Stinking Breath of My Pen


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greasy propaganda apples for peasants
bourgeoisie for sweating corruption omelet
villagers for cassava and diet coke
streets for hip hop and toy guns
school uniform for phd studies and bible for my daughter
wreath for saint valentine
roses for saint paul
revolutions changed and revolutions unchanged
canister for fat breakfast
bullet for big supper
i am fasting the supper and breakfast
sun born with Vaseline on its forehead
moonrise with cancer on its breasts
tender skin of stars split by ghetto politics
kindas blowing condoms with lung wind
elders blowing balloons with broken hearts
another revolution
another liberation
another slice of politics
another rumble of hunger
another for the priest.
sweat drops, raindrops, tear drops
raindrops, teardrops, sweat drops
the breath of my pen stink



Wandering in Africa{Africa, Hungarian Poetry Project 2015}


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Wandering in Africa{Africa, Hungarian Poetry Project 2015}

– A multilingual collection of poetry from Africa to be published online in Hungary
The project organizers are calling for poets who write in Karanga , Swahili, Hausa , Lingala , Yoruba ,Zulu ,Sotho , Tonga , Tumbuka , Nyanja ,Ndebele ,etc to submit to this electronic poetry translation and publishing project.
Objective – promotion of literary /cultural integration and exchange
– Promoting African dialects on an international platform
– Sharing the value and the richness of African dialects
-To give space and a voice to African Poets who write in their mother languages.
Participation – Poets from Morocco to South Africa
Guidelines of the Project
1.5 poems written in mother languages and translated into English, French or Spanish.
2. You need to meet the deadline; the proposed deadline is 30th of October 2015
3. all submissions to be sent to all following emails, and
4. Please submit your work in time, include your best photo and your 3 line bio summary.
5. This project is not for profit, they are no payments required or to be paid to the participants, it is a platform for artistic, literary and cultural exchange.
NB, Do not hesitate to get more information from the African Entries Co-coordinator

Mbizo Chirasha – at and Dabi István,

African poetry issue of Voix dans les rues / Voces en la calle


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Dear Poet and Writer from Africa.

I hope this note finds you well. It is heartening that you are still writing poetry, reading and experimenting with word, word is power   and word is the voice of the people.

Dear Poet  , did you know that for words to  speak  more volumes  and to  become familiar in the wind of our ears and  the  in  sun of our eyes  , we should  spread further across nations for the love  of it . One day you will pick pieces from overseas    , those at home and other pieces in the neighbouring countries and make a good name out of those pieces.


I am inviting you to be part of a creative experience for the love of it ,i am  teaming up  with a German /British /international publisher  to  co-edit a trilingual anthology on African poetry .

You never know it might change your standing as a poet by giving you a wider readership, audience and the required exposure required in this our creative train.

Try it , i have since tried it!

Conditions of entry- Poets  are required to send 2poems  in both  English and his/her  mother tongue- which means  submitting  bilingual  [translated work ]and your work will also  get translated in Germany  or any other language   by the publisher.

.poets are required to send their 5 line bio summary and a good photo of themselves.

.poets are required to state their country of origin    to the publisher/ editor

.all African entries are sent as   word document   and via email.

. all African entries  should be sent to the following  emails  and all questions should be addressed to  the above  email.

. the deadline of this  entry  is the  31st of august  and no entry will be accepted after this deadline.

.please you are advised to   stick to the stipulated conditions.


Inserted by the African Co-editor of the Project/ African poetry issue of Voix dans les rues / Voces en la calle

Dawn- for the Day of the African Child.


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I wrote this poem in 2010 , celebrating Africa for hosting the world cup . I feel now i need to celebrate the Day of the African Child and my birthday month of June 2015 through this month , this is the same am awarded a certificate of poetry for a Unesco certified international organization Premio -Italy.

Dawn- for the Day of the African Child.
my Africa
, i see your tongue dripping the honey of sacred languages
tongues rolling in holy tones
the spirit of nerfetiti walking pyramids naked and free.
my Africa the breath of your life smell in Serengeti
while ngorongoro breathe fortune in your back
another night , another daylight
Kilimanjaro never slept last night , with breath of identity
bangamoyo smelling the scent of palms in the fluorescent of African Sunday
my Africa
the smoke of mosia tunya ,thundering
Zambezi vomiting fish
hippos dancing the light of the moonshine
‘crocodiles basking in glee of the sunshine
copper fields heaving with wealth untouched and unspoiled.
Namib desert pregnant dangling with diamonds
fish river canyon bleeding with hope ,not surrendering
skeleton coast ,
compressing the ribs of struggles won and history told.
Shafiishuna pushing the freedom cart up and down pan Africa
Valleys of rhythm
My africa
i see inyanga coughing the laughter of beauty mist
in the dawn of day
chimanimani giving birth to a newssun with joy
matopos welcoming the new ritual
after the storytelling of sleeping legends
mzilkhazi ,tshaka,nehanda and lobengula
times folded and unfolded
your memory written in the museum of revolution
after kinda love theater at vilanculos beach
i walk along bazaruto archipelago
my blood floating the warmth of cabora bassa
my Africa
in this journey to the destiny of soyo and luena
swazi kingdom,cleansing its feet in pongolo river
Princes and princesses dancing rain coming
another daylight
another moonshine
another rain season
another harvest
sunrise with the image of king moshoeshoe
in his trip in the mountain kingdom
walking down up his former kraal
africa rise again ,rise to your destiny
my Africa.
Mandela , the smile of Africa
the glee of the land
trudging through shakaland with his spears of freedom
after nights and days in robin island
spirit floating in soweto townships
soul breathing life in table mountains
kamuzu smoking imboza in the wind valleys
the mystery of mount mulanje
fish breeding generations in shire river.
my destiny
my Africa
, shine your forehead with Vaseline of freedom
caress your armpits with the lotion of wisdom
grease your thighs with soap of liberation
sing with me this song of civilization
enjoy the omelet of progression

Golgotha episode 911


ballot defecating shadows of hunger over
poverty creased napkins of my mind
slums farting anopheles into the gutters of my blood
long departed hunters urinated bullets into iron uterus of
war tired peasants
giving birth to atomic bombs
and suckling grenades
media wizards imbibing propaganda salami
and slogan pizza
hunger mandraxed rabbis licking fingers after chalk dust noon meals
i am a word dynamite fumigating corrupt economic bedbugs
sucking out the fertility of our sunshine
clouds of hungry bellies rumble with formulae
sunrise with virus graffiti scribbled on its forehead
moonrise with roaches corrupting its eczema eaten breasts
bread buttered with tustiville blood ,sanguages cheesed with
darfur wounds
gore dripping diamonds auctioned for flesh guzzling guns
brown teethed nights grazing green mealies before fingers
of dawn caress vendetta wounded minds
unrepentant Ngo bishops pimping vulnerables for fat cheque books,gong and bling
greenback lauretes double crossing peacecrats and warcrats in donor shebeens
economic whores dipping their sperm-ducts in diplomatic brothels
paparazzi gutters vomiting garbage of spray painted columns
slogan dogs parodying Hiroshima farce and bag dad comedy
greenhorns licking leftovers of propaganda braai packs after ballot arithmetic
undersized zealots fitting political g-strings in springs of delimitation
political morons mastering propaganda syllabus in their gimmick-
tired memories.
i am a poetic chlorine puritising political mental conveyor belts
from the crude oil of corruption
i am a metaphoric lotion peeling off eczema of the decade election hepatitis

Children of Xenophobia



Children eating bullets and firecrackers

Beggars of smile and laughter

Silent corpses sleeping away fertile dreams

Povo chanting new nude wretched slogans
Overstayed exiles eating beetroot and African potato
Abortions and condoms batteries charging the lives of nannies and maids
Children of barefoot afternoons and uncondomized nights
Sweat chiselling the rock of your endurance
The heart of Soweto, Harare, Darfur, Bamako still beating like drums
Violence fumigating peace from this earth.

Poetry Pubs, hubs and the State !


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Like Zimbabwe, most states in Africa are endowed with creative acumen and literary prowess. Zimbabwe, the country north of the Limpopo and south of the Zambezi, exudes both talent and natural endowment, while the country is faced with unending political paradoxes, social and economic ironies.
Arriving at the Road and Air Ports in the pockets of Harare, your face is smashed with horrific print headlines yawning of corrupt technocrats and political stalwarts under suspension and investigation. Your ears are choked with radios belting out chimurenga hit songs and the sanctions rhetoric.

The Television news bulletins belch out fat ministers signing cultural, educational and financial treaties in the Far East, accompanied by excess baggage – their delegations gobbling up what’s left of the corruption-roasted national purse.
Where are the pen pundits, where are the scribes, poets, writers and their swords? The myth of censorship puts writers and poets in despair, the fear of becoming victims of the state and its apparatus. Fear of the known and the unknown. In this country floating in political oil pans, poets and writers are not recognised, though their pens and voices can bring positive social and political change. Their platform is replaced by bootlickers and revolutionary hit singers. Bootlickers who do not criticise the ills of the state but celebrate everything, mostly propaganda gossip and cheap slogans.

For the past 13 years, writers’ organisations have been defunct. The Literary hubs crumbled down. Only the Book Café, that also happens to be the Poetry Hub where poets exhibit their talents, still remains. This Poetry Pub, the Book Café, hosts literary evenings and the popular House of Hunger Poetry Slam where young word revolutionaries, spoken-word poets, hip-hop cats, jargonists and performance poets battle it out, displaying their verbal dexterity, spitting out their patriotism to the state that rejected them. Some sing their revolutionary praise to the absent functionaries, some are aggressive verbal anarchists advocating for a change in the political class, the dead economy and rotting social and moral fabric – the Book Café has become the Forest of Arden in Shakespeare’s As you like it – a land of beauty, expression, naturalness and freedom, though with its own complexities.
The voices of poets in Zimbabwe, their voices of reason, are not heard because literary initiatives are not nationalised and not even greased with funding for continuity. They are just dangling in small pockets of cities and streets, they don’t reach those who matter the most, because those who matter most don’t give a damn about any literary existence, nor so its growth or promotion. Few of the state functionaries read books and poetry, to some extent newspapers. In Zimbabwe we don’t have publishing houses and the state has long stopped supporting the creative and book industry.
Writers and Poets who still follow the dream are real literary revolutionaries who do not care about sleeping on groaning stomachs – hunger, wretchedness and desperation. These are strong individuals who require a lot of respect and grand support because they have maintained the creative terrain and literary landscape in a state burning with political expediency, shrinking in corruption and roasting in mass poverty, rotting of propaganda and looting.

Dimples of Freedom


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Dimples of mighty river donga, river
Sokoto flowing honey of liberation, dripping sweetness of decades
Of freedom harvest
Taraba and ekuku flowing with seasons coming after one another
Winters in tears and summers in blood

Dimples of freedom sing freedom
Freedom of the people, people and their song
The resonance of rhythm, rhythm of drumbeat throbbing
Tsaunin mainono, veins of tsaunin Kure, throbbing   the heart of tsaunin ukuru
Rhythm throbbing under the feet of mothers and children pounding this earth sodden in oil and hope.

Dimples of freedom
You age with generations like baobab
The essence of villages and the resonance of tribes
Tribes singing embracing the dimples of silver moon
Singing one tune, in one tongue, sing boki mothers, rise mbumbe sisters
Sing bachere songs, dance the gavako dance

Dimples of freedom
you age with generations like banana trees
Kings of this land, i sing of you
My song of   bones, shadows, stones, mist and smoke

Dimples of freedom
i sing of kings whose skin glow after the caress of coco butter
Their breath smelling the milk of coconut
I sing with modibo of gombe,obong of obioko,olu of warri
I sing of you baban lamido,oba of lagos
Dimples of freedom smile with olo of the olowo

Dimples of freedom
Smelling decades of light and stink
Enduring decades of nights and hope
Sleeping in decades of nightmares and dreams
Rivers gobe,ekulu and aba , rise for freedom
Your stomachs vomiting the sun of liberation, liberation
That crocodiles and reptiles be pregnant with the sun of liberation and
The moon of freedom

Dimples of freedom
On top of tsaunin kuki ,tasunin shamaimba , doves and owls hooting
And cooing the dark of nights and newness of mornings
Dimples of freedom smile to the mountains of this land

This is my poetic grapefruit to the land that breakfasted
Omelette of bitterness and beetroot of sweetness

Featured imageDimples of freedom
This is my succulent watermelon of metaphors to the land whose is heart is
Velvet and whose soul is  a grain of wheat
Dimples of freedom, sing with me, the song of freedom,
Sing bello , sing azikiwe ,sing awolowo,sing shehu
Song of the people, people and their song.



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………………dream of our freedom
See Africa bleeding, burning, ———-
Freedom of states heaving under the rhythm of rubble, slander and blunder
Revolutions dripping poetry and pop of poor masses,
Lunatics trading the countries with bread
Boozing the dew of freedom and the golden blood of mothers
Sankara cocks crowing the dawns choked with evil generations, picking corroded histories
Peasants planting burden, others strapping deformed dreams in their backs

Identity Apples


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I am a fat skeleton, resurrecting
from the sad memories of dada
and dark mysteries of aminism
I am buganda
I bleed hope
I drip the honey of fortune
Makerere, think tank of Africa
I dance with you wakimbizi dance
I am tanganyika
I smell and fester with the smoke of African genesis
I am the beginning
Kilimanjaro the anthill of rituals
I am the smile of Africa
my glee erase the deception of sadness
my tooth bling freedom
I am myself, I am Gambia
when others seep with bullets stuck in their stomachs
I sneeze copper spoons from my mouth every dawn
I am the the Colombia of Africa
I am the Cinderella of Africa
where mediums feast with the ghost of kamuzu in mulange trees
here spirits walk naked and free
I am the land of sensations
I am the land of reactions
coughing forex blues
I still smell the scent of Nehanda’s breath
I am African renaissance blooming
I stink the soot of chimurenga
I am the mute laughter of Njelele hills
I am Soweto
swallowed by kwaito and gong
I am a decade of wrong and gong
I am blister of freedom vomited from the belly of apartheid
I see the dawn of the coming sun in Madiba’s eyebrows
I am Abuja
blast furnace of corruption
Nigeria, the Jerusalem of noblemen, priests, professors and prophets
I am guinea I bling with African floridarization
I am blessed with many tongues
my thighs washed by River Nile
I am the mystery of pyramids
I am the graffiti of Nefertiti
I am the rich breast of nzinga
I am Switzerland of Africa
the rhythm of Kalahari sunset
the rhyme of Sahara, yapping, yelping
I am Damara, I am Herero, I am Nama,
I am Lozi, I am Vambo
I am bitterness, I am sweetness
I am Liberia
I am King Kongo
Mobutu roasted my diamonds into the stink of deep brown blisters
frying daughters in corruption microwaves
souls swallowed by the beat of Ndombolo and the wind of rhumba
I am the Paris of Africa
I see my wounds
I am rhythm of beauty
I am Congo
I am Bantu
I am Jola
I am Mandinga
I sing of you
I sing thixo
I sing of Ogun
I sing of God
I sing of Tshaka
I sing of Jesus
I sing of children
of Garangaja and Banyamulenge
whose sun is dozing in the mist of poverty
I am the ghost of Mombasa
I am the virginity of Nyanza
I am scarlet face of Mandinga
I am cherry lips of Buganda
come Sankara, come Wagadugu
I am Msiri of garangadze kingdom
my heart beat under rhythm of words and dance
I am the dead in the trees blowing with wind,
I can not be deleted by civilization.
I am not kaffir, I am not Khoisan
I am the sun breaking from the villages of the east with great inspiration of revolutions
its fingers caressing the bloom of hibiscus