The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

January 19, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Reuters photo

By

Mbizo Chirasha

Zimbabweans need to shake off the Mugabe era dust. Dust, the poverty of the masses, hunger and tears. Our main theme for the oncoming ten journals is ‘Shaking off the old Zimbabwe’ and the autocratic system in us.

We need a new Zimbabwe, a Zimbabwe poised to be true to its self with a steadfast political leadership who are ready to take the Zimbabwean train to its proper destiny for the good of the future generations. Leadership that does not segregate communities because of their political feelings, tribes, colour or language/mother tongue. A leadership that does not gloss over important matters affecting citizens. A leadership that practically denounces violence and intimidation of citizens. A leadership that will do away with PR stunts and diplomatic ploys; a leadership that is genuine and true to its convictions. Yes a true Leadership.

We believe it’s hard to stop some of the past Mugabe regime tendencies, it takes time, 37 years in a system is not a joke. The Brave and Solidarity Voices say NO to antics of that old regime. 2018 is a year of definition, trueness and newness. Thank you all brave and solidarity voices for being part of the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign, great and blessings to our followers and readers. TOGETHER WE RISE – Mbizo Chirasha.

THE COMMISSAR

Dear commissar

My poetry is filled with agitation and grievances.

To have stood amid, betwixt disillusionment and

Displeasure before. This plea seek not immunity

Nor does to pile vanity vines rather seek progression.

Dear commissar

My poetry is the echo of distress within masses

Not to dance along to political slogans so rinsed

With which inflicts sorrows and grief rather this

Plea seeks to foster love, parity, unity, and liberty

Dear commissar

My poetry is a bayonet to pierce the relaxed son,

Sisters and brothers whom longs for petty silver

Handful coins to swell pockets at my displeasure

This plea seeks to ruin incubators of corruption

Dear commissar

My poetry is the barrel to storm out avarice in

Series of rounds. Surely a reign of terror in cast

To stamp all political mongers whom likely fatten

Alike the baobab as masses thins, a biltong strip.

Dear commissar

My poetry the bridge betwixt the government and

The masses, not it be an absolute or a totalitarian

State, This plea rather seeks a government of the

People by the people if not democratic sentiment.

Dear commissar

My poetry is the drum beat of Chinyambire, Dinhe

Mbakumba, Jerusalem, Jikinya, Hoso, Muchongoyo

Mhande, Majukwa and Chokoto. The plea points to

Diversity no discrimination based on tribal ethnicity.

Dear commissar

My poetry is the fountain to quench on these thirst

Politically bored, turn an ulcerative colitis to masses

And all fails to burst a gut, in pain, inflammations….

Then this plea seeks not temporarily crafted upshot.

Dear commissar

My poetry is a vessel that amplifies the masses felt

Emotions, If not crafted form the ancient ashes of

Chaminuka, Chinamora, Nehanda and Kaguvi then

It be of whom? The plea seeks revolutionary ardour.

(By Tynoe Wilson – An impetuous mastermind so zealous to out the muddling and crippling societal affair through stanza)

COMMON SENSE

A wise man

hangs his thoughts but not his head for he has too many of one and not the other…

A wise artist

Throws away his bad canvas but not his easel, for he needs it when his hand itches again with creativity…

A wise poet

Throws away his bad rhyme when he hits a block, but not his mind for he needs it for another verse…

Whoever amongst us

because of a block, throws away his

mind,

his easel or

hangs his head,

loses his common sense.

(By Wilbroad Isheunopa Bryce Mbofana aka Yung King – a budding young poet/hip hop musician from Banket Zimbabwe. Born on the 10th of February 1999. I enjoy writing as this is the only way I can freely express my thoughts and emotions. I believe poetry is freedom)

THE FROZEN NATION

The frozen nation stood by

As the old man staggered to his wobbly feet

He imposingly stood over the nation

A mischievous grin across his glossed face

With unhurried ease he lowered his flyer

His shrivelled manhood in hand

Making sure the jet of his urine touches everyone

The frozen nation groaned and scratched

He stepped back to survey the frenzy

A foot raised to crush anyone who dares to remark upon this

The chirpy wife entered the scene

She pulled down her drawers

Squatted over the frozen nation

To reward it with a rare free meal

Her face distorted as though in labour

Then a naughty smile worked her lips

A hand held up as she admired her diamond ring

Under her the nation cringe pout lipped

She looked down, an electric cable in hand

The nation froze in fear of her deadly accuracy

The kids, high on something

Started vomiting all over the citizens

Cocktails and wines swigged in foreign lands

Spitting in flagrant disdain

The parents stood by cheering them on

She told them that they can do as they please

For the frozen nation is their father’s brainchild

Everyone knows the fatality of choosing him for an enemy

Even if he were to sneeze from Singa

(By Bonnie Nyanduri – A Poet And Budding Script Writer Whose Work Touches On The Social Ills That Seems To Have The World Drunk On It Own Blood. He Is A Zimbabwean Currently Based In South Africa)

LONELINESS

I just want to escape from the endless nagging questions and non-answers in my head sometimes I hold peace,

But only fleetingly…

Then the dam bursts..

Sometimes i wake up with a tear soaked pillow, puffy eyes and an empty feeling inside Sometimes i wonder…. Do i even exist?

Amidst the midst of noise, hustle and bustle

Amidst the chaos on the race to making the grind,

I stand still..

Still..

No one notices

No one pauses

They continue…

Sometimes I wonder….

I feel myself dying. Dying inside…

This silence

These walls, they mock me.

(By Hildah Tafadzwa Princess Maritinyu – I am a spunky, feisty and gutsy and unconventional woman. I am a humanitarian, whose interests are cancer awareness, child welfare and women empowerment. I am a teacher, and an aspiring poet and writer. I am proudly African, yet unapologetically a citizen of the world. I aim to be a positive influence of change)

TRUMPED

Trumped

A swelled pinhead and

colonial offshoot declares

your home is a shithole;

to remain where you are.

You look around and

see the crap –

raped beauty.

Molested potential.

Stolen riches and resources. Overwhelming chaos.

Pee without pots

No water to wash away

the stench of ammonia

Lopsided shacks –

The drop no longer long;

a hole in the ground

where flies meet.

Bread without butter

Riverbeds dumpsites

for termites.

Homes heavily laden

with worry.

The uni -graduate

doing uber not for joy

but because he has

nothing to eat,

no job in his field –

Uber looks good

The picture of seized splendour

rises inside your heart and it hurts.

Truth dawns –

the thief looks good in your Gucci’s

The rapist wears your scent

like the devil wears prada

He knows what he took

he orgasms on memorable euphoria;

rubs your face in the soil

where your soul lives.

Its all there

in black and white –

Your fist hits a bulls eye –

colonialists must fall

eat grass you slime ball!

Peace-molester.

land grabber

exterminator

warmonger

conspirator

Henchmen for the Eye.

No enraged energy will

change a hole to a health spa –

be it truth we vent.

We have to get down and dirty

and fix our pride.

No Dung head can rip

dignity from us.

our minds must decide

to live and fight

or die before we’re dead.

our hands must bleed again,

Our home must be rebuilt

or go to ruin

We must not allow

another pothead to poo

on our parade.

Our minds are not

brainwashed,

our sight is clear

This land is our land

We will grab the kingpins head,

shove it inside this hole

and make him eat his words.

And every Eye will see

Our holes will heal

Africa will rise from

the drool of the fool;

from the manure in his moo

and the pit he dug.

The urban dictionary

defines shithole well –

Africa will not be trumped!

(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)

WINDOW OF MY COUNTRY

The kindest folk, with an indefatigable spirit. Common sense is still common. Humanity is still alive.

People still acknowledge and greet strangers, with a warm and genuine smile.

They are respectful. The me-first syndrome is not as widespread as it is in other parts of the world. Waiters and waitresses in bars work long hours and they serve you with humility, even though they are rarely tipped. Life goes on. People face hardship head on. Children still play outside without a care, in the scorching sun, and are home before dusk , to a hot meal in spite of escalating prices. Parents make sacrifices. Some are more blessed than others. Each making the best of the deck of cards that he or she has been dealt. All are hopeful that the future will be bright. They know that they are not in control. If they fail. It will not be for a lack of trying. Colleges and universities sprouting everything. Quenching a collective thirst for knowledge. Lecturers spreading themselves thin as they work two or three jobs simultaneously, and still find time to work on their doctorates. How productive are they, really? When do they do their research?

A plethora of smaller. Japanese imports rove around the streets. A sizeable number of bigger, newer, 4 x 4 vehicles and the prized Mercedes are also seen on the highways and sidestreets are Zimbabweans go about their daily lives. Flea markets everywhere. The department stores of old keep their doors open but their shelves are bare. The few items on display, are overpriced, by any standards. And so the flea markets thrive. There are fried chicken and meat pie outlets everywhere. The tasty fare will set you back only a dollar or two.

Copious amounts of beer are consumed in dimly lit ( read: dingy) bars strewn all over the country. You pay a premium for drinking in well-lit, comfy joints.. The rich spend their leisure time in the finest hotels. Ride helicopters over the Victoria Falls. Have sumptuous meal upon sumptuous meal. Bordering on gluttony. The poor are just happy to have a meal . Not the famous ‘happy meal’ but something for filling and nutritious like sadza, nyama and muriwo. The poor do not begrudge the rich for what they have. They just strive for a better future.

Tech companies are thriving. Zimbabweans brains is our biggest export. We just need to find ways to harness this resource. Industry has slowed considerably but it is not dead. Vestiges of the colonial era are still intact. Private schools that would compete favourably with Eaton College are thriving. There are challenges in my country but it is not a shit hole. The sun still shines. And it will continue to shine. The sun to which we owe our fine, dark chocolate hue.

Proudly Zimbabwean.

(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)

BLEEDING LANDS

Bleeding lands

The land bleeds

The buried ones cries

In the bowels they question

Why did we die?

The land bleeds

Witnessed the anguish

Libations can’t expiate…

Why did we die?

The land bleeds

No longer bountiful

Pests gnawing the succor

Why did we die?

The land bleeds

A handful allulates

The worms cutting the bowels

Floods of tears from mother earth.

The buried ones turns

In nightmares of retrospects

Honour tattered into rags…

Poverty walking in the streets.

An owl hoots

Eerie singing that horrifies

Libations regurgitated by the land

Curse of the times!

The land bleeds

It’s soul and heart retching

Angels of death hording

Killing the earthlings….

Maiming the aspirations!

(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)

A PSALM OF NGOZI

Dear Lord, I am so troubled that I must trouble thee.

Why hast thou become so common that the commoners commonize thee?

Why art thou so dumb that the dumb dumbfound thee?

Why art thou so lame that the lame cripple thee?

And handicapped that the handicapped handcuff thee?

Rise up, rise up, unleash thy rage

Pound pound, pound the adder

Crush crush, crush the serpent

Pound crush the adder’s head

Crush pound the serpent’s spirit,

Flood flood, flood the earth

Wash wash, the blood they swim.

Unleash thy angels in robes and chariots

Unleash thy dragons in rage and fury,

Unleash thy hosts divine, divine in loud noise,

Noisier than the chains of the lepers that chased the enemy’s camp.

Flood flood, flood the earth

Blood blood, cleanse the land

Mercy mercy, save the world.

The blind proud in not seeing thee

The deaf rejoice in not hearing thee,

The ignorant boast in thy non existent

The foolish jubilate in wisdom,

The rude enthrone, as God.

Quake quake, quake the earth

Shake shake, shake her pillars

Thunder in the abyss, echo in hell

Instill fear and awe, announce peace and love.

Hast thou not heard that thy army has been defeated and thy chosen, conquered?

Yes banished, thy anointed

Vanished, thy elect

Vanquished, thy chosen

Finished, thy faithful.

Come come, near near

Return return, saviour dear

How long shall the strong retain the spoil?

Come Lord, even now.

Race speed, flight unhindered, grace undelayed

Soldier on, light light, light divine

Subdue the earth, still her waters

Sterilize her air, stabilize her breath,

Calm breasts, quench her thirst

Come Lord, even now.

Quake shake, shake the earth

Now now, Lord even now

Let there be awe,

Lord come now, even now.

(By Ngozi Olivia Osuoha – Poet, Writer, Justice Activist and Broadcaster)

LETTER FROM THE PROPAGANDA SCHOOL

Sister…..

See the ballot dust bins seething with propaganda condoms, political abortions,

Freedom stillborn

Violence is a see through pit coat that uncovers city buttocks marked with political boils

Bring me beer bottles frothing with sanctions venom and slogan vitriol

Cigar butts dripped by tears flowing from hardy sandy faces of street vendors,

Blood gushing from rough clay palms of peasants

Empty promises and concrete bread from executive offices

Sister…..

Propaganda is the appetizer before the ballot dinner

Bring the slogan gloves to condomise against imperialistic gonorrhea

Marxist encyclopedia potassium to my intellectual blood

Leninist Wikipedia calcium to my mental bones

Bring me apartheid marinated Mandela profile

Crude oil soaked Kaddafi resume

Communist bleached Castro biography

Sister….

Election is the deodorant defining the beauty of democracy

Perfume suppressing the rot of autocracy

Constitution is the detergent washing away sweat stains from the ballot box

Referendum is the aftershave powder drying pimples of injustice

(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)

BLOOD ON THE BENUE

He was yesterday

He is today and, is poised to

Forever remain, immutable like the Jew’s Jehovah

The implacable guest of horrors on the doorsteps of a peace pastoral.

He is nothing novel but a well-known roving nightmare:

Who locusts the land with the herds herald of his apocalyptic comings;

Who rapes your daughters and wives without your consent;

Who pours into your body the lethal pellets which the deathstick he wields dispenses.

He robs you on the roads

He haunts you in the forests of your homes

He struts remorselessly having substituted your life for that of his beasts.

A consummate killing machine, the genocidaire of the Janjaweed ilk

Who turns a river to blood – in the food basket of the nation – and blood like a river flows

And trailing the dusts of his departure

Ashes with tears, blood and sorrow

(By Opeyemi Joe – From Ibadan. He’s had his works featured in journals, reviews and anthologies the world over. He likes soccer and singing, in that order. He is also a geologist)

NINJA IN MY CEILING

There is a Ninja skulking in my ceiling.

Face mysterious like a ghost in a hijab.

Rattling movements that torment me day and night.

Nightmares.

A prisoner in my own home.

The ninja seems to be ubiquitous.

I see little ninjas everywhere.

In my cupboard.

Under my bed.

In the pots.

Ninjas with sharp swords donning the black shozoko.

I wear no black belt.

I know no katas.

Know no entrance to any dojo.

Nor any ki to shout when in combat.

Then why is the nijnja lurking furtively in my ceiling?

Daily I watch Sho Kosugi’s movies.

Hoping to master some martial arts moves.

To muster the courage.

To challenge the ninja to a duel.

To defeat him, to send him crashing out of my house.

To leave me free from worry.

Free from fear of a ninja skulking in my ceiling.

(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)

RED BENUE

Water that falls to the ground dries,

blood remains and cries for another’s blood.

But time may not forgive the comrades,

whose brother’s blood longs to speak with their machetes.

But we ask….

Isn’t the bushes of Benue enough arena for the “Python to dance? ” ,

Or is “Lafia” too shy to “dole ” in Benue?

……….

B-ehold

E-verything

N-ow

U-nveils

E-vil

…….

This silence has silenced our silence.

(By Attah Ojonumi – Poet, I’m a lover of God, a pursuer of vast knowledge and peace and a believer of destiny and purpose)