Edward Dzonze Interview as it appeared in The Standard newspaper

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Poetry is life: Dzonze

April 21, 2019 in Entertainment, Life & Style                                                                                                                                             You are here: Home › Poetry is life: Dzonze

 

 

Poetry is life: Dzonze

April 21, 2019 in Entertainment, Life & Style

 

Edward Dzonze

 

He has published a number of books and more of his work is published in journals and magazines. Edward Dzonze is the author of Many Truths at Once, Wisdom Speaks and Breakfast with Marechera and has published more than 200 poems. Our correspondent Sukuoluhle Ndlovu (SN) caught up with Dzonze (ED) and got a glimpse into his promising career.

 

Below are excerpts from the interview.

 

SN: Readers would want to know about you. Who is Edward Dzonze?

 

ED: Edward Dzonze is the author of Many Truths Told at Once (Royalty Publishing, USA, 2015), Wisdom Speaks (Royalty Publishing, USA, 2016), both being online editions, and Breakfast with Marechera (Diaspora Publishers, UK, 2018). Dzonze (30) is also the co-editor of the Zimbolicious Poetry Series Volume 1 and 2 with co-editor Tendai Mwanaka having to do the Volume 3 alone due to pressing commitments on my part. I have contributed to more than 20 journals and anthologies across the globe.

 

 

 

SN: Why did you choose to do poetry?

 

ED: I fell in love with poetry at a tender age. I was only nine when my mother found me going through lines from Okot p’ Bitek’s Song of Lawino. Picking from the title, I was reading the poems with a musical appreciation when my mother told me that what was before me was actually poetry, not songs, and I told her there and then I wanted to become a poet. My love for words grew stronger. The first thing I would do whenever I picked a new read, I would go to the biography, which usually came on the back cover, I would read it out trying to picture what my own bio summary should be like. Me and poetry met by coincidence, if I can put it that way.

 

SN: Your work falls under which genre and why that specific genre?

 

ED: Since it is already established that poetry is my art, I guess I am here called to specify my poetry. On countless times, I have tried to dispute it, but my poetry is mainly revolutionary. Under revolutionary, falls protest and counter-culture articulation.

iconoclastic and idealism; I believe in possibilities. Everytime I set to write, l want to breathe a certain dimension to the status quo.

 

SN: What are the achievements you have made so far as a poet?

 

ED: When I started off as a writer, the picture of me getting published was just bleak, I guess that should explain the pseudonym NamelesRadioStation. I thought I would live as an underground poet, broadcasting the gospel around me in the streets from corner bridges where the ghetto youths converge for their daily business of smoke and booze. I have made strides not only on the local scene, but also on the global radar. I have also got the honour to edit and work with internationally-acclaimed writers, some of whom I studied with at school — that remains to me as my biggest achievement. Talk of John Eppel, Ivor Hartmann, David Mungoshi, Albert Nyathi and Mbizo Chirasha, among others. When you have seasoned writers entrusting you with their copyright, it is an acknowledgement of who you have become. The Zimbolicious poetry series as my own brainchild is a milestone judging from what has become of it to date.

 

Recently, I got recognised as an international fellow by the Poetsasdelmundo (Poets of the World) as Harare Consul along with other poet comrades.

 

SN: Who is your role model?

 

ED: When I look at Dambudzo Marechera, I want to figure out what he would have done to beautify the face of literature. Though I was mainly exposed to a lot of American literature as a child, I am lost between what Marechera did as a Zimbabwean writer and what Maya Angelou rose to become as an African-American writer. Zora Naele Hurston’s writing style cannot be left outside those brackets either.

ED: In five years, I should be there to speak as an African writer. You know how the Ngugis, Chinua Achebe and the late Charles Dambudzo Marechera come to mind when African literature calls, that African voice unmistaken. Every tree grows from a shrub, by then I would have written my name where Shakespeare wrote his decades and centuries ago. My writing pen is not exposed to limitations, I want to remind people of this article with pride, having achieved the alluded milestones.

 

SN: What challenges are you facing?

 

ED: Of course, nobody expects funding for no cause, but then cause or no causes, in most cases I have looked at opportunities pass me by because I could not rise to the financial demands. At least if we have a corporate world that recognised wordsmiths the same way they do with musicians. To a larger extent, l think that has also contributed to the dwindling reading culture. Imagine if we have one of these big companies taking on board spoken word artistes as their brand ambassadors, not only will that help to capacitate the artiste towards their growth, but that would also expose the listenership, be it viewership, to the world of writers and what goes with their world. We get to publicise and promote the brands and the next moment I am sharing a poem on Cyclone Idai. Poetry is quite an effective tool for socio-economic and political transformation since it is informed and articulate.

 

I have done publications which I cannot put on the shelf because my pocket cannot permit it. I have resorted to merging my spoken word pieces with recorded music, using my smartphone, which is all the office I have for recording because l cannot afford what they charge at the studio. We do not want that money for nothing, just like musicians can render a service as well and use the money to produce the best out of our creativity.

 

The cost of publishing a book with local publishers is quite something else if you are coming up the rungs. That is why I had to resort to publishers outside the country, but then you would also need to ship in the copies for the local market.

 

SN: Tell me about the all the works you have produced so far?

 

ED: I have published more than 200 poems to date, some published in the publications I highlighted on the introductory note. My poems appear in more than 15 anthologies from across the globe. I have 30 poems that can be accessed free on poemhunter under my name. Every day I write and submit every month. I get published twice or thrice mostly in journals and magazines and that is why I cannot specify all my publications.

 

SN: Any awards you have received?

 

ED: So far I do not have any awards though I have received a couple of certificates, but in most cases I have never bothered to claim them. Twice I was honoured by the Society for Young Nigerian Writers, but again I never bothered to claim it. I was recognised by the Kafla International in India as their Zimbabwean contact on poetry affairs from 2014 to 2017, but, well, that is not an award, I guess, but an achievement I made. I am mentioning it because I had to travel to India for the International Writers’ Conference, which they hold annually. I have no award on my shelf so far, but soon is soon for me.

 

SN: Any message to others coming up in the arts industry?

 

ED: Sometimes it looks like you are doing nothing when you read about what others are up to, but always remember to write your own story. Those challenges are mere chapters in your big book. Speak from where you stand; there is nothing wrong in enduring a little pain.

 

SN: Any live performances?

 

ED: Every Friday I am at Theatre paBridge in Highfield, Harare. I also respond to invitations as they come, but for now paBridge is my home, courtesy of Action Hub and Edzai Isu Trust.

 

SN: Is there any project you are working on? If so, what is it?

 

ED: Quite a lot to crack my head, hey. I am looking forward to establishing a poetry slam at the Action Hub next month called Word at the Hub Poetry Slam. I am also looking forward to publishing a poetry anthology, Lyrical Interface, which is an extension of poetry intercourse where we propose a topic and the poets get to respond. This initiative does not only seek to take submissions for publication, but also to mentor and critique poets so that we grow poetry as a brand with Dr Tanaka Chidora as our moderator and Jabulani Mzinyathi as the project adviser.

 

Another poetry collection, Child of the Terrain, is also in the pipeline.

Poetry Intercourse Round 7 Submissions

 

  1. Freedom fighter

(To Mdhara Kabvakacha)

 

he wanted his voice to assume the madness of the gun

to tell his nonchalant audience

that those five years in the bush were not spent for fun

but here, in this ambience

of Dube’s bar in Ruya

the gun refused to be conjured up

and remained trapped in a world outside Ruya

outside our thoughts of a good after-beer fuck

 

he wanted his voice to assume fear’s disposition

to wear that dreaded skeletal garment

that filled his heart with trepidation

and assumed the colours of an eerie sacrament

but our numb minds

made number by Dube’s intoxicants

kept the fear at bay even though it tried

to slither in like Eve’s serpent

 

he wanted his voice to assume the revolutionary hate

that he said drove him into the forest

to help create this beautiful fate

that has given us no rest

but his visceral hatred of what is gone

failed to recreate itself in our hearts

because we only knew these ruins of Stone

and the coals on top of which we placed our butts

 

he wanted to sing us a song

about Nehanda and Kaguvi and Chitepo

a song about the mighty and strong

on whose graves grew flowers with the colour purple

but our blind eyes could not see phantoms

they could only see a tyrant

who ruthlessly fed us on arson

with the garrulous arrogance of a pirate

 

slowly his eyes glazed

with the watery film of lost hope

for the bornfree’s minds were a maze

in whose labyrinths the torch of revolution had not shone

so he stared into space

into the forest that appeared before his eyes

and he saw a time and place

when he mattered as a cadre in that fight.

 

© Tanaka Chidora, 2018

#TheDyingCity

#BecauseSadnessIsBeautiful?

 

Tanaka Chidora/Herald/Literature Today/12 August 2018

 

My Encounter with Liberation War Heroes, outside Literary Fiction

 

WHEN I arrived at Manga Secondary School to take up my post as a temporary English, History and Geography teacher, I expected to see a neatly arranged collection of blocks, beautiful rows of flower beds, a weather station somewhere near, and a school garden in which various forms of green jostled for attention. I was elated to take up this post and deliver to these children of resettled farmers what I thought were invaluable nuggets gleaned from my stint at university.

 

What I met filled me with mortification. A structure that resembled a classroom block sat forlornly in the midst of the fenced partition of an undulating stretch of grassland. This classroom block looked like a survivor of various forms of architectural struggles and amendments which were reflected in the variegated nature of its paint adornment. This classroom block housed four classrooms (Forms 1-4) and a staff office which was sandwiched at the centre of these classrooms. The staff office also housed the library, storeroom, HOD’s offices, head’s office, deputy head’s office, sportsmaster’s office and staff room.

 

Now, you will be forgiven the mistake of thinking that this room was an expansive affair. Far from it! It was something you just sneaked into and out of. During my year-long stint at this school, I managed to muster the tricks that would give this “sneaking” an air of respectability.

 

The “sneaking” needed some flourish and a certain facial disposition that many corporate guys may find hard to assemble on their faces. An old flag fluttered proudly (flags are usually proud) to the bidding of the wind. Each morning, the kids stood at military attention while Norman, the flagmaster, hoisted it up the gumtree pole with heroic   panache.

 

I know at this point you are probably detecting some nostalgia in my tone. It is difficult to write about Manga without nostalgia, especially when you are writing in retrospect after encountering all the treachery the world confronts you with, treachery hidden behind plastic and fragile smiles.

 

It is also difficult to evade nostalgia, especially when the morning after your arrival at Manga Secondary School you hear a knock on the door of your room (which room is just an addendum of a makeshift structure respectably named the staff quarters) and open the door to find two old men standing outside, one holding three gigantic cobs and the other clutching a plastic bag whose contents look like groundnuts.

 

These two old men are Mdhara Kabvakacha and Mdhara Zarenga. As a way of introduction, the two old men informed me that after some reconnaissance (that’s actually the exact word they used), they had discovered that someone who was not from their vicinity had come to live among them and it was their duty to 1) vet the visitor and make sure he/she was not dangerous, and 2) welcome the visitor.

 

“However, since I am well-versed in the art of reconnaissance and counter-intelligence,” Kabvakacha continued, “I can tell that your intentions are sincere. Teacher, welcome to Manga.” After saying these words, both men extended their hands and handed over their contraband to me. I used the word “contraband” here because, as it later turned out, the groundnuts had been smuggled from Mbuya VaJerry’s groundnut field. Mbuya VaJerry was Mdhara Zarenga’s wife.

 

This was my first up-close-and-personal encounter with war veterans, outside literary fiction. Those who know me very well might want to correct me by pointing out that Mudhara Gaza of “Magamba Hostels” is a war veteran. Well, the thing about Mudhara Gaza is that no one really believes him anymore. So it is difficult to say I really had a “war veteran” experience while growing up in “Magamba Hostels”.

 

Up to the point of meeting Mdhara Zarenga and Mdhara Kabvakacha, my “war veteran” experience was mediated by Shimmer Chinodya in “Harvest of Thorns”; Alexander Kanengoni in “Echoing Silences”; Gonzo Musengezi in “Zvairwadza Vasara”; Vitalis Nyawaranda in “Mutunhu Une Mago” and other works of literature that thematised the war. Here were two war veterans, in flesh and blood, clandestinely smuggling some agricultural contraband to give a young, mortified temporary teacher a warm welcome.

 

The next day, at the local beerhall (this too a makeshift structure improvised from a tobacco barn), I met the two comrades. I was holding Ibbo Mandaza’s “Zimbabwe: The Political Economy of Transition, 1980-1986”. Mdhara Zarenga requested to see the book. He flipped through it, and then settled on the introductory chapter. After 15 minutes, he called me and said: “Teacher, this is a good book.” Kabvakacha released a humorous cackle and mischievously asked: “Vana Zarenga, makazogona kuverenga rini?” Those who knew the two took their customary positions as spectators of a fight that would never take place.

 

As I was to be told later by one of the village commentary experts, Zivanai, the two always built some hype around their fight, but that hype always ended in some anti-climax which involved the two hugging and slapping each other’s backs and taking generous swigs from the Black Label quart that they usually shared. They never fought because, according to Kabvakacha: “Why should Zarenga and I fight each other when we did all the fighting one can dream of in the war?”

 

Every time they spoke of the war, they took turns to narrate the events: the moments of fear, the moments of running endlessly, the moments of victory. But what left an indelible mark on my mind was when Zarenga told me how he hid in a pool of water away from the prying eyes of Smith’s soldiers for three solid days. “Only my eyes and nose were above the water. The rest of my body remained submerged in the water. For three days, dear Teacher. Three          days!”

 

Then I saw it! I saw the horror of it all written on Mdhara Zarenga’s face. I saw the horrors of the war playing out at the end of Mdhara Zarenga’s gaze and I knew, I knew that even though I had never seen the war, there was something about these two old men that told it all! Then, as a way of detoxifying these toxic memories, Kabvakacha embarked on a war song that required a lot of jumping and swinging of legs and torsos. Suddenly, the mood in the beerhall dramatically changed into that of happiness.

 

I know it’s been a while since I last visited these two (I hope to do so soon), but what they taught me is that I cannot flippantly dismiss the sacrifices that the living and departed heroes and heroines of the liberation war made. For me, what these heroes and heroines did is what separates sacrifice from politics

HAVING THIS AS ABACKGROUND THE TOPIC WAS PROPOSED THUS;

Round 7 Topic: there is this person who has left an indelible mark on your mind or in your life, like Mudhara Kabvakacha in my poem, ‘Freedom Fighter’ or Chenjerai Hove’s ‘Death of a Soldier’, or Charles Mungoshi’s ‘Dotito is our Brother’. Write a poem about/based on that person. Capture the things about that person that haunt your mind.

 

2. TORIRO MY HUSBAND

Written by Osman Shato MBINDI {SHATOTHEPOET}

 

Toriro my husband!

Why thou sayest such?

Rotten acidic gibberish

With your black forked tongue

That slashes and rips my scarred soul

Like the thorny hippo hide whip

Letting blood gush

Like the bountiful Zambezi river.

Toriro my husband!

Why thou doest such

You get…….

Reeked, soaked and drenched

In all the mind blasting Delta waters

Losing your head in those childish tantrums

Why Toriro my husband!?

Where is thy spear?

Look! Wolves are ravaging our home

Feasting on our chickens and cattle

Peeing and squatting

On the traditional court yard

Under that barren dense green muchakata tree

In your cold absence.

When will you come back home

To defend your family

My dear husband?

 

3. Mother

My desire is to preserve her in my mind

Make her live forever

And walk on all the  footpaths of memory

As a denizen of a son’s mind.

 

I want to feel her throwing me in the air

And lifting her eyes to follow my rise, and

extending her arms timeously

To lock them under my fragile armpits

And break my descent to the ground.

 

I want to see her walking vigorously

My small fragile body strapped onto her strong one

While I shift slowly

in rhythm with her body.

 

I want to see her hands

Making circular motions on my body

Soaping it with massaging gentleness

Before cupping warm water all over it

And later scooping into the warmth of her bosom.

 

I want to see mother in a floral dress

Her vaselined skin glowing in the afternoon sun

A reverent look on her face

As she tugs me along to Sunday worship

 

I want to see Mother sitting in the sun

Chanting the prices of her wares to passers-by

And coaxing hard-headed ones to change their minds

And leave something to add to her small pile of coins

 

I want to see how her skin became wrinkled

To painstakingly trace the creases on her face

Mapping each line and dating it

Until I understand the paths I have created on her face

 

I want to preserve Mother in my mind

I want her to live forever

To traverse the footpaths of memory

Until Memory and Mother become one.

 

(C) Tanaka Chidora, 2019

#TheDyingCity

#BecauseSadnessIsBeautiful?

 

4 .Poor Fools

By Afreekan Griot

 

When you tire of village pettiness

Try the town for prettiness

If that fails, ignore their borders

One cannot live on orders.

Change your canvas

Turn to the open skies so vast;

By night, by day

When life unsteady sways

In the All,

Is space enough to fall

There write and fail your feel

 

You can get what you desire

Without getting what you deserve

Imagine turning a page

For a change,

Yet end up the match to spark rage

Life, packaged in headline stories

Anguish beyond horrors

Stalks the townships

This animal will not tire

Neither will it this day retire

Without sacrifice of blood!

Stoned like a rabid dog

Necklaced with a tyre

The crowd screams for fire

Incensed by the smell of gasoline

White man’s caretakers,

Buffoons like Mussolini!

 

It’s not Jerkyl and Hide

They’ve nothing to hide

So yell they on national TV:

Go whither you wish

The moon or just the hills

We find you still!!!

All you came to do was steal;

If you had any bloody songs

Why didn’t you sing them from your homes!?

 

In this grid, it’s all madness

These homies carry sadness

They have Homelands!

And all that they need

But they’re homeless

Hopeless in plenty, they bleed

Greedy givers, observers of the creed

And borrowed scriptures

Hypocrites!

Turning always to curse

When another slave is blessed

Would be patriots ;

The watchers of these borders

Full of misplaced boasts

Celebrating handme downs of oppression

Homelands with immigration:

Somebody’s lines on a map,

Do not a nation make

 

Everything like them

Is foreign

The stranger, is their brethren

Even without a whip,

Safest is he amongst these hordes

Him alone shall not weep

If he chose to instruct

He would be obeyed

Their nostrils only smell out black butts

These they pursue and burn,

Hot ablaze with hate

Bursting with maddening rage

For  Afreekans!

Alas, who are you, poor fools?

 

5. Merchandise

 

Childhood, dad left when I was conceived

His gene did mould beauty, the beast now

Struggling for survival in the hamlet awry

Gambling, hustling conjugal visits for not

More than a dollar note. Some to blame me

For these deeds but my reasons never told

Confused on what to call it though the quest

Points to survival in this economic depression.

 

Some scores, mocks and take me for a joke

Even my conscience is painted black, Perceived

To be a villain not the victim how absurd it is

On my verge, A victim of circumstances, how

Beautiful. I pay the bill and some dues from

Revulsion sacred bounty, Yet still names I am

Called, Harsh and cold hearted are my sisters

And brothers not concerned about my affair.

 

Wilson Tinotenda Waison

 

6. Mvengemvenge Express

By Edward Dzonze

 

The difference between those who choose to go

and those who choose not to

Lies here; those who chose to go

travel with a destination they have already embraced in mind

though the intended destination is never in the mind but somewhere where the journey ends

Those who remaim behind, live to hear what became of that journey

Two ends hold when they finally choose to embark

Its either they arrive late

or do not arrive àt all, this is Mvengemvenge remember

 

If you are going where i am going;

There is only one bus plying that route Mvengemvenge Express

Its either you arrive very very late

making you regrett the destination for home

Or it takes forever to get there

The faulty bus is immune to the roàd traffic regulations

The police claim its their boss’ bus

Their boss who say its the people’s ride

We just had to embrace it anyhow because there is no given option

Remember Mvengemvenge is the only ride for the route

 

One more left, lets fill up Mvengemvenge getekete harizare

The conductor says there is a new driver behind the steering

Dont take him for word, its probably the sugar cane he is munching thats giving him the energy

The new driver  not really new to this coach , only to the job

Says the coach has a new engine, munamba, shamhu yeengine is what he says

The dumb loader wants us to assume the bus completely new

We are not new to this bus

Its been prescribed to us since childhood, we know this coach

Every faulty item home gets a name after Mvengemvenge

One more , getekete harizari…lets fill up Mvengemvenge time is of essence

The new driver not really new says he is taking a new route

Anyway, the new engine remains a mystery until the bus is in motion

Who sleeps at the bus terminus,

There is home to go to, lets fill up Mvengemvenge

Getekete harizari iye mutyairi waro haanyare

NRS2019

Poetry Intercourse Round Six Submissions on Sanity and Serenity

ROUND SIX TOPIC /THEME

“SECURITY AND SERENITY”

TO every fired bullet, two ends hold

Tears and Political smiles

While we live to mourn the victimis .We do not know what they did to call a bullet upon them.To the same end, the same gunshots comes to solve a thing to somebody else….I guess thats where the cliche GUNZ AND ROSES CAME FROM

The same gun that makes us shed a tear comes to beautifies another’s world

Did i say GUESS

My world is made of rhymes and verses

Deadline is 23/03/2019

On the same day the Grill returns

ALUTA CONTINUA

  1. Poem: My Security And Serenity

 

The Cries Of Hussain On An Electronic Slot

My Mind Is Lit As A Xenophobic Thought

A Zimbabwean Making Fire At Home To Stop The Fire Abroad

Its Fire A Broad Like A Brothel Shot

 

Use The Power Of The Tongue To Taste The Load

Test The Lord’s Heat With A New Pass Pot

Try To Design Sodom And Get Missed A Lot

Fuck Your Vote You Can Now Avoid Being Null And Void

 

You Expect Me To Worship The Eye On The Pyramid At The Back Of A Dollar Bill And

Ignore The Fact That The First Human To Touch A Pen Was Egyptian

To Clap Hands For The Best History Student While Denis Richards

Throws Shit On The Great Zimbabwe Wall Built By A Zimbabwean

 

Mind Dumber Than Blacks In Church Preaching That Kushites Are Cursed

Can Anyone Trace The Genealogical History After Noah’s Dead

They Play None Of My Songs Cause Ape Evidence Is Tanzanian If You Listen To Darwin

I’m Underground And Of Course Its Simon Of Cyrene Less Famous Than Judas Again

 

Sex With A Torn Worthless Worth Full Paper A Euro Centric View

I’ve Got My Eye On All But These Investors Are Ignoring Zisco Steel

Jerking Off To Metal Thoughts I Don’t Make Sense Because I Said Fuck What You Feel

 

I Will Never Visit A Saloon Fuck Braids And Wigs I’m Afro With My Kinky Hair

Fuck A White Wedding, This Lobola Will Make Sure That My Chick Is Here

Fuck David Livingstone

The Tonga People Discovered Those Wonders Of Course

And Its Mosiyatunya Not Victoria Falls

 

Are Gaddafi’s Gold Coins The Basics Of Trading Profit And Loss

Spread Shit Or Do A Spread Sheet Its Free Education Of course

Death Accounts Must Differentiate All The Fatality Costs

Between A Hiroshima And A Holocaust

 

Tell Botswana That Karma Is A Bitch A Coward

Paint A Picture Of A Fake Black And Obama Is Coloured

Sacrifice Gay Rights For Aids Pills That’s What Kenya Was Offered

He Killed Mama Gaddafi And Now Libya Is Orphaned

 

Bomb Cities To Protect Civilians But No One Fights For Religions

Choose Kim Or Alshabaab Or Sudanese And Korean Secessions

Watch A Movie To See Russians, Zimbabweans, Rwandans Vietnamese, Germans And North Koreans As Villains

 

Scooping Idai’s Flows Is Harder Than A Call To Remove Sanctions

Is Canaan Banana A Fruit Of The Promised Land

Cut Your Adam’s Apple And Share The Eve In Bed

Stick A Hard Dick In A Rolled Slip Till It’s Fuck The Change

 

 

@CyrilToruvanda

@Dangwe

*@PRIVATEDIARY*

#2019

 

2.Sorry Story

By Tafadzwa Chiwanza

 

The cabbage is quickly turning to garbage

Even the soil has started to                     boil

As the blood gush in a flood

Tears of fears washing                            away the years

The rust merges with the dust

We are losing ground too fast!

 

Of our gain; only pain                      remain

The fort we fought for,

Is crumbling into a rubble                   of darkness

With the rumbling                                  noise of nothingness

We are losing                                             ground too fast!

 

Hoist our flag, and take it down again

Our glory and fame;

Now a sorry story of shame

@Tafadzwa Chiwanza

 

3. This is Not the Time for Fiction

Poet: Afreekan Griot

 

Gentle giant, life mother

Soft and kind molester

Hewer of rocks

Undenied where she knocks

The sensual and the vortex

Promising sustainer,

Generous giver,  ruthless receiver

A monk unashamed to rob

For whom life and death

Is only fashion for the day

From your sinister wardrobe,

What have you with us,

That we may pay back our debt?

 

Gloriously soiled reputation

Yet it was you, who housed us in the womb

The breast from which thirst is quenched

Why are you grieved so

That you would take us to doom

In your mood?

Why this vengeance,

Who raised this curtain

And unleashed these ghosts

That visit with false blessings

But sure costs and losses

See the flow out of their eery spouts

The home, the fields

Overnight erased

Where there were beasts

Bloated carcasses

How can we celebrate rain

When all we get to harvest is pain?

 

Noone has answered :

Mai Joe,  strap the boy

I’ve got Fred

There’s nothing left but to go

Nothing but gropping footsteps

Panted breath and gasps

Mud, more mud, water, more water

This sucks

Was that the sound of a helicopter?

Another rest is over

Fatigue irritated, hovers

Darkness a thick black cream

Dip your hand and it’s unseen

Even inches from your eye

Forehead forward, lids peeled

Through nothing you peer

All things look the same queer

The baby cries, the boy screams

Hunger petitions

But there’s only these rising streams

 

The thick impersonal forest shrugs

Captive light sprinkles the night

Promise of some distant light

Any life, movements or sounds?

None, but with every whip,

The wind, with its thick black arms

Strangles every glimmer

Hope, swallowed whole

By the grim reaper

Slithers back into the black hole

Still we plod to nowhere

Trusting in memory

Who was here before we were

Fear, exhorting action

Mind devoid of direction

This is not the time for fiction

4.FREEDOM

(To Freedom Nyamubaya)

Freedom’s shadow disappearing around a corner

leaving behind an apparition for sad eyes to gaze at

through the slits of a suffocating existence

 

time frozen in a facility built by political sadists

to murder the spirits of those who hope

who want a flame of love to burn in their hearts

 

where freedom used to throne herself like a goddess

a yawning hole stares skywards like an accusation

the blind moon stares back and shrugs hunched shoulders.

© Tanaka Chidora, 2019

#TheDyingCity

#BecauseSadnessIsBeautiful?

 

6.FUCK THE CAPTION

By Edward Dzonze

 

When barbarity calls

The black brothers serve brutality in place of bread

Our tears for barbeque, yell all you like there is no harm in little music

Red blood , red wine whats the difference really in the face of this barbarity calling

They take what their guns can deliver

Barbarity calls them to war

They call a brother foe to justify a fired bullet

Black brothers exchanging bitter words and viscious bullets to give the world an episode of war…

I wonder what the black in them will say when confronted with a poetry verse to rise to just one question;

Whats the war about?

 

Blood oozing from the vein of political madness

Bullets and bombs sent to deliver the misplaced wrath

Killing the brother you verily know because war knows no brother but enermy

Brothers are not the same when clad in the vile of politicized madness

Its a civil war,a war among one black

Black brothers exchanging bitter words and viscious bombs to give the world an episode of war

From the wars, heroes walk out with military honors and decorations

Their children becoming masters at their fathers game

Because they were told only our skin calls us brothers

Guns are not brothers, they were told to kill before you get killed

Africa is a shaping grave in their hands

At the end of their political reign we count graves for their achievement

Where lies Africa in the civility of called wars

Where lies our common serenity in the context of civil wars

There is no civility in wars…

 

Shame this madness brewing Africa before you become the shame

Too much blood undermines our human worth

These “Civil Wars” are evil

Cant you see how they fail to honor our being

Guns got no eyes, but we should see the madness

What more can you expect the gun to show you other than bloodshed

I am to you what you are to me because the two of us spells a being; Africa

Cant you see how we collectively spell stupidity when we bow to the call of gun

Fuck the caption coming to justify the madness

Civil wars is a measure of human barbarity

©Edward Dzonze

25/03/19

 

7.THE IRONY OF FREEDOM

poem by Edward Dzonze

 

The wounds on my black skin

are taking forever long to heal,

Pardon me if i have the wrong            prescription ;

Is humanity not the pill to                      these ailments,

For how long shall we                                pay the medical                                          bill in blood                                            installments?

The missionaries came with a burning light

That failed to illuminate the dark world only their eyes  saw in Africa

Rather but sparked wars that sparked the mineral loot from dear motherland

 

We housed the missionaries

and their hidden mission in our hospitable villages

They built bigger church buildings

that rendered the African traditional religion a quixotic nuisance in the eyes of many who fell in love with their hymns

And they built a system that took us for hostages in our own turf

The “dark continent ” became even darker

Only what made it dark was the disguised spark

And said of the African skin

the black you spell cannot bring any spark to the darkness we see

The darkness as seen, I mean the darkness that never was

We fought for our black freedom ,

They broke the chain but remained with the key

 

They make us pay

for every piece of freedom that comes our way

We owe them nothing but they own the ways

Even this hard won independence did not come to stay…

They have got specified sanctions to punctuate us as subjects in their political brackets

Yesterday they took my father for a slave ,

Owned and sold him in a locked cage

Selling my tormented father in chains

To buy themselves material gains in plenty

With their political might

They take away the light to insurmountable heights

and if you are looking for fragments of truth on the polished surface,

It remains forever dark in the mind

 

They sing both the verse and the chorus

and task us to the dancing

That is why the wounds on my African face are taking forever long to heal

We continue to say it in poetry verses

but they are quick to turn over to the next page

Silence the lines as quixotic, the poet’s tongue as toxic

Its not like i am condoning that which they condemn

Rather i am condemning that which they have became-

The human gods of our humane world

Their haven is an earthsize calico painted with human blood

When they kill they justify the killing and mock the deceased

Their judiciary whip is justified in their judicial dictates,

Its essence and imminance resonates with us

The wind that blows their flag blows the flags of the world

We cheer it when they preach the gospel

Its AMEN and AMEN to every Hallelujah  they shout

We cheer it when they say it

Alas! They dont even mean the word

Everyone regrets it when they live the gospel they almost preached

 

✍©Edward Dzonze 2017

NB:THIS POEM IS AN EXTRACT FROM EDWARD DZONZE’S POETRY COLLECTION;

BREAKFAST WITH MARECHERA

 

8.Third World

 

Homeless Cities And

The Homeless Citizens

Praying For Colon Needs

While Preyed For Colonies

 

By A Prince And A Princess

The Crownless Queen’s land

Ruling The Per Capita – Lists

While We Die For Ideologies

 

Pain In Instance

Plain In Distance

Penniless Incidents

If Your Plan Is Different

 

Oil Is Lifeless

Gas Is Breathless

Diamonds Are Worthless

Without The Kimberly Process

 

Trade Gold For Clothing

Hand A Taboo For Medicine

Give A Soul For A Body Being

Exchange A Home For Housing

 

Bronze Makes Idols

Silver Makes All Coins

Gold In The Third Place

Medals For Human Race

 

Puppets Are Legends

Traitors Are Noble Men

Terrorists Are Freedom Fighters

The Resistors Are The Dictators

 

Seem Bad And Be Good

Keep Soul To Breathe Dead

Leave Them And Be You

Live First The Third World

 

@CyrilToruvanda

@Dangwe

#PrivateDiary

@2019

 

 

9.Songs and Dreams

My people love to sing

To scribble graffiti

on the forehead of song

to pick each bone from the throng

of dreams lying on the vast floor

of the twenty-first

 

 

My people love to dance

On the dusty ground to prance

And leave behind footprints

Of dreams that sprint

Towards the horizon that hovers

Beyond the mist of the twenty-first

 

 

My people love to gaze at their dreams

Rising like apparitions in the steam

Of that euphoric November dance

That sets cold hearts ablaze

With anticipation of a more hopeful

Journey along the paths of the twenty-first

 

My people love to clothe dreams

in the stanzas and lyrics of song

To let the dreams fly with sound

Until they come back as beautiful

Echoes bouncing off the Chamavara

Echoes of dreams and songs

Echoes of dreams, songs and people

Dreams, songs, people, the twenty-first.

 

(C) Tanaka Chidora, 2019

#TheDyingCity

#BecauseSadnessIsBeautiful?

 

10.Do not forget

After the hanging old  tyre necklace

Damb from petrol splashes

Kissing a glowing log

Booming into tongues of fire

Farting the black ,thick choking smoke

Punctuated by the crushing, grinding of our children’s milky skulls

With sharp pointed steel granite stones

Which gushed with sprinkles of blood

Feeding the Red Nile which floods the streets

Making you laugh like blood sucking devils

Watching the muddy wriggles and piercing squeals

Of the pigs you are butchering

Stummering in broken brittle voices

“Stop! Please don’t kill me!”

Their cry for pity became trebles revitalising your energy to slain

After all this

Do not forget

We are still Africans

We are still one blood

We will always be Africans

And the heavens are tearflooded watching

Cain slaying Abel!

Dancing to the rythms of this hell madness

And don’t forget that it is the axe that forgets not the bleeding and heartbroken tree

 

*By Osman Shato Mbindi* *( Shato the poet

The Many of Gold

The Many of Gold

By Edward Dzonze

 

There is a Father who art in heaven

Him is the Father of all creation,

the one who breathed the garden of Eden into being

There is a Father who art in the Vatican

He assumes the Father of all nations, the one who prescribed cathilicism unto the descendants of Adam

There is a Father presiding at church parishes around the globe

I know of one who fell for a nun’s sexy thighs

he got tempted, cocked his gun to shoot at the very sweet oasis where the thighs that tempted him lust meet

The deed lived as a secret of these two and just a few others

He remains Father to the congregates

Who bow down to recieve the holly communion in rememberance of Christ the Messiah from his hand

Many were called by God, some by gold

To their elation some where called after their imposed elavation

They stammer when divination calls them to the very dictates

 

Many of gold

They roll in expensive wheels

The Lambourgini is a wheelbarrow, the Mercedes is a bicycle to them

Their pockets permits it, some of them got private jets

I am not calling the church of a God to shame here

Dont just shout Amen to every piece of decorated Hallelujah because it is coming from the pulpit

I am only calling the dirty cleric robes to shame

There is too much rot concealed in those garments

Once you puff in the incense,

the odor becomes the cologne of the church

Thats just how the nun in the picture got pregnant

The deed was done beyond the reach of a Father in the Vatican

A seed was planted by the servants of God in the absence  of guilt

The begotten son is shouting Father, father..

 

He bought the nun a van to spark the fun

Sin was allowed to flow between the two perfunctorily

and when the deed could not be concealed anymore from the human eye

The nun took the pregnancy to a land far from acquintances to save the Father who gives holly communion to his family

We save the Father who claim to serve the Father in heaven

We save the Father who submit to a Father in Italy

Only one Father in heaven exists, Father the God

There reigns only one ordained Father in Rome, Father the Pope

The Father in heaven sees us all from paradise, he is omnipresent

For his eyes the Father in Vatican got desciples all over the world

I am probably the lost one here I will answer when redemption calls

I am not here to shame the Church of God but of gold

Do not just shout Amen to every piece of Hallelujah that comes your way

The Father in heaven is not the Father in Italy

Its not for my poetic tongue to denounce papacy as fallacy

I am calling the dirty cleric robes to shame

Let those born again live with what they were made to believe

There is a son calling Father, father

A son is calling Father, father….

The Father in Italy lives his paradise in a mansion at the Vatican

They reign from the pulpit where they spell a world they cant live

Hiding behind the rosary as well as the cross so they rich

I mean some of them, all of them is an outright insult i know

 

Where is the Father to rise to the call

A known son is calling Father ,father

His mother the nun who failed to resist the call of  a different serpent

Told him a Father exists in a land far away,

She told him how the Father husband bought her a van to busk in a new sun

Big badge Benz for papa to seal his mouth

A Fun Cargo and a second hand Honda Fit for mama to forget the unfortunate

When people made an inquiry  into the nun’s whereabouts

the accrued  assets does some of the explanation

She lived with the son in a foreign land where these two were a mystery

Father, the Father in heaven watched over them

Father the son to the Father in Vatican always forthcoming with goodies to give these two sweetnes for a taste of life

Distance played an accomplice to the ploy

A wind came and took away Father ,the father of this begotten son

The departure sinked into the nun’s life , she followed the Father to love again in the after life

The deed was done in the name of this Father’s lust,

The nun’s vulnerability in the face of an ordained clergy,

The manipulated nun took off the cassock to show in the man of cloth

where the vow marks as prohibited

How can i dance to the hymns playing in the background,

There is too much rot clad in clerical robes

Dont just shout Amen to every piece of Hallelujah because it is coming from the pulpit

Many were called, some by God some by gold

Too much rot clad in clerical robes

©NRS 30/03/19

This Aint The Non-Believer’s Journey

THIS AINT THE NON BELIEVERS JOURNEY AT ALL

 

Truth lies between the lines

The sweetness of the flow is not about how the picture tastes

Rise to the vibe, its how the writer’s mind tastes

A writer knows how to capture the flow

We did not read Some kind of Wounds between the lines

We identify with the painted picture

Our beloved black skin lived with those kind of wounds

Greed and hate bore us the wounds

We said grace to convience the mind supper will be served anytime soon

When supper time came we each said good night to the other

Sleeping on an empty belly

Because somebody unknown to me

Pulled some pages from Marechera’s Mindblast to build us all this House of Hunger

Where The Stone Virgins lost their chastity to gadabout politicians in the wake of a new political dawn

Nobody saw the Coming of the Dry Season except Mungoshi

 

She Nolonger Weep is a word play dedicated to this House of Stone

She got impregnanted with dirty politics

And when a child became of that unfortunate intimacy

Mr politician the father, riminded her how they had sex on Fools Day so from the begining it was a prank

The child was allowed to live forever after as a secret of these two

Of course corruption ,is the politician’s child

They roll our political will on ballot papers

Which they mean to torch and smoke to our political desires while we renew our vows with poverty in disguise

Look where disguised hatred have goten us to

She sees this all the days of her life

Politicians taking the vulnerable for subjects their political disposal get to punctuate

Who do you tell when you wake up to a Harvest of Thorns

And the Red Hills of Home tells you in a whisper….

You hands drip of blood, yet your tongue doesnt know the taste of honey

Come on board ,morden politics is about money

Those are the Country Dawns and City lights my friend

That is Why She Nolonger Weep

 

We did not get to read Vera’s Butterfly Burning at school

With our eyes we saw the Butterfly burning ,

And when we tried to save the butterfly we got burnt

The scorching flame burned our fingers and for a while we could not vote , nursing the burn

We Need New Names

When Batsirai Chigama rise to Gather the Children

Musayemura dropping lyrical exoplosives to shame the ills that have come to haunt his kins in the Zimunya enclaves

We write to capture how the Queen’s Royce rolls on the empty bellies of famished urchins longing for just a day’s meal

Where are you African Serenity

Where lies the path to the freedoms the writers dont seem to see

Xenophibia taking the Bantu for a meal out of misplaced wrath

I saw the picture in Chenjerai Hove’s Up in Arms

The military getting militant to contain the civilians grief as opposed to protest as a constitutional entittlement

I did not call those stories just to say hello to the reader

I rose to write so i ignite the missing light

Taking my story to a zenith where these voices shout to shape the world

This aint the Non believers journey at all

Its a continuation of where Marechera and Mungoshi

Left a line hanging, awaiting a weaver bird to weave the basket of wisdom from their writing pen

I remember brother Olley telling me those words

This aint the non believers at all

I remember him saying while the two of us were getting lost to the extreme confines of a liquor’s embrace at Tazorora Tarven

I shout Freedom to rekindle

The lyrical dosage of Nyamubaya

This aint the non-believers journey at all

©NRS

The Living and the Soar Song

Today we drink tears

in the cold embr ace of tragedy

Every tattooed descendant of Nehanda is soaked in tears

Breakfast, lunch and supper is not certain for my brethren  in Chimanimani

At the expedient behest of Idai, the unwelcome

who made himself welcome on the unsespecting patches of home ,

They drank and gulped bouts that sank them beyond the land of the living

There is no remaining grain of hope in their grannaries

to feed the survivors after a traumatizing wrestle with a cyclone that left them naked

And if you think the clothes you give as relief aid will clothe them from nakedness

You are looking at the wrong picture of nakedness

Their only shield from psychological trauma is our perception

They lost the serenity that defined their livelihoods

to a a ragging storm, a cyclone….

A cyclone that became known to us as Idai

 

I call unto you again Nehanda

Pardon my misdemeanour  around this, i got your number saved as MEDIUM on my contact list

Say it to the African gods,

the very breast that suckles trees and crops for our sustenance

Is dripping vernom, spitting out ceaselessly

to choke the living in their quest for a fresh breath

This land is flooded with tears of mourners

but we cant standby and watch our actions drown the hope in the face of survivors

Those who survived to live again

Today we share these tears as a narration of what befell our brethren and kins in Chipinge

The wrath of fate delivered in excess, the damage too much a wound for the human mind as to the skin

Yet we found it written as foreword that the living can only rise to dance when fate sings a verse for us

 

Where was Noah to listen to Idai

prophesying  the madness and evil intent of the cyclone

Dead bodies thrown around like teddy bears to provoke the pain of the humane heart

Villages stripped of the serenity that made them home to our acceptance of the same

Everything about life distorted, except the hope that lives after the calamity

Life cannot be forgotten, we live to rise even after the cyclone

For time will tell a new tale to explain the graves

Today we share these tears to confront the providence of fate and burry the pain to live again

The wrath of fate delivered in excess, the damage too much a wound for the human mind as well the skin to bear

Today we drink tears in the cold embrace of tragedy as libation to the African gods

Watching from the spiritual realms

Fate singing a soar song for us all to taste and dance to

For yours is a land soaked in tears today,

Take the horrible picture to the African gods Nehanda

The living cannot dance to that taste and remain with essence to justify life

26/03/2019

©NRS

POETRY INTERCOURSE ROUND 5 SUBMISSIONS

AS PROPOSED BY THE AFRICAN GRIOT, OUR TOPIC/THEME FOR POETRY INTERCOURSE ROUND 5 GOES THUS;

 

What is Freedom? Is it limited to some words in a book of law or its boundless like the human Spirit? Is Freedom an idea or a fact? Is Prison the absence of Freedom? Where in fact is Prison,  in the jailhouse or the mind? Can the mind, which is just accepted social conditioning comprehend Freedom which if Spirit, would require no Rules?

 

Untittled poem

ByJabulani Mzinyathi

perhaps an endless search

endless search for elusive goals

a continuum of profound questions

about the essence of existence

shouting”eureka” at tentative answers

 

is it a story of the elephant

and the blindmen that saw it

is it about the pedestal one stands on

to unravel stories that shape past, present and future

 

the palestinians yearn for it

israelis say they are fighting for it

gays daily fight for it

heterosexuals fight for it too

and everywhere conflicts sprout

” sweet freedom what is your address”

 

in rhodesia that was the word

still in zimbabwe it is the rallying point

in the old south africa rivers of blood

today the song is still about it

and yet the goal remains elusive

 

FreeDom

 

Boldly walking freely in the streets.

But the future is blur due to the haunting dark past presently awakening.

 

My soul is constantly wailing from  the sharp and thorny prick of my conscience.

For it is me myself and I who knows the bitter truth,

Of untold murders ,theft and hatred .

For I will not plead guilty until proven.

 

Though freely laughing out loud ,the roar of the untold truths powerfully draw my attention.

Yet my tongue is too heavy to utter the truth.

Which they say it will set one free.

I admit,my mind leaps at the thought of getting away with my diabolical deeds.

But  my soul demands justice for humanity.

Hence my  shoulders are burdened by the load of my visible yet unquestioned deeds

 

The constant battle of emotions are turning my mind into a battlefield.

For what I say strongly antagonises the  interior feelings.

 

Ululating for the unjust death of my fellow ,due to fear of condemning .

Born free they say but bounded by the shackles of falsehood.

I tirelessly struggle to suppress the truth,

But the tiny yet powerful flame of the truth torturously burns me.

I’m therefore freely imprisoned!

 

@Molly

 

 

 

 

FREEDOM

 

A poem under the shivering bed

Coughs dust from the suits that bury soot

That is paddled with hypocrisy as golden dust

To pimp a citizen to dance in the circuit of sporades

To leave no mark in the blackness of creation.

A poem dancing in a lonely space

To a deplorable song, is a voice of depth;

Sinning with words to save a territory from insane avarice.

Shaken within a skull stacked with carnal insights

Beaten inside by a ruthless six of the best.

A poem in the cold dark bellows for freedom,

Freedom of the little voice to stand with its bare belly

Speaking unity, even less. A gram of it is enough

To clean up hate, to clean up thievery –

A cancer so flowing like Motsi-ao-tunya

Within the veins of the preachers of freedom.

A hidden poem, speak within a dream,

Within a troubled mass;

A hidden poem shall never die in its youthful bones.

 

©Andrew Huje, 2019

 

Do not forget

 

After the hanging old  tyre necklace

Damp from petrol splashes

Kissing a glowing log

Booming into tongues of fire

Farting the black ,thick choking smoke

Punctuated by the crushing, grinding of our children’s milky skulls

With sharp pointed steel granite stones

Which gushed with sprinkles of blood

Feeding the Red Nile which floods the streets

Making you laugh like blood sucking devils

Watching the muddy wriggles and piercing squeals

Of the pigs you are butchering

Stummering in broken brittle voices

“Stop! Please don’t kill me!”

Their cry for pity became trebles revitalising your energy to slain

After all this

Do not forget

We are still Africans

We are still one blood

We will always be Africans

And the heavens are tearflooded watching

Cain slaying Abel!

Dancing to the rythms of this hell madness

And don’t forget that it is the axe that forgets not the bleeding and heartbroken tree

 

*By Osman Shato Mbindi* *( Shato the poet)*

 

Sunset by T.C the humble moderator

Sunset is the knowing wink of the sinking sun

the hallowed kiss of this eternal lover

on a face upturned in amorous anticipation

the gentle caress of a golden hand

on bosoms that hunger for love

 

sunset is the lazy eye that gazes

at a receding and laidback village

whose huts hug the foot of a mountain

like ancestral beads on the leg of a maiden

before the yearly rain dance

 

sunset is the farewell embrace of a lover

whose departure is fecund with promises

of a return that will be heralded by another halo

and a chorus sung by voices that speak no malice

and untroubled hearts that harbour no vice.

 

(C)Tanaka Chidora, 2019

#TheDyingCity

#BecauseSadnessIsBeautiful? 

 

Poet-poet Conversation

T.C & E.D freestyling

 

Freedom’s shirttails disappearing around a corner,

While forlorn eyes gaze at it through the slits of prison walls(T.C)

 

Peeping in to scavenge

Whats left when justice is not justified in the name of freedom(E.D)l

 

Time frozen in a facility built by sadists

To reap the spirits of those who hope(T.C)

 

Hopping on one broken limb

Because the only hope you had got diluted to no taste (E.D)

 

Where freedom used to throne herself

A yawning hole stares skywards (T.C)

 

We live with the shadow

The freedom our fathers fought for woke up missing

And it was okayed by some freedom fighters

What the shadow spells

Is the stinking breath of a known yet unrecognized Cde who came back from the battlefield with an AK soaked in blood (E.D)

 

The blind sky stares back

And shrugs away the hope of those who bef… (T.C)

 

It stares in wonderment

It shrugs in spelled disapointment

Me and the brother have to write to share the sacrement (E.D)

 

And they laughed and promised to pick it up the following day

 

 

THE BLACK HATRED THAT LIVES poem written by Edward Dzonze

 

When our collective madness unnoticed

Calls us all to sing and dance

I rise with my writing pen,

To sing  a song of peace and dance to the real dictates of freedom

Detonating the ticking time bombs

Awaiting to swallow the children unborn

Because their fathers called a grave upon their wretched lives in a drunken slumber

The flame of their greed singing corruption as they danced to xenophobia in the absence of music

When xenophobia plays in the streets

They bow down and thank the gods for the loot

What can the children say;

This xenophobia playing in their streets is older than their political scope

 

Our blood and tears

Constantly called to lubricate a certain political flow

The Hutu fighting the Tutsi for what Africa cant spell

Cry beloved Rwanda, i called that picture to depict

a picture of Africa fighting Africa for what Ubuntuism cant spell

Black brothers terrorizing their families with a borrowed gun

If it looked this Africa to Madiba in prison

he would have scoffed apartheid with a bitter tongue

Bow down to kiss the colonial manacles for the keys

Summoning a midwife to terminate the pregnancy

before a beloved child is born to taste this black hatred that have come to shame black existence for a human race

Speak the Africa you wanted Nkrumah from your pan African tongue

Speak it from the tomb, i dont recall the burial of African dignity in a known grave

I know these civil wars are a menace to the dream of the revolutionaries Samora, Nyerere and Kaunda among them

Spit it from the grave Amilcar Cabral

Sheer ignorance cannot lure us to a grave while you watch from the spiritual realm

I call on Mugabe the visionary

to spell us the exacted dictates of how the freedom flag should fly

to capture the freedoms they fought for before the sun goes down on African serenity

I call on the Spirit of Chaminuka and Tongogara

to roam the African turf to resurrect  the freedoms the freedom fighters birthed from their bloody confrontations with the imperialist’s cocked gun

When the Hutu fighting the Tutsi wars comes to a sanctioned halt

Will the triumphant piece of Africa pay for damages to the bleeding piece of the same Africa

Africa paying war reparations to Africa

Tell them Seretse

how we all have a flag to honor and defend

Freedom can not live in hiding while black hatred speak on our bahalf

I remembe Steve Biko and his quest for freedom

Africa, take please the gospel of togetherness oozing from the teachings of Marcus Garvey from a known tomb in Jamaica

Called wars making my jungle a hell with a different name and face

 

Enmity  was called from a bitter tongue reflective of how the mind stands

King Zwelatini made a brutal call

They sang songs of violence in a whisper

Songs that summoned serenity out of the streets

Bloodshed was called, Ubuntu stood just as a word

Their guns and machetes made it easy, we watched them drink the blood

While shaping the new slogan from our fears

The taste of their reign dictated from the flames of terror

We were in their hands, the land belongs to us all

Lest we forget this is Africa, where democracy is allowed to dance anyhow

Because they say it is an exotic fundamental coming to confront our collective wisdom

Saying the purpose of democracy is to outlive its foreign dictates to Africa only to spark wars and sanctions

In the end ,it looked as if democracy is about gay rights

Africa stands confronted,

Not with gay rights and democracy mispelt

Africa stands confronted with black hatred

 

Black is my identity

I rise to its call, this Black is my serenity

Black is how i choose to go in chromatic justification

I know the dictates of the black i live ,i know the sensation

I am the blackboard of white hatred and black barbarity as called

everything is spelled in scars and bruises

My skin bears the scars of hate and love

I have come to give my story a wing so it flies like a dove

You might miss some captions if you choose to read it from the African flag

For the African flag flies silently in the wake of it all

What can it say to the wind that blows it back and forth in the direction of the flow

My eyes have seen what you will never capture from the colors of the African flag

When black hatred calls

The children cease to see the same black in another

They rise to honour the call

 

They rise to honour the call

Calling on them to unleash their wrath upon their unsuspecting kins

They posed naked infront of a camera lense

When the flash came, they confronted the cameramen

For what his camera had seen of them

They took his clothes and asked him to take another shot

It just didnt seem fit for them to pose naked while the cameramen is dressed

Together they looted, kicking a black brother they know because a different song is playing

Looting, killing, burning the shacks that points at us as habitats

Stripping Ubuntuism in the very face of black existence

Saying when the people   ask of this nakedness,

Tell them you were naked too

 

They met up with poverty and diarhea

Trying to pick up the serenity their fathers never botherd to honour

Because Aids and Ebola looked a picture too familiar to be discarded from the African narration

The sun rose but forgot to shine

Blood was served as altar wine in called civil wars

The nationalists taught them the patriorism that lives

Underlining where the patriotism meets up with the corruption that calls

When a new sun rose in their fathers’ days

The were told to remember corruption and forget about patriotism

Thus to them a new word was spelt, nepotism

Nepotism told them thus;

A brother from just across the border

Should go back to Zimbabwe and sing Nora to the memories of a missing plate for supper

They burned the Somalis, they tortured the children of Maidiguri

They removed the essence from the rainbow nation

Nepotism spelled to them as a gateway and not a limitation to their capitalism

Nobody was allowed to ask where that path will take Africa

The only question they rose to answer being When is the baptism of their children

In their eyes, every child of a nationalist need be born again

To see the god that comes with political power

Just live the sweet never mind who gets the sour

Saying heaven is a preservation of the few whose names are written from the diaries of their fathers in politics

Forget about hell before you die

Africa is a haven for those who know how to trade the gold and pay the tithe to their bank accounts

Before taking the dust to Rose the sweet teen

Her right hand takes the dust, while her naked  body takes the AIDS

The day she got the virus, she pleaded with the corrupt minister

To please take my love for a thank you

Giving me a bursary does not go unnoticed

I look at her, i look the circumstances

The black hatred i saw lives not on her skin alone

The reason i am rising this writing pen to question our say towards the same

The painted picture pointing at something coming to our black existence as caption 

 

 

The Black Hatred that Lives (revised edition)

poem written by Edward Dzonze

 

When our collective madness unnoticed

Calls us all to sing and dance

I rise with my writing pen,

To sing  a song of peace and dance to the real dictates of freedom

Detonating the ticking time bombs

Awaiting to swallow the children unborn

Because their fathers called a grave upon their wretched lives in a drunken slumber

The flame of their greed singing corruption as they danced to xenophobia in the absence of music

When xenophobia plays in the streets

They bow down and thank the gods for the loot

What can the children say;

This xenophobia playing in their streets is older than their political scope

 

Our blood and tears

Constantly called to lubricate a certain political flow

The Hutu fighting the Tutsi for what Africa cant spell

Cry beloved Rwanda, i called that picture to depict

a picture of Africa fighting Africa for what Ubuntuism cant spell

Black brothers terrorizing their families with a borrowed gun

If it looked this Africa to Madiba in prison

he would have scoffed apartheid with a bitter tongue

Bow down to kiss the colonial manacles for the keys

Summoning a midwife to terminate the pregnancy

before a beloved child is born to taste this black hatred that have come to shame black existence for a human race

Speak the Africa you wanted Nkrumah from your pan African tongue

Speak it from the tomb, i dont recall the burial of African dignity in a known grave

I know these civil wars are a menace to the dream of the revolutionaries Samora, Nyerere and Kaunda among them

Spit it from the grave Amilcar Cabral

Sheer ignorance cannot lure us to a grave while you watch from the spiritual realm

I call on Mugabe the visionary

to spell us the exacted dictates of how the freedom flag should fly

to capture the freedoms they fought for before the sun goes down on African serenity

I call on the Spirit of Chaminuka and Tongogara

to roam the African turf to resurrect  the freedoms the freedom fighters birthed from their bloody confrontations with the imperialist’s cocked gun

When the Hutu fighting the Tutsi wars comes to a sanctioned halt

Will the triumphant piece of Africa pay for damages to the bleeding piece of the same Africa

Africa paying war reparations to Africa

Tell them Seretse

how we all have a flag to honor and defend

Freedom can not live in hiding while black hatred speak on our bahalf

I remembe Steve Biko and his quest for freedom

Africa, take please the gospel of togetherness oozing from the teachings of Marcus Garvey from a known tomb in Jamaica

Called wars making my jungle a hell with a different name and face

 

Enmity  was called from a bitter tongue reflective of how the mind stands

King Zwelatini made a brutal call

They sang songs of violence in a whisper

Songs that summoned serenity out of the streets

Bloodshed was called, Ubuntu stood just as a word

Their guns and machetes made it easy, we watched them drink the blood

While shaping the new slogan from our fears

The taste of their reign dictated from the flames of terror

We were in their hands, the land belongs to us all

Lest we forget this is Africa, where democracy is allowed to dance anyhow

Because they say it is an exotic fundamental coming to confront our collective wisdom

Saying the purpose of democracy is to outlive its foreign dictates to Africa only to spark wars and sanctions

In the end ,it looked as if democracy is about gay rights

Africa stands confronted,

Not with gay rights and democracy mispelt

Africa stands confronted with black hatred

 

Black is my identity

I rise to its call, this Black is my serenity

Black is how i choose to go in chromatic justification

I know the dictates of the black i live ,i know the sensation

I am the blackboard of white hatred and black barbarity as called

everything is spelled in scars and bruises

My skin bears the scars of hate and love

I have come to give my story a wing so it flies like a dove

You might miss some captions if you choose to read it from the African flag

For the African flag flies silently in the wake of it all

What can it say to the wind that blows it back and forth in the direction of the flow

My eyes have seen what you will never capture from the colors of the African flag

When black hatred calls

The children cease to see the same black in another

They rise to honour the call

 

They rise to honour the call

Calling on them to unleash their wrath upon their unsuspecting kins

They posed naked infront of a camera lense

When the flash came, they confronted the cameramen

For what his camera had seen of them

They took his clothes and asked him to take another shot

It just didnt seem fit for them to pose naked while the cameramen is dressed

Together they looted, kicking a black brother they know because a different song is playing

Looting, killing, burning the shacks that points at us as habitats

Stripping Ubuntuism in the very face of black existence

Saying when the people   ask of this nakedness,

Tell them you were naked too

 

They met up with poverty and diarhea

Trying to pick up the serenity their fathers never botherd to honour

Because Aids and Ebola looked a picture too familiar to be discarded from the African narration

The sun rose but forgot to shine

Blood was served as altar wine in called civil wars

The nationalists taught them the patriorism that lives

Underlining where the patriotism meets up with the corruption that calls

When a new sun rose in their fathers’ days

The were told to remember corruption and forget about patriotism

Thus to them a new word was spelt, nepotism

Nepotism told them thus;

A brother from just across the border

Should go back to Zimbabwe and sing Nora to the memories of a missing plate for supper

They burned the Somalis, they tortured the children of Maidiguri

They removed the essence from the rainbow nation

Nepotism spelled to them as a gateway and not a limitation to their capitalism

Nobody was allowed to ask where that path will take Africa

The only question they rose to answer being When is the baptism of their children

In their eyes, every child of a nationalist need be born again

To see the god that comes with political power

Just live the sweet never mind who gets the sour

Saying heaven is a preservation of the few whose names are written from the diaries of their fathers in politics

Forget about hell before you die

Africa is a haven for those who know how to trade the gold and pay the tithe to their bank accounts

Before taking the dust to Rose the sweet teen

Her right hand takes the dust, while her naked  body takes the AIDS

The day she got the virus, she pleaded with the corrupt minister

To please take my love for a thank you

Giving me a bursary does not go unnoticed

I look at her, i look the circumstances

The black hatred i saw lives not on her skin alone

The reason i am rising this writing pen to question our say towards the same

The painted picture pointing at something coming to our black existence as caption