is a house of stone

That will never fall

Its children scattered around the world

Await the clarion call

So they may return to the land of their birth

A land which once fed the world

Contributing to its girth

Zimbabwe courses through my veins

My dreams

My hopes

It sustains

The land that my ancestors tilled, worked, built on

And maintained


House of stone


I pray for you



(By Terence Msuku – a Zimbabwean, raised in Bulawayo. Now residing in Canada. A lover of literature. Former French and English teacher. Published author of a book of short stories and poems, soon to be re-published in print form)








Now we have wanted change for a long time now.

Winds of change have now blown the chaff away.

We have prayed prayers that have called for death.

Yet we know that is not what we ever wanted really.

But God thank you for the peaceful change within.

You have kept the sound of bullets from our doors.

No rumbling of tanks and trucks on our suburbs streets.

No screaming of soldiers for us to remain indoors.

Yes we know that there will be the skirmishes small.

May we taste the peace and change that you allowed.

The only uncertainty we now face is our future new to us.

Can we enjoy a renewal of prosperity for beloved nation.

Can our word be our bond and integrity our creed with pride.

May lives be improved and crime be dissipated from us.

We need to realise that You have brought peaceful change.

That we will look on from today to a hopefully better future.

Help the country and people to again prosper as days of old.

We are a people who have adapted and evolved over time.

A people of you making who have prayed for Your help.

May we never doubt your timing in these matters Lord.

Oh Zimbabwe may we never cease to pray for good of all.



(By Craig Abrahams –  born in Harare on 26 July 1962, the third boy in a family of four children. He lived in Arcadia, a suburb of mixed ethnicity but a unified community of people; Craig put his heart to writing a few years ago and enjoys dabbling in varied poetry styles and forms. He says poetry allows him to address epics in a short colourful way. Zimbabwe is his home – “I have been in Zimbabwe all my life and I am passionate about Africa and love my people”)








Statesman, pith pouring pitch and molasses,

What hellish night clouded your heart so?

Burning at bearing cruel countless crosses?

Is that the colour of reluctant scars of war?

Son of Nkrumah, spared your father’s fate,

Did you not ever think it, that Fate withheld

A hand so you’d undo the I’ll your father did?

Your longevity into a curse you have turned,

I pity your sons with so long to live after you,

One of them wears your fouled names both.

As for your daughter, what fate do you ensure?

For your spouse, Macbeth’s harpy in loathe?

Will Wisdom be vindicated by her children?

Far too long from light they have lain hidden.



(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)








You are my own, Dzimbabwe,

I architected you

From scratch I built you

With my own earth coloured sweat

I made you wonder

I turned you into a great riddle

With these same black hands

I shall restore you to greatness,




(By Nganga Mbugua – a poet, award-winning novelist and Editor of Nation on Saturday (Literary Magazine))






The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

Editor review

1 Comment

  1. Kariuki wa Nyamu November 24, at 14:35

    Wow! This is wonderful! Thanks Editor, poet and activist Mbizo Chirasha for publishing my work. It's a great honour. Congratulatuons to all the poets published in this Issue!


Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.