Mbizo Chirasha (Zimbabwe)
The Editor. African Contributor Poet /Essayist at Monk Arts and Soul
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Zimbabwe) and more.
RONDAVELS OF POVERTY : dedicated to my rural villagers
See, Ideological tutors discarding their dignity in crank jugs
Comrades dying between rude stitches of hypocrisy and conspiracy
Father’s phalluses chopped by cyber- punk slang,
Mother’s cotton tuft -hair wisdom castrated by hard pliers of poverty
Liberation euphoria fading with the whirlwinds of corruption -seized cartels
Poverty THRASHED mothers, scratching lives out of the barren red clay earth
Daughters groaning under the grind of forced intercourse,
Their sorrow soaked lives trembling against nights of death
Owls singing satirical verses of doom,
Hyenas reading page- poetry of gloom
Spoken word verses throbbing alongside the frail beat of bald –shaved red hills,
Burning under the depressing charcoal of hot summers
Red glow of fire shimmered over the roasting earth like an expiring day
Shame -creased faces told rending story of hunger
Rivers are motionless skeletons of dry sand,
Droughts folded their legs onto the doorsteps of our land
Silence, graveyard silence, silence of decaying mass, a dying mass
Rondavels drenched by rituals of grief
My land is a sorry tale of sufferance,
Its manhood deposited into hot pants of PENNURY
Heartbeat of this land throb like the crack of a broken drumbeat,
Crushed between hunger and disease
Mothers enduring under the weather like determined cassava roots.
A country once a revolutionary granite,
Now, exfoliated by political scars and moral sores
Super -human autocrats spitting out rotten gospels of freedom,
Their combat clad, steely booted green horns, toyi-toying
Their high- kicking liberation dance, jabbing the ideologically spoilt wind
Napoleonic kings of the land , sloshed by hypocritical revolutionary hymns
Indoctrinated by the pseudo- socialist political lingos,
Nights of death pounced like stray baboons over village- rondavels,
My mind suffers from nostalgia,
A disease, an ailment
A disease of memory
Memories of yesteryear
Memories of red dagga and pole huts farting beautiful smoke,
Aroma of fresh cow dung, dampness of fog under our cracked feet
Jiving and chattering of mother monkeys and cackling of wild hens
Domesticated dogs howling to shadows dancing under guise of moonlight
Owls singing their baritone announcing the black veil of the sleeping earth
Doves hooting their morning poetry slam, celebrating the rays of a renewed day.
Rhythm of black villages
BLACK ORANGES: for Africa and her people
Xenophobia my son
I hear a murmur in the streets
A babble of adjoining markets
Your conscience itching with guiltiness like
Your wide eyes are cups where tears never fall
When they fall the storm wash down bullet drains and garbage cities
Come nomzano with your whisper to drown,
Blood scent stinking the rainbow altar.
Darfur, petals of blood spreading,
Perfume of death choking slum nostrils
Slums laden with acrid smell of mud and
Debris smelling like fresh dungs heaps
Fear scrawling like lizards on Darfur skin
Kibera. I see you scratching your mind like ragged linen
Smelling the breath of slums and diesel fumes
The smoke puffing out through ghetto ruins is the fire dousing the emblem of the state
Belly of Zambezi ache with crocodile and fish
Villages piled like heaps of potatoes against the flankof eastern hills
Farmlands dripping golden dripping dew
Sunshine choking with vulgar mornings
Dawns yawning with vendetta filled redemption songs
Drums of freedom sounding fainter and fainter, blowing away in the wind
When streets rub their sleep out of their eyes
Villagers scratch painful living from the
Infertile patches of sand on this earth whose lungs heave with copper and veins bleeding gold
Ghetto buttocks sit over poverty. Kalingalinga
Corruption eating breakfast with ministers. Kabulonga,with shrill cries of children breaking against city walls
Shire river tonight your voice rustled dry, like the scratching of old silk
Politicians grow everywhere like weeds
Land of Ngwazi. Yesterday crocodiles breakfasted on flesh
Owls and birds sang with designated protocol
Ngwazi your cough drowned laughters and prayers
Your breath silenced rivers and jungles
Mozambique, belief and gift of my poetry
Sweat wine poured to absent, long forgotten gods and goddesses
Soft kiss spent on golden virgins before they aged into toothless grannies
The rhythm of samora
Heartbeat of chimurenga
Drumbeat of Chissano
Today your once bright mornings blight in corruption.
A social anorexia
Abuja guns eat you more than disease
I loved you before you absorbed poverty as sponge soaking out water. Before rats chewed your roof
Before you conceived men with borrowed names and totems
Ghost of Abacha guzzling drums of blood and gallons of oil
Wiwa chasing shadows of babangida past delta of treasures
Buganda cruelty is a natural weapon of a dictator
Poor lives buried under rubbles of autocracy
Pregnant mothers with eyes gouged out by bullets, pushing their guts
back into their bellies
Luanda you are a roar of old trucks
A whine of motor cycles. A rumble of dead engines
America frying its fingers in oil pans of your kitchen
Where Europe fry, America roast
Angola. When you cough, America catches a fever
Angola! Quench my parched lungs with a spoon of oil
I see the naked thighs of your desert hills
Barotseland of Setswana
A servant positioned with trust
American green bloomed your desert shrubs
Your loyalty is sold to she who offers the next meal. Barotseland of seretse
Your lips burnt brown with exposure of rough diet
You are muffled voice, cursed and drowned into deep silence
The smell of aged incense and stale coffee
A tune piped by the shepherd on mountainside, only to be half heard by and quickly forgotten by villagers
The anthill of black seed
Coast blessed with gold
Once a young girl full of sap and strength
Once perfumed with richness and sacredness
You shared your salt and sweat from freedom
Today you a like a woman who sleep with a pillow between her legs anticipating a miracle of man
Coast of ivory
I see faces tight as skin of drum in moonlight
Ivory Coast. Once the smoke and smell of human excitement
Tonight bullets burrow into your belly like rats into sacks of Thai rice
You are the broken pot we patch to put on shelf again.
DISGRACELAND: African Lady Macbeth, 1996-2017
When the sunrays spark through the rim of hills flanked
By our poverty smashed rondavels
Rise together with the defiant and giant steps of sun
And toyi-toyi to Nyazvidzi streams to vomit your disease,
To vomit your dread
And hatred-laced heart into the ever –laughing river
That your dread can peacefully washed away by the beautiful rhythm abound.
I see you carelessly smashing kindergartens with your corruption-tired,
I see your anger-ridden slogan descending over the cascading,
Smoky presidium rondavel leaving others to lick burnt scars.
I see you wielding your slogan like a hammer chiseling mercilessly the flesh of the state.
your mouth is a bitter pot where honey will not drip, your words stink war like in Bagdad.
your loose virulent, verbal saliva laced with acid burnt the hopes of the villagers.
We lost our country between your foul cracked lips
And our freedom promise in the dirty alleys of your seething ambition.
Your broken dance is a magnet to paparazzi
And your vitriolic verbiage is fodder to Pen -wielders.
Sit calmly down next to the splashing streams,
Vomit your dread and your hatred.
Children and daughters await a new song from you from your heart
We are tired of aged baboons laughing at your rants,
We have become motherless
Your careless vengeful slogans plunges the country into utter dimness
When the sunrays spark through the rim of hills flanked
By our poverty smashed village rondavels .
Rise with the defiant rays and giant steps of sun
and toyi-toyi to Nyazvidzi streams to vomit your disease,
Vomit your dread and hatred-laced heart into the ever –smiling silver –water stream
That your dread is cleansed and the November baptism is announced.
AZANIA: for an African country loved by God
Azania! I have a song for you
A song of bees feasting the rainbow nectar on the tattered petals of the revolution
Egoli! I have a love song for you
Song of Nomvula, the princes of the rain
Madikizela! I have a love song for you
Song of the abandoned poem.
I have a love song for born frees eating beetroot in Thembisa
Povo smoking ganja in Thokoza
I have a love letter for tweeting imbeciles, whose bellies are burning with emptiness
Zambezi! I have a love song for you
Song of fat cats milking cash cows of the state until udders bleed
I have a love song for you, Azania
Song of your bottoms frying in ovens Xenophobia
Political turncoats watering Marikana fields with blood
Orange River flowing red
Cicadas singing protest songs
Eating funeral sandwiches with apes in Kgalagadi.
Finding no sleep in burning trees
Azania, this jungle burnt off the coal of our dreams.
Azania, smell and memory of Mandela
Mzansi, long walk of sobukwe
Land of metaphor and ambition
Choking in toxics of xenophobia
Babies lulled to sleep by rants of fake revolution and alliteration of the rainbow nation
Metaphors of madness!
See Hani and slovo-your freedom suns watching sarafina from terraces of life
A Scarred revolution!
In this land that lost its gold and salt.
Azania, you are the rainbow laughing the last giggle
Xenophobia burning rainbow flags to ashes
Xenophobia! Black ants burrowing back into their umbilical soil
Madiba weeping, singing for another summer, another rainbow
Madiba went away with rainbow, clutching the clay that bind the rainbow threads together!
Azania, Mandela was the clay of the revolution and the glow in the sun
Azania, foxes and their puppies are eating from the pot of gold- Egoli.
Hyenas sniffing the sweetness of this earth now blistered by revolutionary ailments
See the heartbeat of Soweto carrying the soil of madiba forever!
Poverty saluting the sun, cockroaches drinking the milk of freedom.
Azania! You reaped freedom not the fruits of freedom, the red sun and the bruised rainbow
Rainbow is sleeping in stone, Mandela!
Rainbow weeping Marikina after swallowing rain and grain.
Marikana!Afro phobia eating the beloved. Beloved shelling, pounding brothers like monkey nuts in mortars of apartheid.
Born frees cracking their shoulders to catch that thin glimpses of freedom.
DREAMS OF MY ANCESTOR (Nostalgia): A dedication to my mother
Our village rondavels sat on the peripheral fringes of Dayataya,
Dayataya, the elephantine mountain of home.
It cracks a fervent babyish glee every dawn.
I enjoy the beauty of mist that lingers onto its forehead every night fall.
Birds sing incessantly as if answering back to the echoes of ever- yelping baboons.
Monkeys face –booking onto tree –branches, enjoying the glee of the beautiful sun
Rock rabbits jiving diligently to the discord of laughing hyenas
And wild hens cackling in their gossiping tenor
In synch to the soprano of ever-gushing streams.
Mothers armed with peasantry zeal
And stereotypical loyalty to their matrimonial daily rituals
Thrashing and grinding millet in wood mortars
The aftermath is the brewing of a delicacy,
A beloved village beverage,
traditional millet beer( Ndari) or (mhamba).
Scumbags drank the brew to the dregs,
Their stupor oiled hymns succulent with rhythm
And turgid with reason.
I lived along with the rhythm of my village
Chirruping of small birds over soot- clad rondavels,
Alto of doves as they triumphantly imitate angels of light towards dawn
The trotting footsteps of the sun as gigantic rays walk over the creased mats of horizons
In their triumphant march to the promise of the day.
I cherished those mountains, when dressed in grey gowns of mist at night
And awed by pastures donning the heavy green military combat after blessings of rain
Baritone concocted sounds of barking baboons
Above the fontanel of red hills of home,
Beat of rain and the echo of thunderclaps,
Stitch of lightning bolts onto the gyrating earth,
Stitching together valleys and mountains on the pleats of heavens
I loved the smell of fresh cow under milk concocted with fresh steaming cow dung,
Scent of fresh mud after a thorough whipping of the earth by incessant downpours
Dayataya worn a light-yellow tinge on its head at dawn.
Toward sunset it cracked a harmless red ox-blood smile.
Dayataya, the elephantine mountain of home.
Its cousin, Zvegona, remained sacred and steadfast,
Enduring heavy thrashing seasons of droughts and winters.
It never surrenders to ravaging hurricanes and tumultuous cyclones.
Zvegona strutted in grey gowns during winter mornings.
it switched to black robes to match with its distant cousin,
Dayataya lulled us to sleep and guided us from bad omens.
And at that time COVID19
And his ancestor, Influenza were never here
The earth was once a virgin and holy as a country damsel.
When, Zvamapere hills danced in blue bridal veils towards sunset
Gwenyuchi strutted in grey suit of the clearing mist
Gwenyuchi passes the holy mist to beloved Zvegona
We all giggled with joy at nature’s lovely escapades.
And when hunger folded its legs on our doorsteps
As our stomachs run battles with pangs of hunger,
Mama Goddess of all times
You persisted and won battles against hunger.
When poverty erected its manhood into our homestead,
You fumbled metaphors to gods and you chanted resistance.
Then poverty, the coward scampered to other villages,
I am child of war,
Of rain and road
A child of freedom songs.
I smelt the rhythm of Chimurenga
And the wave of gun smoke.
As I dangled on your struggle – hardened back,
I carved poetry from your sweet lullabies
And grieving hymns,
I became a griot before I teethed.
, I am a griot of the land.
I speak to Kings and Queens,,
I sing verses for mediums and revolutionaries.
You remain my goddess of all times.
On the day of my birthing
The moon was torn into two halves,
A storm ensued,
Thunder clapped the red earth ,
Lightning bolts cracked in synchrony with gun claps.
The rat tat of pelting raindrops witnessed your labor pains on God’s night.
I was born.
Freedom songs re- vibrated our grenade scorched earth
peasants of red hills danced fervently to my revolutionary birthing
My tender soul smiled at the paradox.
Father named me , Gandanga reChimurenga
Father had imbibed the socialist revolutionary propaganda whisky,
That castrated his psyche to worship ideological black cockerels
Father munched the Nkurumaist-Castroist-Mugabeist freedom biscuits
Nevertheless, today black cockerels drink the revolutionary eggs
Their tyrant imbeciles imbibed the liberation milk ,
We remained holding to title-deeds of poverty dressed in torn rags of the struggle
And later after the song and dance,
You returned to scratch for dear life on the rocky fringes of Dayataya
The elephantine mountain of home
Dayataya , the distant of cousin of Zvegona hills
And ancestor of Mbirashava , the redhills of home
Still, you remained the goddess of all times.
Time passed and the gods and ancestors freed me from the bondage of Satan.
I grew perfectly then like a sweet potato enjoying the caress of red earth.
Years stewed into decades and decades fried themselves into more decades.
In the wake of a pregnant anopheles [a type of mosquito]
Humming its blood-sucking hymn,
and after bedbugs launched a terrorist bombing against my skin,
I got dizzy and convulsed.
I swatted the mosquitos with my big thumb
and the bedbugs scattered in no time.
I dreamt of you Mother, wearing a sparkling silver wedding dress,
walking side by side by the great king of all times,
my departed father. I carried a lit white candle
and you had a bunch of white roses.
A wedding song boomed feverishly
from a big stereo.
I can’t remember the singer, but I remember the beautiful poetic song,
He unyana wam
Helele uyashada namhlanje
Time fried years into decades
I learnt the language of hustle and bustle in the city of no sleep.
I stumbled upon hermits vomiting the snort of illicit beer
Harlots in their mad-run chasing potbellied sex imbeciles in darkest of nights,
Fake prophets double –dipping and molesting their miracle hungry clue-less congregants.
Cheap propaganda songs cascading from hovels of congested suburbs
Here voters breakfast on stale bread and cheap crank.
Cousin Sisters and sisters pimping their dignity for political doeks
Streets wincing from slogan chants, teargas, gun claps and gutter-slang
The revolution is roasting its own daughters for supper.
The devil birthed a cruel goblin of a son called Corona Virus.
Every door of every home is locked.
Every gate of every country is locked.
Goddess , I was not there to cast the last lump of shovel dust ,
to say goodbye spirit Queen
I failed to weep not because I am a coward.
Today as I write this eulogy and my heart- caves bleed with grief
I remain chanting resilience as every morning I see you floating in the mist of dawn
And later wrapped in the cloaked night of harmony