The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

January 26, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Reuters photo



Mbizo Chirasha


Life seems beautiful outside but inside people are hurt. People have suffered for a long time, they want their freedom, their peace, their wealth, their water  and their roads.

Corruption by those in the higher echelons has since blighted their hopes, their dreams dashed. Graduates need jobs and a meaning in their lives. Young people and women need empowerment and a sustainable means of survival.

Violence and poverty breeds hatred. Our people have since become xenophobic, tribalistic, racist and unkind. The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign continues to fight for the best and better for the Zimbabwean people from 2018 going forward. It’s time to say it as it is.

Salute to Jambiya for bringing a refreshing article on societal challenges we face today in our daily lives. Let’s all fight to reshape Zimbabwe. We voice through the power of verse. Brave and Solidarity Voices Together We Rise, ALUTA CONTINUA! – Mbizo Chirasha.








I am not black!

I am not a colour!

I am a human being.

I am not what you consider me I am.

Shame on your first stride to insanity.

You classify me with colours,

not with humanity!

Do colours look like me?

Do they think, speak and act like me?

I know red.

I know blue,

yellow and all…

but the colours that I know aren’t man at all.

Why do you see me not

but just colours when you glare at me?

I am going to stop associating with you

if you mistake me again for black!

Black isn’t a person.

Black can’t be a friend.

Flush the colour illusions from your eyes,

you will see that I am like you; a human being

but not a colour!



(By B.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)








Symphony of music

By birds in the bushes

Ooze sweet memories of us

Evening cool breeze

Streams of thoughts freeze

I sat in the silhouette corner

Coffee sips and silent laughter’s

Echo in my ears endlessly

the aroma is past is pungent

Lovely blooms and lovely colours

Evening glowing lights

Gave birth to festive bustle



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








inside my poetic brothel

condoms are holy bibles of time

verses of the holy book flushed down garbage sewers

slogan nicotined, politicians ,

sugar tongued camaradas

vaticanized nuns, priests,

Americanised sex lords and sex tenants

English bitched poetic toddlers sip

from cinamoned, chilled,

sugared, fizzling mugs frothing poetic wisdom

in unison, English mandraxed,

utopian toddlers chant like koranic congregants,

enchanting , chanting, mind tilting verses

of paradise lost

blood rending Canterbury tales

Macbeth pulsating monologues

mind blasting militant satires

of black ink sanguaged with oxfordized instincts

and michiganized impressions

yes drunks and prostitutes

with vowels and verbs condomized

in conscience sustaining imagery,

sodomized in apartments of revolutionary

doped symbolism

and castrated in bedrooms of

missionarism cocained irony,

Anthrax free blades of sarcasm,

circumsize baritone voiced toddlers,

soprano gifted babies ritualized in roasting furnaces of syntactic invasion and choking glycerin

glistening assonance

metaphor inflicted alcoholics and bitches skeletoned by alliteration transmitted blisters

blisters stink and rot like festering roses

sometimes ghostly blisters bloom

into poetic grapes and

wisdom wine is sieved into refrigerators of time

brothel convicts punished in rhymed nudity

stripped of their Viagra hawking license,

rehabilitated into silent wards of poetic justice



(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)








What if we sit down and insert sense of resolution in one another?

I feel the original African instinct calling from deep inside of many

Eager to ask questions and give suggestions

wanting to know how? Why? When? And who?

How is it all going to be achieved, our dream?

Why are we going through all this, all is not well?

When is all going to be back to normal?

Who is going to take us there, you or me?

So why don’t we sit down and reason together?

What if you or I have a better idea?

What if I or you know the road to better us?

What if its now where all must be well?

What if why question is the reason why you and I must sit down and talk?

I’m tired of Politics without policies

Demonstrations that do not bring democracy

Election without fair selection

I’m just tired of campaigns without clear course of action

So what if we sit down and put our house in order

Instead of focusing of the next election,

Why don’t we focus of investing for the next generation?

I need you to know I’m concerned and want to talk.

MPs are no longer Members of parliaments,

They are now man Man Of Prestige

Ministers are now looters

Councillors are now car sellers

Let me end here with the hierarchy

But my concern is on what if we sit down and talk?



(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)








I hate to see this glittering gem

In the heart of the tropics

So filled with pain and grief

Darkness in sunlit days

Teetering on brink of destruction

From which it must be saved

Every fifth of the moon

For choice of temporal suitor

Despite her youthful energy

The unsung beauty and bounty …

I hate to see her hunger

Clad in foreign rags

Stitched with mixed colors

While she stands on wealth

Oil and precious metals

Expansive farms waiting to be tilled

Woods that’ve been stripped bare

Exposed to the elements….

When will she remove the mask

And wear a smile again

Happy for her struggling children

Finally liberated from this pain.



(By Michael Mwangi Macharia – a poet based in the Rift Valley region,kenya. He contributes literary and education articles to the kenyan dailes. He is also involved in directing,adjudicati­on of music and drama. He has developing interest in History, fine art and photography)





Bitter Blood


Here’s something different. But I guess it depends on how one views it. I adapted it to a short story. I’d appreciate your critique.



It was her first day on the job. Her uniform sparkled with pride. She was determined to make it work, come hell or high water. Siyabonga smiled wryly at the the image the thought provoked. Cape Town was experiencing a water crises. Africa Africa. From South to North there were power struggles for control. Open the springs and let the people drink. Pour out grand jobs. These were her thoughts. She went from being a southern dame to a security guard. Stripped of land and love. Her belly jiggled as she chuckled to herself. “Power to the people, eish. Viva viva Africa”. She owned her new post with dignity.

It was a quiet evening and she settled down to focus. Her colleague seemed to be in the bathroom far too long but there was no time for distractions. Her bosses depended on her to keep trouble away and she wasn’t about to disappoint. She loved adventure but on quiet nights one often needed an alternate means of entertainment. She came prepared and reclined with an easy sigh; like flipping a switch.

The Tower Hotel stood like a monstrous alien craft silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Like his hotel, the owner towered at 6 and a million feet. He was the Cape’s hottest and possibly most spectacular hospitality attraction. A community icon and leader.

The Zanotti heel kissed the mogul’s blonde head and nestled there like a long goodbye.

“Hayi’ bo – haaaayi’ bo – no – noooo”!

Siyabonga’s brain absorbed the shock as she grappled with the shrieking phone that reminded her of her duties. “Where’s a pen when one needs it”. she mumbled her irritation at the missed call. Her eyes scanned the scene like a cheating lover.

Raven coloured curls sprang free as shaky hands pushed the giant onto his back. His pizzle seemed stunned at first but eventually lowered its gaze in mock embarrassment – flaccidly conceding to fate.

He thought it a shame that such manly magnificence could shrivel at the mere flick of a hand – hands that remained as tiny as they were when she came into his life at 10 years of age . He always wondered about that. He ran through the years and challenged his denial. The truth was that he couldn’t rise even if he wanted to. He couldn’t buy his way out of this one. It was all a bloodied mess.

For one eternal second wretchedness gyrated like a fanned fish that had been dropped into a saltpond. Raymond De Kock groaned into his lasting doggone torment. A uniquely paved road to hell for all molesters. Even the rich and famous; even those lording over God’s earth, the rivers and ravines. Reserving million dollar contracts for the rich to become richer while the little man patrols the traffic lights begging for a morsel.

Siyabonga was riveted. The images in her head were real. She ignored the phone.

Karin smacked away the tears as blood caressed her cheek and pecked at her pursed lips that squelched the rising gall. The smell and taste of Paco Rabanne all too fresh.

The 17 year old knelt and exhaled against the devils cooling cheek, “My dear Papa, you are under arrest and everything you say or do will be held against you in a court of law”. She neatened the stray hairs that was unlike him and straightened his pin stripes; her eyes grazing on the years of violation.

Karin Sanger rose from her stepfather’s stillness, looked at him one last time then hobbled to the door.

A jeweled sandal dangled from her tiny fractured fingers.

Siyabonga was mesmerized. She noddingly shook her head in utter confusion at the unexpected turn of events. “Who would’ve thought”, she mused. “That poor baby, yo yo yo – our leaders are fallen. Mama mama…”Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika – God bless and keep Africa and her sons and daughters.

“Good evening”. The young voice tore through the veil of storybooks and adventure. Mali jumped up from her padded chair. The novel flew from unsuspecting hands and landed with a thud. Her confusion turned to utter dismay. Raven coloured curls bounced and tiny hands cupped undisguised laughter.

“Must have been a good sleep, you seemed to have been transported”.

“Oh deary me Miss. Be still my beating heart”.

Mali Siyabonga looked to where the unread book had fallen and let out a long whistling expletive;

“oooh thixo wam, ndibona ntoni na,

Tutu, Luthuli, Nkosi, oh madoda,

what have I just seen”!



(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)








There used to be a leaking pot

Pot that dripped,

Dripped water and oil,

Oil into the fire,

Fire that sputtered,

Sputtered and smouldered,

Smouldered and died,

Leaving me hungry.

Once had a hoe

Hoe whose handle,

Handle slipped and slid,

Slid from my grasp,

Grasp of blisters,

Blisters of striking blade,

Blade against rock

Ploughing in rocky sand

Now is a new moon

Moon that shines,

Shines dispelling darkness,

Darkness from my eyes,

Eyes focused on the horizon,

Horizon where dawn,

Dawn beckons

Promising a new day.



(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)








Makare kare ruoko rusati rwovavira mari

Vakuru vedu vaizviziva ruoko runovava

Ndosaka vakakaka ngoma

Kuti kana ruchinge rwovava,

Vagorova, yo, yavakaka ngoma.

Ndokutsinhira kurobga kwayo ngoma

Muchirabge voti, anemhazha ngaarobge

Bandangoma, banda ngoma

Rova ngoma, usarova mukadzi

Bandangoma, banda ngoma iwe

Rova ngoma, usarova mukadzi.

Rova ngoma saGarabha muna Waiting for the Rain

Rova ngoma vanhu vatambe

Rova ngoma vanhu vafare

Rova ngoma hosho dzitsinhire

Ingava ngoma yeMbende/ Jerusarema, rova!

Kana ngoma yeMuchongoyo, rova!

Ingava ngoma yeMbakumba, rova!

Kana ngoma yeZiyoni, rova!

Rova ngoma, usarova mukadzi.

Mukadzi woworova uyu,

Zvauriwezve wani wakamukwezva nerurimi rwaidonha uchi

Uchimuti ade iwe, agopura nyemba nemusana

Ukamurezva sorusvava muri kumafuramhepo

Yake misodzi uchiipukuta nerurimi rwako.

Sokunze nhasi uno wazara mhindupindu dzisifemberwi

Zvaunoda nezvausingadi hazvina achaziva, newe hautauri

Kuri kutsvaka pamuromo.

Sekuru, mbuya havarobgi

Baba musarova mai

Mukoma, mukadzi haarobgi

Munin’ina, usazorova mukadzi.

Bandangoma, banda ngoma

Rova ngoma, usarova mukadzi

Bandangoma, banda ngoma iwe

Rova ngoma, usarova mukadzi



(By Simbarashe Jongwe – a poet, born 32years ago in Bikita. I grew up in Gutu under the guidance of my grandmother, Mbuya VaZimuto, who was a very good storyteller. I went to Metero CPS and Guzha secondary school. My poetry journey begins on 17&18 September 2004 during a BWAZ facilitated Workshop. I fight for women and children’s rights. To me, poetry is the mother of freedom. I am also an avid reader)








Reality check time is now

That image of derailment

You see what I meant

The opportunists got on board

Grew fat on the gravy train


Some lionised themselves

Turned the struggle into a possession

Assumed they owned that sacred struggle

Claiming to be the liberators

Others adopted mercenary tendencies


The chasms are widening

The diversionary tactics at play

Hunger and poverty gobbling communities

Opportunists now at each other’s throats

Reality check time is now



(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)








You are not in the run

I am told

‘So don’t run’

Don’t either throw

Or pick the gauntlet

Don’t hope a win

Or loss

You are not in the run –

Slow down

Walk aside or to rest

You may be

Under a different set

Of rules

More stringent

You will be judged

By the book –

So don’t run

Don’t aspire or yourself


If you can

Greet the winners

You would have been here

Without the effort

You put in –

Better relieved

And stay in comfort

Since you have complied

The written code

There is

An unwritten law

In the other rooms

The judges sit –

But don’t run

You are not in the run.



(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)






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