The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

February 9, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

AFP photo



Mbizo Chirasha


The beat – We are not to remain silent until this country becomes a country again. We will speak until Zimbabwe becomes the Zimbabwe we are all proud of.

We shall speak until Zimbabwe becomse sane, until looters bring back the stolen money. Until fat cats are judged. Until corrupt ministers are charged. Until elections are not rigged. Until vendors are respected. Until teachers are recognized. Until hospitals are stocked with facilities. Until water is cleaned. Until our youth are empowered.

Thank you bravely brave and solidarity voices in this the 28th Journal (The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign), ALUTA CONTINUA – Mbizo Chirasha.








A grandson of the revolution of late 90s

The progeny bored in evolution the 21st

Dynamic spells the prospective of son’s

Daughters of soil. Mwana wevhu stunga.

Deep thoughts from within depths, ours

Guts inflamed by the political ulceration

From the roots of revolutionary liberties

That was spelt far from a distant, tsunga

Tangenhamo was all the comrade voted

Rugare then never did he rendered, and

To out my grief was indeed a taboo craft

Dilemmas I to have embraced in distress.

The thoughts kept going on and on, an

Expedition in nous that bore no potency

No power was for the people by people

And kinship spelt breached by the odds

More misery kept cascading in and in, a

Day spelt years not that I was in chains

But bondage was all my grandpa’s grant

Not that I was a slave but I endured more

Persistence and resilience became mine

Remedies in the 2002 era, Fast tracking

Hyper inflation, Corruption, Destruction,

Followed the walls brought down, tsunga

Inclusively the struggle was ablaze, spelt

A ceaseless brawl, brother’s got lashed

Sister turned an Orangutan, savages of

That phases and never time did awaited.

The process of shaking the old horses

For the new ones became a grandeur so

Rinsed that bored detention by the blue

Suited brother with grey topped shirts…

Till today a brilliant beam shade off the

Darkness from a new dawn, Drawn from

The proficient past. Is it the same notion

in motion to embrace? Rugare or tsunga.

How I would love to embrace the phrase

Tangenhamo, Manifestations of Rugare

In this era spelt a new dispensation by

Those learned on the stratagem apex.

If only the sentiment of democracy will

Be driven forth by the elites and those

Whom sits in the parliaments then I will

Embrace the old foster in the new era…

To welcome once again my kinship that

Has been crushed alike a crunch bargain.

And no more manifestos and speeches

Promises meant be broken. Rugare huya



(By Wilson Waison Tinotenda – I am Wilson aka lowlife diarist with the zeal to embroider the societal restriction logo that heralds our misery as poets, writers and the society)








Kwaa, kapunhirwa pasi kanga koda kukudza dzoro

“Ko wani zvataivatsika nditsikewo, chirongo nemugoro Bhurugwa nebhandi?”

“komondiitirei chin’ai semuri godzo ?”

Kongoungudza kachida kuzendama nemunwe.Zvino kakanyangwira yaona, hameno kaiti nenyanga

dzeyako gava raizoramba rakasungirwa here. Zvinosiririsa rakakaronga hupenyu hwese Kungokoromorwa nemunwe, nane kakazoziva hako kwekupotera.

Kokakara kununa hudya kamwezve kazounokorawo musoro wegudo kakazvikwidibira nayo yakarukwa netambo dzemweya yevasina mhaka. Inochururuka piriviri yevakapfuudzirwa kururama nechokwadi, nerewo twumwewo tukara twakakundikana kusvika pakasvika ganyamatope wedu. Pakaiti kwetsu yeumambo, pasi rese rakaita dwiriri dwiriri bembera rekuzviisa gavi muhuro, musi nenguva muchamafunga aya andareva. Pasi rose richiti zvaita iko ganyamatope kakatoti vavava nhumbu yati shuku kachichururuka nune imi vana wokerayi chimhayi zvemunochingidzira.

Asika kakara kununa hudya kamwe, mushanha ukaufambura wani, chenyore kurara. Vakati vadzoka vanamukoma uchavagona here nhayi ganyamatope meso avo ari mhiripiri. Rute ruchirwera kudawo nune yawave iyi. Waiti vakarara nezamu kani vana mukoma kukusiya uchiseva wega. Zvino vokusveta iwe rakachekanyika wakariti udyu uchifema. Vana gurwe vachingokikiridzawo kuda kununa sevasingaoni kuti gapu renuno nderedemo rinobikwa tukara twawiswa mumujahwo.



(By Collen Gaga)








Harsh insults rape

your ear-drums noisily,

while fists beat

your cheeks like snares

in Hard Rock.

Yet you, you quieten

as calm as water sleeping

in a cup.

Yet you, you bury your cry

in between your wisdom teeth.

Will you please speak out

before this beast unwires

the wirings in your brain

Or before it finally fatally skins

you alive!



(By Gerry Sikazwe – an emerging Zambian poet whose poems have been featured in local and international literary magazines and presses such Tipton Poetry Journal, Tuck Magazine, The Global Zambian Magazine, Dissident Voice, Nthanda Review, etc. Further, he manages a poetry Facebook page and a blog. He writes to shape opinions by ridiculing, questioning, inspiring and teaching in his poems. He is currently attending University at The University of Zambia reading Adult Education with Mathematics)








We have come far from ourselves

We are products of multiple identity.

We cannot make a return,

We are fluent in adopted tongues,


We need to retrace our path

Discover where we veered off

Seek our forgotten roots

Blood that flows in each others veins

Despite our different names

Write unspoken story in our words

Reclaim the songs and dances

Sprung from the unseen depths

To create authentic tunes

Retrograde in order to progress….

Those who made giant leaps

They had home-grown philosophy –

Borrowed ways can only take us so far

On the journey to our promise…



(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)








Systematic it is inflicted –

Like slow poison it is injected

Roots it takes and cancerous bleeds

Takes from the core all strength

Dark venues it like shadows erect

Build walls and pity it’s solace

Hollow inside it allows

The arches crumble fall –

It like fear it like dead slow violence

In silence eats the vitals

It drains the brave spirit pale

It wines of life denature like water

Breaks the steps and determination

It defeats before the battle is on

It runs like in thick of war

Like a state it needs to be fought back

By faith and courage and endeavour

For it is mock for it is fake

For unreal it is it has no standing

It is slander and deceit it is the tool

Cowards employ to inculcate

An object they have ulterior or gain

A control to further a design

Setback near sorrow dear loss big

Or product of perception without real

An imaginary monster or horned genei.



(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)








I am a quill dry with no ink


I am a paint brush crippled

void of creativity

I am a tongue punctured

afraid to walk

I am a voice roughened hoarse


I am a useless useful tool

in need of purpose

I am a lost and destitute dreamer

in terrible need of you

My guide, my nudge!



(By Gerry Sikazwe – an emerging Zambian poet whose poems have been featured in local and international literary magazines and presses such Tipton Poetry Journal, Tuck Magazine, The Global Zambian Magazine, Dissident Voice, Nthanda Review, etc. Further, he manages a poetry Facebook page and a blog. He writes to shape opinions by ridiculing, questioning, inspiring and teaching in his poems. He is currently attending University at The University of Zambia reading Adult Education with Mathematics)







(A case of Slavery, Apartheid and Trumpism)



I stand


legal and


I’m a Negro!



(By Gerry Sikazwe – an emerging Zambian poet whose poems have been featured in local and international literary magazines and presses such Tipton Poetry Journal, Tuck Magazine, The Global Zambian Magazine, Dissident Voice, Nthanda Review, etc. Further, he manages a poetry Facebook page and a blog. He writes to shape opinions by ridiculing, questioning, inspiring and teaching in his poems. He is currently attending University at The University of Zambia reading Adult Education with Mathematics)








A myriad of birdsong,

A gold resplendent sky,

The cool kiss of nightfall,

That is why…..

The grass starts to weep,

The crickets grow still,

There’s a small ray of light

On a faraway hill

Sparse winter trees,

Cool winter night

The birds are all settling

With calm silent flight.

The night starts to quieten,

The light fades away.

In the distance, a bark,

It’s the end of the day.

Oh moon, stars and heaven,

Grant us your light,

As we all settle down,

On this stark winters night.



(By Theresa Stromnes – my name is Tree, T-dog, Theresa, Nonjabulo, Thwasa. My poems tell my story)








I lost my father

when I was not yet born.

He was minced to death in a white man factory.

His death news was all that they had

to inter.

Some do the body-viewing; a last farewell

but my mother did just the

accident-scene glaring.

Dejected and in bloody tears.

She cursed her existence.

No benefits from the company

just a condolence message; crocodile tears!

The primitive machine ground my father and all his money.

Presumptuous defiance.

I was born in this frowning misery.

A year past my birth,

my mother died.

She was shot for trespassing

but in the colonial court the accused’s lawyer pleaded not guilty,

Mr Brown mistook my mother for a baboon.

I am in the streets, where bitter is sweet!

I eat with the dogs

and you think that i am mad.

I eat from the bins

and you suppose that it’s funny.

I move naked in rags

and you conclude that it’s deliberate.

I sleep on my empty belly

and you suggest that i am fasting.

You ride your cars

along my sore-ridden back

because i am vulnerable,

but drown in my distress

like an oppressive sun i have decided to rise!

The revolution is here

and a change must come!

better must reign!

If not today it must be now.

I am the street man

I have nothing to lose.

Check my tenacity before my obstacles!

Watch my pride to vanquish!

My resistance inspires new assaults

at my every failure!

I am the voice of the revolt

of recalcitrant against despair and incoherence

in an oppressive society!

I keep coming defying incompetent leaders

lost in the limbo of colonial vestige!

I am the mirror of man’s inhumanity to man!

My blood shall underscore the economic rape perpetrated by the men of greed and deceit,

till equality becomes a concern of honest minds

not a privilege of the mighty!

I am the street man i shall not be challenged to cowardice.

I have nothing to lose but everything to gain.

My time is now!

My time is this time

i must leave the streets for the mansions.

A new era has dawn!

The street man has awakened from his long time slumber.



(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)








If I should be quiet

Who will tell my story, who will make history?

You say I should be quiet

Can I not share what I think, lest my brain explodes with thought?

If I should be quiet,

Who will fight for justice, who will fight for change?

They said I should be silent

I am suffering, together with my kinsmen.

If you should know the cause, I shall speak so you know.

But you say I should be quiet.

If I should be quiet,

Who will right the wrongs and put things in their place?

Now that I am silent,

Who will teach you what I know, how will I learn what you know?

I am so desperate to speak

I see death and despair, my household has fallen.

Just allow me to speak,

I see the cause of the wound and it can be treated.

If I should be quiet,

My children have no home, homes are for the few.

The few who can speak, and no one can argue.

My brain aches with thought, I should let it out,

Not just for myself, but for my household.

Now that I am quiet,

I am a laughing stock, no neighbour respects me.

They whisper and tease, I should stand for myself.

They used to admire me, I fed the poor.

Now even the skies have turned against me

If I should be quiet

How do I mend my walls, and mend all relations?

I am in chains, they have sealed my mouth,

So that I’ll be quiet and let out no thoughts.

Just allow me to speak.

To say healing words and bring about hope.

To put my household in order, restore it to glory.

In me you see the enemy, a fool to be ignored.

But even the fools have their stories to tell.

If I should be quiet,

How will I rebuild my homestead, to lure my children back?

They have run away, lest their own roof falls upon them.

Please let my mouth speak,

Not to destroy, but to rescue.



(By Vivian MaMoyo Mabenge – I am a Zimbabwean born lawyer and poet who is passionate about story-telling and provoking thought on a wide range of socio-political experiences in our communities. I find inspiration from listening to people’s stories and searching within myself for that part of me that can relate to such stories. I dream of a community that is free to engage in conversation and action for the benefit of its people, especially those who cannot voice their opinions and grievances. I dream of peace, justice and heath for all. I know through our collective effort on this platform, a lot can be achieved)








No one is spared the vitriol

The verbal diarrhoea spewed

Making mountains out of anthills

The dangerous game now played

The many foes now made everywhere

Baying for that ice cold harlot blood

There is the looming gruesome end

The pages of history re littered

With many that fell into disgrace



(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)








Angels don’t have wings.

Wings are a marketing device

that makes them easier to sell.

It also makes it much easier

to avoid the paparazzi if people think

you’re supposed to have wings.

Wings stick out in a crowd.

A stylish affectation.

Angels don’t need


Do you actually think

that a being like that

would need wings?

I mean


They would only get in the way

in elevators;

in small, fast cars.

They would be a nuisance

in a movie theatre.

You’d have to keep them cleaned…

Do you know how involved it is

keeping wings clean?

Birds do it, bees do it

They’ve got nothing better to do.

Preening, preening, preening…


Humans need wings.

It’s a good thing that most angels

have a sense of humor.

If you’re going to look for angels, watch

for the radiance

not wings.

Wings. Really…



(By Michael Graves – An acclaimed poet, Michael Graves writes from a sometimes gritty metaphysical point of view. This is poetry for people who believe that there is more to life than meets the eye, and that the human spirit is far more resilient than for which it’s ever been given credit. To download a e-free book of his poetry, please click this link and click on the red button that says “Free Ebook: A Glimpse Beyond” https://­hugohousepublishers.c­om/product/­messages-bottle-paper­back/)






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