Terrible by Amit Parmessur

All crops are made for fields,

but not all African fields are made for crops.

There’re so many tears of blood, insane murders.

I don’t know where we are!

All words are made for mouths

but not all African mouths are made for words.

How can Man control Man when God made him?

I don’t know where we are!

All feelings are made for hearts,

but not all African hearts know happiness.

There’s so much undeserved hatred,

misery and injustice? I don’t know where we are!

All shoes of freedom are made for feet

But not all African feet are made for such shoes.

Why can’t we feel for broken hearts and twisted bodies?

I don’t know where we are!

All pencils of knowledge are made for hands,

but not all African hands are made for pencils.

Have a long look at your table globe;

only blue tears and blood…

tears

only tears

drying our hearts, minds and souls.

Terrible. Terrible. Terrible. Terrible.

I Dream Of Africa by Mgcini Nyoni

I dream of Africa

The open space

that tell of endless possibilities

the mesmerising beauty

the black beauty

of the women in

lovely head wraps

and colourful bangles

that tell you

You are home

I dream of Africa

where every woman

is a queen

I dream of Africa

where the smiles are

as big and lovely

as the African sunrise

the hearts as big

as the Kilimanjaro

and as vast as the Atlantic

I dream of Africa

where the woman are

full of

tender loving care.

Missing You by Fungai Tichawangana

i am missing you
in agonized moments
that tick by
in painful tock motion
ants that never stop
neon signs
that won't go off
flashing always
keep waiting- soon
keep waiting- soon
as noisy interruptions scream
hang on- forever!
hang on- forever!
a cacophony of mind dances
words that make make sound
of their own accord
in my restless head
if you were here they'd escape
through my lips
in soft breaths of loving you
through my smile
in impromptu stanzas
of telling you
as if for the first time
that that very head
that formed those words
revolved in its madness
around your beauty

i am missing you
in mornings that dawn
before i can dream enough
about your presence
in evenings that set
before i can tire enough
to sleep so deep
that i won't see those pictures
in my slumber
of you, of your smile
of your sienna brown skin
in days that meander
always into paths
that flow to your memory
yearn for your aura
crave for your footsteps
upon their brickness
in afternoons that burn
hot sweat
off my memoried scalp
attempting to drip
the thoughts away
but they remain
in a painful, sweet
twisted
emotion
that translates
to deeply, darkly, delightfully
missing
you

- Love, Fungai

Half Sleep by Nhlanhla Mkhonto

Yesterday I woke up dead in my sleep

 I stared at the slow descending 

 bright beautiful beginning  called my life

I woke up with my eyes closed

 and a heart that smiled endlessly.

I woke up lying next to my soul

and I listened  as it taught

and showed me the divinity of my life

My body froze  in times  of pure joy

and my heart  smiled again. 

Yesterday I woke up to a new kind of fresh air

I woke up surrounded with love from the world

I woke up silent and could only understand

the world through emotion and slight movements

that depicted the world I  lived in before  I closed my eyes

I woke up with an open mind and the willingness to say yes,

Yes to all that brings joy to my world.

Yes to all that tingles my spine

and leaves my soul with positive vibrations.

Yes to my defeats that I have conquered 

while my sleep danced in the eyes of bewitching hours. 

Yesterday I woke up never to close my eyes

to the world that left my soul lying uninspired  next to me.

I woke up to a loud beating sound of my ecstatic heart

that sings with glory anticipating a better world that is yet to come. 

Yesterday I woke up smiling in my sleep.

With Buckets On Their Heads by Mthabisi Phili

photo by Resta Nyamwanza

what happened to Matabeleland’s water?

i hear the bureaucrats are stalling it in Harare-

and they speak of unity and impartiality only towards the ballot boxes!

so towards the vote we march singing songs they’ve forced us to sing,

but this is not Europe and snow is not an alternative for water-

no fantasy or reindeers pulling Santa

no games when people need the dam,

the chronicle reads:

‘Bulawayo’s water situation worsens!’

Some Kinds Of Blessings by Gracian W. Masiyiwa

The blessed have no lips and tongues

and never get misquoted

If they use signs

They are quickly forgiven

For each gathering is a minefield

Each question a booby-trap,

As manna falls from wrong heaven

Blessed are the blind,

As judgement is not by sight

They think all are beautiful

And don’t judge by height

Although they doubt, if

friend didn’t grab double-portion

Of that sweetest cake

The blessed lived among scorpions

And got wisdom in time

Not to lead or follow

To ditch the sight and fright

Sting and bite, backbite called sting

Whether friend or foe

They surely learn to fly

Blessed are the dump, the daft

For they are last to know

Who laughed at, or with them

They surely inhabit their own heaven

And piece-meal,

they gather their pieces of peace

Unaware of the toxic artwork,

Scribed on backs of their jackets

As  they sat and drool

The blessed are drunk with patience

Giggling in pain when hope is abused,

and scream with joy

Collecting  bowls of hail,

Near  the cave of a thousand chameleons

Praising long gone angels

For the sugar that Sheol poisoned

Blessings of some kind

But Holy heaven is in tears

Zimbabwe by Donal Mahoney

 

From shimmering oil

of ebony still

will come flailing of limbs

will come hacking

quick slashing

of hands now untied

tattooing no pattern

not even a maze

depriving gray walls

of their stone

will come spittle

wild churning rivers

agush from slack jaws

of blanching gray hounds

till one day at dawn 

will come quiet

My Friend Samuel by Lilian Dube

Photo by Resta Nyamwanza

When the worst comes to the worst
Tell your sister I loved her
Wore on my finger
Gazed at her everyday
Tell her I couldn’t help
But be the man
born for the road
with her tender in my palm
building dreams,
& still promise
that if I don’t make it home the same,
You’d still tell her
I loved her.

Mostly Basie With A Little Bach by Donal Mahoney

 

Whenever I see a new woman, I know 

I should look at her hair and her eyes and her smile  

before I decide if she's worth the small talk

and the dinner later 

and whatever else she may require 

before she becomes taffy, 

pliant and smiling. 

But that never works for me.

Whenever I see a new woman, 

what matters to me is never 

her hair or her eyes or her smile;

what matters to me is her saunter 

as I stroll behind her.

If her moon comes over the mountain

and loops in languor, left to right, 

and then loops back again,

primed for another revolution, then

I introduce myself immediately

no matter where we are, 

in the stairwell or on the street

and that's when I see for the first time

her hair and her eyes and her smile  

but they are never a distraction since

I'm lost in the music of her saunter.

Years ago, tall and loping Carol Ann

took a train to Chicago, 

found a job and then one summer day 

walked ahead of me on Michigan Avenue 

while I surveyed her universe amid 

the cabs screeching, horns beeping, 

a driver's middle finger rising. 

Suddenly she turned and said hello 

and we shook hands and I saw her smile 

dart like a minnow and then disappear 

as she frowned and asked   

why was I walking behind her. 

 

I told her I was on my way to the noon Mass

at Holy Name Cathedral and she was welcome 

to come along. The sermon wouldn't be much, 

I said, but the coffee and bagels afterward 

would be plentiful, enough to cover lunch.

And Jesus Christ Himself would be there.

She didn't believe me, not at all, 

and she hasn't believed me since. 

That was thirty years ago and now

her smile is still a minnow

darting here and there but now 

it's more important than her saunter 

which is still a symphony, 

mostly Basie with a little Bach.

And I no longer traipse Michigan Avenue 

as I did years ago looking for new moons 

swirling in my universe. Instead, 

I take my lunch in a little bag 

on a long train from the suburbs

and I marvel at one fact:

It's been thirty years since I first heard 

the music in her saunter

and Carol Ann and I are 

still together, praise the Lord. 

Who can believe it? Not I. 

Carol Ann says she knew 

the ending from the start. 

Lord, Almighty. Fancy that.