The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

April 2, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Tim McKulka/UN photo



Mbizo Chirasha


The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign is unstoppable and is ever going. Comrades, Poets and Poetesses have responded positively to our call in this set of Brave Voices Poetry Journals. Our theme on Women’s Voices has brought a lot of thought provoking writing and it is quite humbling to work with so great a diversity of voices.

The purpose of this journal to strengthen potential and voices in grandmothers, mothers, sisters and daughters. It is quite interesting because the month of March is a month of mesmerizing importance (MONTH OF WOMEN AND POETRY).

We have powerful writing from Zimbabwe, South Africa, Kenya, Liberia, Nigeria, Cameroon, Pakistan, India, Canada and the United States of America. The response to this set of journals is quite amazing.

The Poetry reminds to stand firm with women in arts, poetry, politics, social and cultural sectors. Let’s celebrate the richness of lives in this month of Women and Poetry. We celebrate through epics, elegies, metaphor, confessions and testimonies all in the name of Women/Poetry Month.

A special thank you goes to Women of WORDS, Jambiya Kai, Caroline Adwar, Nnane Ntube, Chrispah Munyoro, Tracy Yvonne Breazile, Pamela Sadler, Temitope Aina, Ngozi Olivia Osuoha, Fikile Berry, Unaledi Retabile Imbongikazi, Lingiwe Patience Gumbo, Khadija Finesse, Sister Comrades Poetesses, brother Comrades Poets, Our He-Heroes of WORD.  Together We Rise. Aluta Continua! – Mbizo Chirasha.








For them she is dead, – come alive –

She provokes ire, – because she

Did not die, and they did not mourn

And she because she spoke –

So unhindered in terrible times

When women were roped and men

Would paint their walls orange, listen

To illiterate sermons or the youth

Lynched by either side, – I would not

Have been pained for you

Had you not hailed from that valley of innocense

And I not so fond of those steep peaks

Or I not anguished by that lushness

You did not speak the tongue I talk –

Or you might stand for others’ rights.



– On the return of Malala Yousafzai



(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)








Why bury your head in shame at the events of the past?

Why open yourself to grieve your tender heart?

Why destroy yourself with unwholesome thoughts?

The long needless battle your anxiety deeply fought

Why humiliate your soul for what you call impurity?

Dear Child before you stand Chastity

She embodies the luminosity that can make you glow

Chase away depression and enter her revered halo

Chastity is a promise to live in the present

To savour the joys and become more resilient

To rise above rape of body and soul

And open up to emotions that make you whole

Her feminine vibrations the Golden Goddess resonates

Her gifts and love you should deeply appreciate

Deck yourself with garlands weave pristine flowers

And dance to her eternal rhythm as she bestows on you her radiance



(For Easter as the true Ostara approaches and those who recognise her appreciate Her Coming….Earth Mother)







The Enchantress embodies every woman you have known

And would still know

For her flames encompass every feminine vibration

Every passion and longing

Resides within her power

If her flames keep you warm

It is because you are pure and are promised

Else it burns fast at impurities

And every evil propensity

Her flames burn bright within the glow

The past resonates

Kingdoms and havens

Eagles and ravens

Legends and tribes with stories untold

The enchantress she wields her sword

It is sharp her thrust is not awkward

It is the one that breaks false chords



(By Temitope Aina – writes passionately and inspiringly and her themes are love, peace, harmony and self development. She loves to read African literature and is enamoured with poetry. She writes from Lagos, Nigeria)








I’m a woman

But you decided to hang on the “Wo”

Forgetting that in any “Wo”

There is a “man”.

You take the “Wo” for a wolf

Belief me if I were a wolf,

You wouldn’t have rested your eyes on other wolves

I’m a woman

But you called me a “whore”

If you know me so well,

Then you must be another whore

Tell me, if you spit on me

And call me a horse,

If I disgust you that much,

Why don’t you stop climbing on the horse?

Don’t confuse me with your words!

Stop turning the “wolf” into a doll!

With all the ink of pages in her head,

She’s not dull.

Do not get her lost in your words

From “whore” she’s become a “chocolate”

The horse is too big to suppress

That’s why you refrain to “baby”

Or better still “bae” or “babe”

Your words are smashing me

Your compliments are imprisoning me

Your caresses are remote controls

To my emotions

Just let me be me

With the “Wo” and the “man”

In me, I shall find my own name

In my natural voice

Then you’ll know where exactly to put me

And what name to give me.



(By Nnane Ntube – A Cameroonian who is passionate about creative writing. A teacher of languages (French and English) but she is currently furthering her studies at the Higher Teachers’ Training College, Yaoundé. Her poems The Lost Bond, The Pains I Feel, Hungry Voices, Change, Trust in Tears, A Child’s Dream, are published by Spill words press. Her poem, The Visitor featured in a magazine in Zimbabwe; The poems, The Pains I Feel and If I am Your Rainbow appeared in an anthology of Gender Based Violence, #Wounded which will soon be published in Zimbabwe by the POWAD group (Poets With A Difference). Her poems Before I Met You and As I Hold Your Hand are forth coming in a wedding day anthology in Zimbabwe. She is a social critic, a youth activist for peace and an aspiring actress)








the moon too was a woman, spoken to in tongue of flames


she burnt into night, became a portrait of my mother

some nights, she would drown herself in secrecy of pain, & ask

-son you wonder why the feminine face of God

was bleached with tribal marks of fire

& the clouds couldn’t speak the language of water?

those night she recalled dynasties of dead dreams

unfurled scripts where ancestors played host to love


in the language of fire that couldn’t be erased by the river

whose teeth carved a rivulet on her face she said

-your sister is the miracle that named God

and somewhere between her legs God was formed into fragments

on the peak of her breast those fragments became a whole

God was a woman!

Dynasty of Dead Dreams

My mother

is dying nasty of d e a d dreams

her stories are chapters of agony

of how the god she formed

became the eater of her destiny




For Maria Ajima



Here, the moon is a mute maid leading an orchestra

& we are thrown into abyss of lost light

We do not know the beauty of night with stars

Because, our continent is the fragments of bombs

The sparkle we know are the flames from guns

And our crickets chirp in roars of our sisters taken hostage

So, we bath in the burning tongue of the sun

But you know how to bath calmness into children, by

Squeezing tears from god’s eyes to water our dry throat

Moulding fufu from the left over of angels & set us tables to dine

By such, you become the mother that threats flames not to burn

You gather us in garments of calm


And whisper to the cloud

With hopes that one day you will fetch us our moon

Unclog her throat so we can know nights

Where the moon will sing

Oko Owi Ocho Afrika







Runners, creepers, beauty all over

Greenness, colourful freshness

Well tended gardens, hedges too

The grass not level, beautifully wild

The path, earthen, wet

Attracting bare feet to tread

Down the slope, the river beautifully glitters in the early morning sunrise

Wild flowers she plucks on her way to the river,

Nyangi must adorn her beautiful silky hair…

Her surrounding firmly in her grip

Today, she took it all in

Her eyes missing none of it.

Her pot firmly on her head, supported by the neat circular spongy ‘tach’

Her hands free to feel the leaves and flowers as she walked gingerly to the river bank.

Nyangi, nyar Awino, the beautiful one

In her full bloom, she was pure

Okeyo would let no man touch his sister…

No…not the village boys who like butterflies flew from one petal to the other…

Nyangi was taught well….and she would not disappoint!

Ambwaka, like her name,

delivered of several babies in her Mother’s house…..

An example Nyangi was constantly reminded of…

Nyangi would be a flower with all her petals intact,

Her brother mused…

She would fetch healthy cattle,

…not three lousy calves!

The waters of Awach splashed

Nyangi swum with agility

An expert swimmer she was!

As she emerged from the river, her supple body shining in the rising sun

An excellent structure created with exquisite precision!

This girl, a darling to herself,

Enjoyed every minute she breathed

Enjoyed her walk

Enjoyed her work

Enjoyed her life!

Pure bliss!



(By Caroline Adwar – a rising Poetess, an English and Music Teacher in Kenya. She started writing poetry while in high school and she is a fanatic of old English poetry writing traditional style, rhyme, repetition, alliteration and assonance. She is currently experimenting African free verse and her poetry will soon be published in Kenya, Zimbabwe and other International platforms. Caroline is a Bachelor of Education Arts (English and Music) from the Kenyatta University in Kenya)





When I see you I will stop you, for your child is my child



Burning Trails to Trafficking

Am I the consequence of poverty

or perhaps a prank gone too far?

A plaything to appease a sick mind;

5 thousand rand for a mothers blossoming burden,

where drugs speak louder than love.

Sex, Sex, Sex…..

I am locked away

banished to hell.

Trafficked, branded, blow-torched then led to a fold in the hills,

like roaches in a darkened hole,




maybe years?

A flame to my face

has sealed my fate.

I no longer fight, and my attempts at flight

becomes a whimsical notion

killed by a burn.

How I miss the golden shores of the Cape.

What language is that I hear –

Where am I,

Nigeria, Bangladesh, Pakistan?

I live in a cage,

I breathe air and see the sky

only at night.

I am lost



I am the dead breathing



Set alight and survived.

Perhaps hope will someday

deliver me from this hell

of a charred face displayed

behind a glass cage.

A high priced collectors item.

Laugh you foolhardy Pharisees.

You brood of vipers

who amuse yourselves

with my plight –

you who cackle as I fight

for just a moments respite;

a moment to breathe with ease.

My pores implore you leave

me to confront the demon

that has torched me like a crispy, creepy roach for life;


My value rises, just as you wanted.

I hope you are happy now

with your drugs in the dunes.

I am the circus clown –

The face every man wants.


Oh perverted one,

you twisted rich mogul you!

the damned who

sits upon my melted face

and violates the remnants

of who I once was.

My sticky, slimy seedy slave-master.

Your taste of sweat and old sex will partner me to my grave.

The smell of a rich man’s cigar is the witch that haunts my every dying moment.

STOP your roving callous paws!

Laugh you coward;

face my burnt face.

Look deeply into my beautiful innocence;

Into the youthful eyes that shrivels beneath your exploring manhood.

My life is lost.

I own it not.

I am dying –

this heart that pumps

Is not in me

I am gone


I am a pulse,


Can you hear me –

Can you save me from

My face

My fate

will this hollow in the ground

be my grave?


what have you done!

do you sleep well beside

your drugs in the dunes;

I hope you are warm and happy

beside the peddler

who sells little girls for you.



can you hear me?

save me please

from my face,

from my fate,

from my mother.



Sex trafficking of women and girls is amongst the most prevalent and profitable types of human trafficking. Evidence suggests that sex trafficking is especially high in India, Pakistan and Bangladesh where diverse types of burning are also prevalent especially among young females. The aim of the present short communication is to emphasize that among many health issues affecting trafficked women in such countries, burns may also be prevalent among these victims.

Ref: science direct – volume 43 (Burns in trafficking)



(By Beulah Kay aka Jambiya Kai – 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)








I don’t know why I like the people who hate me

I don’t know why I don’t remember the sweetest

Moments in my life, but instead recall the worst

Memories that force me to rain the clouds on my

Cheeks and swallow the clouds within my soul

Life is a treasure that I cannot believe that I have

The keys of my happiness but I betrayed instead

Of protecting it against the ones who don’t respect,

Judge me with an evil eye and speak harshly with

Words that put me down their own cigarette ashes

I always knock on the doors of unwelcome friends

Nobody wants to see me even from the window and

Wipe my tears and hear my aches for a few minutes

My shadow hides the sunshine from my back who is

Walking the wind, talking to God, and finding the moon

When the stars go blue, I want to go fully darkness

To hide my feelings away from the angels of the bible

The loser in me stands alone by the autumn branches

And the winner stands weeping and preparing myself

To pull the trigger straight to bed of my real weakness

The book of jokes has been the untold stories about

Why I cannot sleep early tonight and other nights too

Birds prey and sing along with the world made by hands

The awful creator forgot to turn the voice of the night on

I was born into the lost world of the voiceless mermaids

Noemi in my dreams, I touch beautiful days somewhere

A near future in which I always stand by her with a love and

A title, it’s a wonderful wife and never a burning wish to

Treat her like a princess in my little island where desires

Burn slow from the naked fingertips reaching her kindness







What if am rich

Driving a chauffeured Benz

Dinning in three star hotels

Like king solomon many Mistresses

Chattels waiting for me?

What if am a don

An epitome of knowledge

Spewing theories of Marx & Freud

Splitting hairs with adage of wisdom

Eyes glued to my fluency?

What if am a king

In a palace surrounded by minions

My word a command to many

My queen a paragon of beauty

My siblings eroticism appetizing?

What if I have a wife

To cook for me delicious recipes

A choice in a field of daisies

To warm my cold heart

To sire my worthy heirs?

What if, what if…..

Chasing the fantasy of the times

Emptiness of a soul a mirage

Like a wind in a desert

And the days counts,

The ultimate,

And fate, the king

While the sunset beckons.



(By Patrick Kamau– a graduate in literature and special education from Kenyatta university. He hails from murang’a county in Kenya. Currently he is a special education teacher. Kamau loves reading, making friends and writing poetry. His dream is to publish an anthology in collaboration with other like minded poets)








The tonnes of words

The flood of epithets

The acres of comments

The loads of bile

The brickbats on walls

By faceless ones.

The disowned loves

Sacrificed on profane altars –

How do we now turn

From our reckless past

And embrace the present

Without tinge of guilt?

The transformations

Refashioning lips to a smile

Heart for new feelings

After all the hurt and hate

The mockery of fate.

Finally we rise from stupor

And stir to reality

About our common docility

Realize ours is shared destiny.

We fight endless wars

And forget daily battles

Even as the real enemy

Peers from reed fence with glee…



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








A Mother’s love, is like a beautiful brocade

Rich with a tapestry woven through with threads that glitter and glow never fading with time as you grow.


When with sleepless nights, fraught with loving concern she made sure that from birth you would grow into the best and better version of herself.


Mothers do their best in whatever situations life throws their way. From with the knowledge of your conception came the decision to nurture you within their womb, through healthy gestation onto a much anticipated birth.


Yet at times child. Your retorts are filled with pompous wisecracks and a “know it all” attitude because you believe yourself grown. With cheeky ripostes you disregard the blood, tears and sweat shed over so many years. Yet never does a mothers love diminish.


A Mothers love does not shun opportunity, progress nor the realisation of your dreams

Yet you fail to see the good intent behind her protective rebuke. Sometimes behind sombre or even stern facade. Restraining you from wrong.

A mothers love is selfless and infinite, never fading as you grow.



(By Khadijah Finesse – Artist: Composer in Verse/Song Writer/Performance POET and Advocate of girl child issues and rights)








I stand up so firm against permutation!

In their orbit let the women not stray.

If the Creator made the dog to bark,

who then amongst us can make it hoot?

Women have their crucial roles to play,

which no men can never dare challenge to do.

For this truth in utmost esteem men do bow.

‘Tis undeniable if this feminine blessing our globe would indeed have lacked,

life under the sun would have never been the same.

But even if women can emulate almost all men’s endeavours and triumphs,

they shall never cease being what they are


They can join the army as soldiers,

they can lie underneath cars as mechanics,

and today do all that their predecessors by love and mutual consent,

yesterday never had time to put their hands upon

but men can’t fall pregnant.

Remember that the chaff never will it get blown against the prevailing wind!

We can appreciate some changes that solace the woman’s soul

but not all the changes.

The officious world has much garbage to offer

but we are not bins so we shall not accept any refuse!

There’s nothing ‘equal’ in her equal rights!


no ‘right’ in her gay and lesbian rights!

To what righteously uplift the female gender,

let the women’s hands lose not grip.

To bask in the security of our love and jealousy

this from creation is man’s chief longing.

Discipline isn’t abuse!

Submission isn’t servitude!

Modesty isn’t obsolence!

Humbleness isn’t foolishness!

Of true love and wisdom,

time and environment can dart and change

but these two like the Statue of Liberty

their aspects will never alter.



(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)








Led to the dark tunnel emulating to get out

Through all these confusion

Of maladministration

And injustice

Faces of weird beast

Betraying the unfortunate many

The offense being just being citizens

Committed citizens

I read newspapers

Listen to radio

I then gave out my TV

And unsubscribed my DSTV

‘Cause all I see and hear is monopoly

And manipulation

Vacating office is a sin to Presidents

Internal power struggles has become African norms

Where is the unite and tranquillity you once fought for?….



(By Sydney Saize – a Word guerrilla, a fighter of human rights, a Word slinger in the Campaign against despotism, Haile Saize 1 is the Poet in residence of the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign Project)








This most valuable game

Leaving many so lame.

When the pen looms

Dangerously showcasing goons.

Silently opening cotton stuffed brains

Which had been long in filthy drains.

Infusing different colours

To urge them to focus.

Erasing hocus -pocus

Boldly blowing pompous.

Which had been dribbling like mucous .

This sacred sceptre

With my pen’s nature.

Caressing the paper

In a determined manner.

So much intrinsic

For it carries fantastic music.

Blessed with glee

For my pen is a super glue.

To engage the impotence

To be important in a lecture sense.

Dancing salsa dance

Full of decadence.

Shaping the aspiration

Dream, hope stuck at a station.

Booming with a mission.

With the speed of a missile

Awakening the docile.

With vigour to inspire

Hotter than fire.

Smelling the fresh scent of the future

Erasing and designing begone puncture.

This pendant

So radiant.

Close to my heart

No value of wealth can stumble this heath.

My pen you are men

You are women.

The value of creation

Humbly crewman.

Bubbling with ink

Sticking painful itch



(By Chrispah Munyoro – currently a student of Applied Art and Design, Graphics and Website Programming at Kwekwe Polytechnic College in Zimbabwe. Munyoro is a talented writer, journalist and a dedicated Design Artist. She is natural linguist, fluent in many languages among them English, Shona, Esperanto, Setswana, Swahili, Italiana and Yoruba. She began as a columnist writing feature articles in the Gweru Times in Midlands Province Capital of Zimbabwe. She has worked as a Midlands Chapter Chairperson of the Zimbabwe Association of Freelance Journalists. Munyoro was once a Zimbabwe Representative at Zone IV Regional Youth Games in 2014 Bulawayo in the boxing discipline. The multi-disciplinary artist is registered under AIBA the international body of boxing. The Writer, Artist, Poet, Journalist and athlete has been writing poetry since her tender years and she has participated in various writers, poetry, journalism and sports)








You are chatting at night with her

You suddenly feel horny

You quickly ask for a nude

She says no

You continue

She asks you to understand her

You tell her to trust you

She says she can’t expose her body to anyone


You still go on.

She tells you to wait

You wait patiently

She sends it

You feel happy

You wank on it

You finish, you look at the nude again

You feel disgusted

You think its nasty after wanking on it

You then go to mobile uploads

You upload the pic with a nasty caption

You even tag her

She sees it

She sends you a message for you to delete it, she cries and begs

But you say no ?

She tells you she’ll send more if you delete that one

You say you’ve seen everything you wanted.

People start to like and react on the nude

Some start to comment bad things, some defend, some feel sorry, some laugh.

Her friends see the nude, some friends are disappointed and discriminate her, some friends defend her, but it does nothing cause everybody has seen the nude.

Some people share it

Some save and some even show her relatives

She’s toned she regrets she cries

Next day she goes to school

She finds some people booing her

She enters the class just about to sit, she’s called by the head teacher

She’s told to explain what the head teacher and the member of stuff have heard, she fails

She’s beaten.

The head teacher call her parents

They talk to the head teacher and the result is that she’s expelled?

The parents try to plead but the head teacher is cold hearted

She goes home

Her parents are disappointed, and they also beat her.

Her phone is taken away

Her life ruined

She tries to take a walk just to think things through

But as she’s walking people point at her

She hears them talking about the same thing

Some laugh

She goes back home.

Thinking too much

She decides to commit suicide as a relief

She goes to her mother’s bedroom

She gets the rat poison

She quickly drinks it

Within two minutes she’s dead.

Her parents call for her

She doesn’t answer

They are mad they call again, she doesn’t answer

They quickly go to her bedroom to beat her

They find her dead with the rat poison beside her

They feel bad, they blame themselves

They cry, they regret punishing her

They call her relatives and close friends

Everybody knows and they feel sad

Her best friend cries cause she can’t believe what she sees.

The exposer also hears the news

He is toned

He regrets, he feels like going back to time

The burial day has come, her best friend and parents see the coffin lowering

they all burst in tears

They can’t believe it.

Her parents are never the same from their daughters

Everybody close to her are not the same

The exposer is being haunted with force pictures of her.

It started simple until it was too much

You can easily ruin someone’s life with something you think is simple.

Life is like electricity, Anybody can shock you.



(By JG  Kaka – At the age of 15, Oluoch George Patrick (Jojji Kaka) had already began exploring the world of poetry majoring on political, fictional, love, motivational poems and elegies. He has been able to write over 300 poems. He, a passionate Kenyan citizen believes that choosing to remain silent at the expense of positive expression indicates slow death of democracy and therefore exploits rich English and Swahili vocabulary to table his views on current matters. Currently 19 years and at Jomo Kenyatta University in Kenya, his works are appreciated across the borders, being recognized for poems such as ‘to the one I first loved’ and ‘Liberate’-a poem written for the new dawn of Zimbabwe)








You call me shit hole

When all days

You dial my number

Wishing to hear my voice

You call me shit hole

When all you do is nothing

But creep like breeze

To spy my land

If I am a shit hole

Why come to my home in the

Name of visit

to see my beauty

Yes I repeat

Why call me a shit hole

When you breakfast my joy

And dinner my skin

You call me shit hole

When you are the same person

Who came to dined my table

And sang words

in satisfaction to have

My blessing

Still you call me a shit hole

When you bath my oil

Clothes my gold

Towel my diamond


Boot my timbers

If I am a shit hole

Bath your own oil

Clothes your own gold

Towel your own diamond

Boot your own timber

Print your own life


get out of my site.



(By Mohammed Cheto Jalloh – A Liberian by nationality and a Student of the African Methodist Episcopal University (AMEU). I am a Child’s right advocate, poet and a Pan Africanist. Over the 7yrs I have dedicated my time in speaking out for children whose right are violated on a daily basis and most often I use poetry in speaking out how I feel about such act. Most importantly, my top priority and prayer is to see Africa totally free from the hands of the Whites and rise above all continent)








This pen spits not venom

No venom against vermin

Driven it is by righteous indignation

Driven it is by an immense sense of justice

Echoing the words of Marcus Mosiah Garvey

That justice is greater than the law


The thoughts portrayed are organic

Travelling far and wide for wisdom

Learning lessons from Russia

Blame not the mirror if your face is askew

This mirror reflecting that wild dog snarl


A housefly cannot make honey

A bee cannot spread malaria

A dove can never crow

Blame me not for this righteous indignation

When the truncheon does its dance

Tearing up the flesh of perceived foes

When the smouldering tear gas canisters bounce

Scattering and choking those that dare shout

While an accusing finger points at the silent majority


I have not been able to bury my head in the sand

Refusing to carry that burden on my shoulders

I have not been able to admire the undulating landscape

Without thinking of many lying in unmarked graves

I have not been able to admire the setting sun

Without an invocation of images of dripping blood

This writing shall always be organic

After the funeral no longer shall there be dirges

A longing for the mirthful laughter of African children



(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)








As the sun rose spelt a new genesis my dove

Realising utmost how lame I be without you

Oh I grieved over the sensational feeling love

Emotional I seemingly be, but battling for you


Alike in my fears I bring forth all my heart to

Pledge no deceit, of mutual bonds and truths

Be our ties meant not be broken and not too

To strain, lies whispering third parts truths


If of splendour and sour portrays the realm a

War zone thence I wage mine to wrestle for us

You to stand your stance, either of victors. A

Swift battle to save hearts or turn our tragedy


I rather be imprisoned in my fears forever in

Behind the bars of your cuddles, underneath

Your rob. If this be fate I elect it be a tin

Full of passions be my daily breakfast in stock



(By Wilson Waison Tinotenda. A poet and flash fiction writer. The editor of and its founding father. A human rights activist, an ardent follower of the Zimbabwe We want campaign)








Enough manipulation

We are living in this population

Do I need to put it in quotations?

Enough being rude

Where is the gratitude?

I spin through the thoughts in my head

The things I dread

Questioning myself instead

Enough words that destroy

That wreak havoc on minds

They have done this to mine

How is this nation so blind?

It is time to unwind

The negativity they create

When you have a full plate

And you trip over thoughts

That have caused you to break

My brain cannot handle the words they babble

Their lies unravel and wind me in knots

When will it stop?

I have reached the top

Of my low self esteem

Do you know what I mean?

They don’t want to come clean

And uncover their fable

Pushing it further under the table

Exposed to the world

Of their false accused charm

I will not cause you harm

Just hold onto my arm

I will walk you through life

I will make you my wife

You will serve and obey, if not

You will pay

For the secrets you told me

You don’t really know me

I obsess with myself

There is no one else

Who has thoughts or feelings

As you climb the ceiling

Escaping the torment of being their doormat

Reaching out for a hand

Help me understand

The guilt I feel

The betrayal is real

They portray you as crazy

You start to feel lazy

Second guessing yourself

Decisions are harder

You must work smarter to call their bluff

Your skin becomes tough

They have taken enough

Of your worth

And misplaced it

Beneath all their fakeness

You empty your eyes

As you cry out for help

In unhealthy ways

Beginning to stray

From your tasks day to day

As you just want to lay

In your bed

But you are led by the cries

Of the others beside you

Who speak of their horror

You can not ignore it

You must take a stand

To the hand that has beat you

Tried to defeat you

Completely deplete you



(By Pamela Sadler – Life can get messy and when it does, she writes! Pamela Sadler, a white flag from the home of the grave and land of the free. Surviving vast multitudes of trauma, she is an endless source of hard truth. Her sensitive nature promotes a humbling emotional experience for all. Acceptance and persistence led this widow to believe words are the birthplace of freedom. She invites you to join her healing journey as she spells out a voice from within. Let freedom ring!)








Sweetest frames of disgrace land, Zimbabwe,

Take heed the warnings of your blazing scars

Drenched in wicked lies and stolen heritage

Causes and comrades smitten by ambition

Find favor in fists of revenge cry revolutionary

Of no particular origin, blinded by arrogance and ego

Give perpetual torment and endless turmoil

Time and trials of endless measure,

Offered only poison, flatters dared not to praise,

Such pale and worn with those helpless crying eyes

Rise like Titan from the seas immersion.



(By Tracy Yvonne Breazile – a poet living in the southeastern part of the United States. Peace is her passion. She is currently working on a collection of poetry echoing culture and customs of Africa. This work includes definitions and examples of various forms and functions of poetry as it has evolved through the ages. It is her hope that freedoms of speech encompass the entire globe. She would like to help people voice their feelings and attitudes about their conflicts and dilemmas through poetry. Her poetry is included in anthologies such as “Expressions of the Heart.” She has earned a B.A. in Language and Literature from Columbus State University)








Can’t even remember my last laughter

As I force a smile

My eyes well up with tears.

I am in pain,

I’m so broken, I need fixing

I can’t handle this on my own anymore.

Lord help me


To lock everything away somewhere in my heart, I tried

But it can no longer be contained.

I need to be loved, really loved.

I need affection, I need to be held tight.

I need someone to have mercy, to be gracious towards me.

I am human like everyone else

Don’t I also deserve another chance?

Am I also not worthy of a better life?

A life filled with joy and peace and love.


I need him back

The man I fell in love with.

I need him to tell me

How loved and beautiful I am. He used to hold me close

So close I felt our hearts beat as one,

For his kiss I do miss

Now that our mouths have become weapons of war

Of destruction; only missiles emerge from them.

Oh When will this all end Lord?


When last have I enjoyed his company?

I do not remember

Wait I will, patiently

for him to act

For his forgiveness

oh wretched soul that I am

I am a sinner in need of the master’s forgiveness.

I will do anything to get that approval back.


The silence between us is unbearable,

the silence is deafening. Aimlessly I pass through life and lock myself in my cocoon, my safe haven-my thoughts.  There I lick my wounds and hope they heal quickly,

As I hold my head up high

to keep up appearances and pretend to live a life of joy and love and excitement.


I’m sad, and don’t remember how it is to feel loved and appreciated.

Like a mere robot,

I blindly move and perform the tasks and duties.

The past that I was running away from

Has finally caught up with me

It has destroyed my family, my angel and now I’m not able to comfort her, hold her.

They broke my baby and I understand this is all my doing, I hurt my own baby.

I have also neglected my duties and it has cost me another fruit of my womb, my son.


I know I should receive my punishment for all my sins.

Just help me get through this dear Lord.

This is too much a bitter pill to swallow.


Why are the simplest of tasks proving difficult.

I’m always tired,

always in a bad mood-

easily angered;


I’m daily trying to look at my shortcomings, to change for the better

But every time I move forward its like I move four steps backwards.

I remain calm and quiet,

But soon I explode in anger at something I could have avoided.

I can’t control it, it just erupts in me, like a volcano

Yet I do not want to cause any harm to anyone.


There’s no time to sit a while, I will rest when night comes.

I hope it is not too late for me To become who I was made to be

When all is said and done.

When I will prove to myself that I can become more than what is laid in front of me

I am no longer the child I was who used to stumble

But for a strong hand I seek

To lift me off my feet

To save me from this mess

Which I threw myself in, in my quest to find myself

Sorrow island it may be

But it has become my dwelling place.

I have lived it,

But now it is time to move on

I look up to the Maker

To mend the brokenness

To restore the broken heart

To renew the broken spirit

To revive the life inside

And move to a better place of solace, of love, of peace.



(By Lingiwe Patience Gumbo – Born in Gweru on the 25th of October 1980, this writer fell in love with poetry after completing her High School. She got obsessed with song and story writing. She became a member of Budding Writers Association of Zimbabwe (BWAZ) where she was mentored by Mbizo Chirasha who was one of the provincial leaders and it was he who had identified the gift in her. Her first poem “Welcome my love” w was published in The Gweru Times. In 2003 she became a member of the editorial team under the leadership of founder of Aglow Inter-denomination Ministries, Bishop Christopher Choto. She worked immensely with the late famous author Stephen Alumenda, the Late Alumenda mentored in Article Writing. Lingiwe writes about life, love and Godly issues basing on personal and general life experiences. She is currently working on motivational books. Patience is also a gospel artist/singer who released her first album named Worthy of all my praise in 2017.The gospel album project was produced by Wisdom Nyaparami and Tinashe Mutandwa. Gumbo is married to Gerald and they are blessed with two children)








Dear Women

The world is a jungle

Be a lion

That way, you win the struggle.


Dear Women

The world is a beast

Call her a banquet,

That way you cannot be the least.


Dear Women

The world is a baby

Bear her in your womb

And be the lady.


Dear Women

The world is a hater

Never hate her back

Instead be a skater.


Dear Women

The world is a wind

Breaking every hind

Please be a hen.


Dear Women

The world is a boat

Stay in it, afloat.


Dear Women

The world is a fight

Please put on your light.


Dear Women

The world is a lover

Please accept her flower.


Dear Women

The world is wicked

Making all things crooked,

Please raise your pen.


Dear Women

The world is a cave

Be not her slave.


Dear Women

The world is a hut,

Do not be hurt.


Dear Women

The world is a book

Write it and let it cook.


Dear Women

The world is a witch

Fall not into her ditch

Use wisely your stitch.


Dear Women

The world is a slanderer

And a wanderer

Be her teacher.


Dear Women

The world is a hurricane

Sinking the sugarcane

Please be sane.


Dear Women

The world is full of greed

Heed to your creed

Speed up your breed

Feed your seed

Weed your need,

Then watch your deed.


Dear Women

The world is a trap

Wear your cap

Let it not be a crap.


Dear Women

The world can stab

Right inside your cab,

Watch your tap.


Dear Women

The world is a masquerade

In beauty parade

Mind your shade.


Dear Women

The world is a stage

Earn your wage.


Dear Women

The world is a prison

Even for a Samson.


Dear Women

The World is a loot

So if your foot

Hurts in the boot

Still watch your root.


Dear Women

The world is a mountain

Be for her a fountain.


Dear Women

The world is fake

Bake your own cake.


Dear Women

The world is a desert

Be her oasis,

Be the first

To quench her thirst

And let it be a thesis.


Dear Women

The world is a horror

Splashing all kinds of terror

Be for her a mirror.


Dear Women

The world is confused

Please be composed.


Dear Women

The world is a rebel

Make golden, your label.


Dear Women

The world is zigzag

Do not brag



(By Ngozi Olivia Osuoha – a Nigerian poet/writer/­thinker, a graduate of Estate Management with experience in Banking and Broadcasting. She has published over one hundred and forty poems in over ten countries and featured in over fifteen international anthologies. Her first two longest poems (poetry books) THE TRANSFORMATION TRAIN and LETTER TO MY UNBORN of 355 and 560 verses published in Kenya and Canada respectively are available on Amazon. She writes hymns, psalms and has numerous words on the marble)








Four walls and a roof.

A kitchen celling that never stays white long enough

To wait for summer again.

Winter evenings chuffed by the old coal stove,

Were always the best.

Cupboards with missing handles.

Chipped cups lined up for attention waiting inside.

Dirty dishes in the sink.

Mismatched cutlery in the drawers,

Because a new set always welcomes the guests.


A dish-cloth that does not have a place to put its head.



This is where we learned to walk.

Where we cried without warning,

Asked without caring.

We were forced to eat in this place because who plays

On an empty stomach?

We left our bed unmade, to find them waiting, made.

And mama,

Mama stayed the same.


But this place no longer fits my growing skin.

Home has suddenly become where the heart is no longer at.

Our dreams bigger than our shrinking beds.

Our opinions louder than the respect our parents expect.

Our presence keeps a packed suitcase by the door.

Age screaming obscenities at us.


The conflict between remaining a child in my father’s house

And acting my age because the rules can never be yours.

“Under my roof, seta ho nlla saka!”

You were raised cradled on the back of these words.

But today, they handcuff you to the gate.

Out in the cold.


A painless slap on the face.

Growing up, a painless slap on the face.


Vuka child, time to build to build your own heart’s home.



(By Fikile Fifi Berry – I’ve been writing ever since I could pick a pen up. I loved poetry early but started performing professionally in 2009. Been in Pretoria, In Jo-burg, Bloemfontein and where grew up, QwaQwa, Free State. Poetry is a form of healing and release for me)





birth of hate



I bottle up my emotions

Without asking for help

I’m the daughter of hate

I write my emotions and dreams

Behind and old omo box

And slowly let them wash away

Like a bright clean white

School shirt with a stain


I hide my emotions

I smile in a way of hope

Through the rain but in the

Sunlight I rise and hide my shadows

The rain it still care its still falling

But I’m slowly drowning but it seems

Like I’m waving


I bottle up my emotions

My tears are like that drips non stop

Light a tap with no stopper

My eyes are a definition of my

Anger but all people

See is the smile that I put on my

Face with no doubt but hiding my

Emotions behind my smile


I’m the daughter of hate

The daughter of pain

The daughter of tears

The daughter of anger

And the daughter of broken dreams



(By UNALEDI – the Queen Retabile is fast rising and powerful Poetess. Her voice is firm and bold. Naledi also writes her poetry as well as singing it. She is a promising performance poet and soon to become a continental griot. The Queen lives in KwaZulu Natal and she writes her verses in her mother tongue)






The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign


Editor review


No Comments Yet!

You can be first to comment this post!

Leave a Reply

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