The Future by Artwell Masuku

One day
When everyone
Has shot
Killed
Maimed Everyone
The birds
And beasts
Shall rule
The world

The ruins
The twisted steel
The open graves
The talking trees
Will tell our story…

The monkey
Will slowly evolve
Into an intelligent being
And if they care to notice
They'll learn more about
The consequence
Of violence
Or peace...

And perhaps
Therefore
Make a choice
Much different
To ours.

Writers Must Write by Success Sibanda

They must write of fears,

Of politics and tears,

Of the election that nears

Of the silenced voice each hears

They must write despite jeers

Of the wrong that is not right

Of the wrong that will never be right

That which makes evil bright

That which violates any human right

Writers must write

We must all write

On paper; in hearts

Of foes and sweethearts

Of the wrong and the right

Of what might not and what might

Writers must write.

The Seventh Morning by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

 

Image - http://mockeryoflove.wordpress.com

On the seventh morning

when I woke I found your

letter on my pillow and

when I read it, my heart

within me was like a stone.

You had taken back the

promissory ring and now,

in spite of the ambient

light, I felt numb, dimmed

with grief, that you had

left me to dwell alone.

My life is like a broken

bowl that cannot hold

a drop of water for my

soul, nor is there a cordiality

to lift me when I'm low.

All I ever see is the barren

dusk, no bud or greenness;

and without you, I am a

frozen thing, a falling leaf.

Black in a Manger by Clemence Chinyani

 

Image - knowledgeisking.ning.com

The concept of life,
Was birthed on the continent,
Spread to the world,
While its humble peoples,
Have been disparaged,
Enslaved and their culture hijacked,
Now what? 
Eat from the same table?
And betray the lives sacrificed?
Or seek vengeance,
Or sit back and enjoy the massage,
Of heroic mentions of our credentials,
Rather than be,
Slaves of a modern era,
Africa be,
But our original selves!

Not Forgotten by Thandeka T'kay Gonde

When you're gone with the wind
And your footfalls have become silence
I'll savour the last touch of your hand
Should the miracle of your smile evade me
I'll keep the warmth of your breath
For the winter nights
As your silhouette fades into the distance
I'll remember the look in your eyes
And the music of your heart beating
When your laughter has trailed off
When echoes of your voice can't reach me
I'll sing the songs that your presence wrote in my heart
To tell the world
That though you be gone
You are not forgotten

Those Other Black Boys by Zibusiso Mpofu

 

Image - http://www.jayblessed.com

One is young and foolish, one wild and free, one is married and single

And the other, is cold and dead

Those other black boys whom no one will ever comprehend

They burn with strange passion for each other

Whimsical, dreamy boys, no different from each other but all the same...strange

One is young and foolish, one wild and free, one is married and single 

And the other, is cold and dead

He dreams of strong male lover

With a mind of ancients 

One that will tug at the fragile fabrics of his unbroken heart

That kind of lover who loves to love to love, wandering the dreamy spaces of the mind

While slowly tugging at his finger tips on a jazzy summer night

He is young and foolish, he has priest for a father

The other is pink profound

Walks around with feathers in his heart

And a story that speaks a million tongues

He's has an iridescent male lover, never cared for the musings of other folk

He rides the crest of intuition and kisses his lover out on the street

Never ceases to amaze little black minds under the covering of shades

That stop to muse always

One is a proportion of tall secrets

Walks around with a halo on his countenance

He is the master disguise, smiles with his ignorant wife and plays roles on and on

But when he gets with his male lover, his crafted modesty falls

Layer by layer his character peels itself to tunes of fear, lack of acceptance and a struggle to stand in the eyes of his people

And when his lover bends him over, his ignorant wife will cease to call him a man

The last is cold and dead, simply because he had a male lover

His own people buried his spirit with no swan song 

To colourless yesterdays and soiled memories

No one knows his name

Only his lover can see the truth of his countenance

And the rest of his unfolded history is spit upon

One is young and foolish, one wild and free, one is married and single

And the other, is dead and cold...

I Too, Am Zimbabwean by Tendai Biti

 

(c) Mgcini Nyoni

With my cracked hands
The hangover of broken dreams
Phantoms in an unkind enclave
Lifeless idioms of hijacked promises
Oh slogans, how I wish they had been edible.

Now I smile no more,
Now I hide no more
A million deaths have I died,
Used by the savannah sun,
A ragged footnote of freedom

Yes I have waited for this day,
I have longed for this day
Un chaining my chains
Of hijacked expectations 
That smoked away my emptiness

I too, am Zimbabwean

In my angry Shona 
Lacerated with Bemba , or Nyanja
Crusted exclusion
Have my generations not ploughed for you
Did you then call my sweat alien?

Now is my time,
Resurrected by a new people s covenant,
I am no one’s alien
So I wait too, to alienate, the alienator
My birthright s revenge.

I too am a Zimbabwean.

Born free or free born
Once the spirits were buoyant 
Hope then was the currency
We swam in books and degrees
But we drowned, the revolution s carcasses.

Now I weigh and wait
The glittering image of unemployment 
Some I will make pensioners,
I smile no more
This is my time.

I too am a Zimbabwean .

From this grave in Makokoba
Where time itself never moves
The more it moves, the more it does not
I dance with the wind
To the soprano of poverty.

I fear no more
The kleptocractic nightmares of Gukurahundi 
I fear not Cain Nkala.
This is Joshua Nkomo resurrected.
It’s my time.

I too am a Zimbabwean.

In the dark glow of a caucasian tan
A replica of an uncle that rode the Mayflower 
Thirsty of the drink 
For generations 
This land has captured my soul.

I too am a Zimbabwean.

From Dotito to Odzani, my Bantu heart bleeds
From Mangwe to Dubiladzimu
I catch the mirage of happiness
No more, no less
I seek the oasis of real freedom.

I smile no more,
The sheep to the Sherpherd of fear,
I sing no more,
The morsel to the high gods of greed .
I weep no more.

I too am, Zimbabwean.

Not the redefined totem of derision
Not the syllable of hatred
Not the victim of violence
Not the object of those old beyond old.
Not the static of cholera .

I too am a Zimbabwean.

This Wednesday, I rise.
In the warmth of my stupidity,
The tranquility of my God,
The derailed memories of my lost heroes
The soft morphine of my joblessness.

I too am a Zimbabwean.

I come alive again,
In trailing lines of hope,
Against the shrills of unripe propaganda
The threatening fists of those without love
The demons of a cooked voter s roll.

I come alive.
I will finish it off

Momento mori.

For I too am a Zimbabwean.