Sabrina Mbulawa


It wasn’t until I met you that I discovered that softness could exist so beautifully in human form

You made me comfortable enough to forget that I was tainted

You opened my gates and walked your way through the reservoirs of my pain; war ready with a box and a knife

Carving my hurt away and placing it where it couldn’t bruise me anymore.

Even though i never asked.

Even though you didn’t have to.

You reminded me of love

A different kind that I wasn’t used to but was anxious to wrap myself around

You made me feel…safe.

I found solace in your arms and belonging while drawing the stars on your chest as you lay asleep.

With time, I remembered that relying on someone to keep your light alive, gives them just enough power to kill it ;and

through my brokenness, I became terrified that you might have been the piece to complete me.

In the end, I chose to welcome the best parts of your affection with the thorns I grew trying to protect the purity I prayed I hadn’t lost yet.

I’m grasping onto the hope that one day I might be able to explain to you how I’ve come to find both love and fear in you



Name:Sabrina Mbulawa

Medium: Poetry

Location: Botswana

About the Artist:

 “Words have always been my favourite form of expression. I’m infinitely inspired by sensuality, nature and the idea of complete self-love.”


Contact :

IG: @lovesabrinaneo

Nyasha Elose


Her insides are made of flower petals, they bloom when she’s happiest.

Her laughter sounds like the yellow of a sunflower, bright and loud – attention grabbing.

Her countenance is as delicate as the petals inside her, tender and smooth.

She intrigues passers-by with her unique patterns and her multiple colour changes but others she intimidates. They don’t know what her pink to red, her red to blue, her blue to pink means, so they stay away and they isolate her. That strange, flower girl.

And others just can’t be bothered to understand.

‘Why is she like that? Who is she?’

Well, she simply is. She bends to the will of the wind and grows when the sun shines down on her.

When the rains come she absorbs each drop, bowing to the force each one brings and her petals become a deep, solemn blue. She cries with the rain, she endures, and when the sun eventually reappears she realizes the reason for the rain. She realizes the sun would be nothing without the rain and that she too, would be nothing without it.

She wants to bloom where everyone will see her, where the world will see her beauty. She wants the world to be a better place because of it. She wants to feel like all the other flowers, the ones the world understands; a red rose, a carnation, a daisy – the flowers all the poets write about.

Still she continues to grow,

She continues to be,

She continues to try.

And one day, on one perfect summer day, with a slight breeze tickling her petals and the sun smiling down at her, caressing her face, she’ll understand her place in this world. She’ll understand her beauty even if everyone else doesn’t.


Name: Nyasha Elose

Location: Harare, Zimbabwe

Medium: Literature

About the writer:

” I write to make sense of the noise in my mind made of fantasies and whirlwinds. I write because words flow out of me to form moving pictures; vivid and bright and powerful. Writing exposes the inner me for the world to see. “

Sakhile Donga




‘Two sides to a coin’

Take her for instance. Configured to love you, soothe you. Disown you?
Her emotions are aligned to quiver whenever you not with her
‘Come home my love’ she whispers.
She trips on a rope called love at the cost of her gift from up above, her child.
That same child penetrated by the mothers lover.
He had her under his covers
Let’s call him panda!
Not the one with broads in Atlanta But;
The broad propaganda.
Who is gonna save that poor girl?
Silently screaming she tucks herself in the wounds of her heart.
Hurt is her pillow
Shame is her blanket
She can’t uncover her bruises on her inner thighs, the finger marks both sides of her hips
Even to the most high.
She just sits there and cries!
As the clock tick tocks
She tip toes around her fears.
With time she will heal!
Not only does time heal.
Time seals the shame, the hurt, the secrets, the pain.
What if I told you the mother knew;
Would you hate her?
What if I told you that was once her too;
Would you save her?


Let me fall asleep to the sound of my heartache.
Brought it upon self,
You still the best mistake.

So here’s my letter to you
Ironically it’s something you will never go through.
If I could, I would

I would turn back the hands of time
I can’t! Even for a dime
I just hurts, undoing every single knitted moment I had with you.

Who am I to just come and uproot such a beautiful pair?
Except, that’s what you did
Not intentionally
No, unconditionally

You loved unconditionally
Made me feel alive, revived, deprived from free will
I had no choice but to love

To love love what wasn’t mine.



Name: Sakhile Donga

Medium:Poetry/ Literature

Current Location :South Africa

About the Artist: 

“Art to me is about the only thing left in this world that no one can take away from us. It’s there in sadness, in happiness, in shame, literally in every aspect of our lives. It is the most common language but yet many are still deaf towards it. Art to me is love. Love casts out all fear and the capability of being able to fully express yourself despite what some may think or say is the true essence of self love.

My poetry or spoken word pieces are my ways of expressing the inner man enclosed by the judgement of the one on the outside. My poetry is freedom!”



John Cornilious


Too many people nowadays look for people who’re already at certain places in their lives. She/he must have a car, a degree, a house, an outstanding reputation. She should have an hour-glass body shape. He should be able to cook. We want ‘finished products’, readily available ones at that. Often a time this leads to us giving up on people that could positively impact our lives and WE fail to fulfil our moral duty that is to show our people a walk which is for the better. Better for themselves.  

A few months ago, I was in a relationship with a person who busked in the sunshine of being a minimalist. From short phone calls of questionable interest to lack of plans of future endeavours. She has the smile that can turn a caterpillar into a butterfly, a soft hypnotic voice, and she is unapologetically honesty. She’s great. But the fact that she is not in touch with ambition failed to sit well with me. While she is entitled to being the way she is, it is a rather big deal for me.   

Upon reflecting on what I took away from that relationship, something I learnt about myself, I realised that I let a good thing go down the drain. I threw away a person, imperfect like all of us, who potentially could’ve been more than just my girlfriend. Instead, without any attempt to encourage her or to support her or to help her find something worth living for or to link her with people that would inspire her, I simply ended the three-month-old relationship with a half-baked “I’m not feeling your vibe anymore” excuse. I gave up too easily. A small part of me still thinks that I was selfish for thinking her personality should be tailored to fit what I want. On the other hand this change, in my opinion, was for the better. So I ended it for the fear of coming off as a control freak. A cowardly thing to do, I confess.

What I am trying to put across is that we don’t want to bear each other’s burdens (Galatians 6:2 KJV). We would rather skip over to the next person – we would rather not actively encourage her to go to the gym, push him and see him graduate, teach her to cook, stay by his side until he affords that car, that house, help her quit that unhealthy addiction. It’s easy for us to kick people out of our lives without a putting enough effort so that tomorrow they can appreciate your strength, genuineness and support.

Yes, be weary of becoming an unfortunate victim of your good intention. Be vigilant. Know when someone has been lost or ignorant to the point that is beyond your assistance. Don’t fall into the same place you want to pull your fellow out of BUT DO try. Be reasonably persistent. Because we all need someone. Sometimes all it takes is someone pointing us in the right direction or holding our hand when no one else will.

Let us build each other. Today this is who you are. You’re the builder. The helping hand. The teacher. The friend in the dark hours of exclusion.



Name: John Cornilious

Medium: Writing

Nationality: Zimbabwean

Location: Johor, Malaysia

About the Artist:

“You are who you are today because of what
you did or didn’t do, said or didn’t say yesterday. Reflection is what
is at the center of transforming my life and the pen and paper
(keyboard and screen rather) have become the tools I arm myself with
to keep record of who I want to be today, is
the field where the seeds of becoming a better person are planted.”



Tiwanna Taona Karidza


When it was new

It’s beauty was true

Like no other left you  breathless

Like a goddess, priceless

As the hour pass the glass

Beauty in your eyes faded

That, what  was new, faded



All the uniqueness, thoroughly explored

Nothing different! nothing different!

Simply because you can touch it

Now eyes search for newer satisfaction

Something….a different amazement

When found!

Stanza one can be reread again



By Tiwanna Taonesesa Karidza





Name:Tiwanna Taonesesa Karidza

Medium: Poetry/Literature

Background: Zimbabwe

Author Detail: A 20 year old poetess. Studying law at Monash university. A published
poet to the anthology “ Pain is a feeling”. Studying and based in South Africa.

About the Artist:

“To me art is a place that only the mind can explore. The only
place where the mind will grow ears, eyes and can be able to
feel. A collection of expressions that are deeper than mere
gestures. Art is a language. A pathway to places unseen.”

Contact:                       Instagram: @exotictiwanna      Facebook: @Tiwanna Taonesesa Karidza

Ruvimbo Munemo


By Ruvimbo Munemo



A story in which my body is a doomsday device.

In which my mind is a doomsday clock

Constructed from all my thoughts

Tick-tick-ticking towards my failing

Convincing me I’m all but surviving.


In which my hands are swords that pierce and impale

Ripping me open with every touch,

Seeking to uncage the trapped soul within.


In which the garden of every word I’ve ever said

Is pervaded by weeds and thorns that slit my ankles

Every love I’ve ever destroyed is a bur on my skin.


In which the air I breathe is nitrogen, oxygen and shards of murdered aspirations

That cut up my insides where my hands cannot reach and my mind cannot conquer.


In which the ground won’t swallow me 6 feet under

And the ceiling of my room caves in every night but never kills me.


In which every day I exist is doomsday.



Name: Ruvimbo Munemo

Medium: Poetry/Literature

Background: Zimbabwean

Location: Stellenbosch, South Africa

About the Artist:

“As cliché as this might sound, writing has always been a way of life for me. It has been a means of
survival… much like breathing. It is so much more than just words and cleverly constructed imagery.
It is the sign of life in my soul, exhaled onto paper. It is all the worlds in me being born. It is a
confirmation that I am more than this bag of flesh and bones.
My writing is an extension of my self-expression… a medium for me to exist in, outside of the one I
already dwell in. It gives me allowance to be more than just this mortal limited being… an elysian
demi-god maybe. I guess what I’m just trying to say is I cannot live without writing. I cannot live
without the idea that words can save me.”


Contact:    Instagram – rue.munemo      Twitter  – regal_ruin




Anesu Kanengoni

How to Tell Your Mother You Want to Die

You slowly rip open her heart

Cut out the mysteries her body still holds after it was done holding you buoyant in her universe

You make yourself a monster

A murderer

You steel yourself into the task at hand

You tell her, your child does not live in this vessel

You tell her he was evicted ages ago

You look at her in her eyes that threaten to unleash a tsunami

Your own eyes a deluge

You tell her it’s the kindest thing you’ve ever thought of yourself

Cut her with the scars left over from when you cut yourself

She questions herself and how she never knew

You convince her she raised an award winning liar

A master of deception

Because how could she know when all you did was duck and dive from her love heavier than the souls of the damned

She lets out a deep breath.

You’re not sure if she’s trying to push it all out of her lungs so she doesn’t have to sit there and melt with you

Or if she, like the goddess she is, is trying to breath life back into

Like how she did the first time you were a flicker of thought in the universe.

You deny her autonomy over this vessel she created

You tell her she has no right to want you to live

And then sit back as the fabric of creation unravels in front of your very eyes.

You tell your mother you want to die in the purest form

The only language she has taught you to speak with great fluency

You tell her by doing it

Then sign it in her blood that you may never forget her in that next plane

That she may know this was a sacrifice made for your peace

For your sovereignty over the geography of your own mind

That it was an exercise in reclaiming the cosmic energy that is you

Maybe then she will understand when you tell her you want to die.


By Anesu Kanengoni



Name:Anesu Tanatswa M. Kanengoni




About the artist:

“Art is sanity. To put it very simply and very precisely, in my experience art is sanity. It is how I grasp to life and love and joy when there is none to be had, it is my mind staying a buzz at all hours. Art is the closest thing to God-awareness I have ever and will ever come because as an artist, I am a creator in some way, and understanding what is takes to create, puts me in tune with whatever divine cosmic energy created the universe. Art is me  sharing from my experiences and soaking myself the experiences of the people around me to create something that is, hopefully, beautiful and inspiring and healing in some way.”

Contact:      Twitter : @Magical_Zimbo  

Instagram : @magical_zimbo

Diana Motsi

Ride to an African hell

Stair case by staircase

Sweat dripping off drop after drop

From the neck to the toes

Pushing away forward like a hyena feeding off a dead elephant.

Bones spread out across thin skin

Brushed brutally by yellow sun.

Has our flesh been led to extinction all left are dead bones raided by demonsthat feast off the stench of death?

Brutally feasting on what was fruitful and ever knowing

Taken back to mere pieces that give off the stench of conservative aura

Of old women who bore revenge,brew violence and made the world a war zone

Drag me to an african hell where there are pitiful cries of what could have been

Drag me there while singing hyms or playing drums loud enough to rescue my totem 

Nurse me with sound 

Hype me with devotion drank in a wooden cup

Harbor my cries ,grab my mourning and collect my tears

Help my tribe  make the most elegent of all rides to hell

Pushed in glamour,opposite to the life l lived 

I want to end my journey in the most devine kingly way.

Name:Diana Motsi



About the Artist:

My art is more than just expression.It fortifies my trinity.My heart spirit and soul.My art color and smile.It mounds my existence.It is more than my identity because it also paints my capacity.My strength and weakness.My art is freedom to be to think and to act.Either in sound in picture and fashion

My art is recognizing the art within other people and help them embrace it by capturing their expression in word and picture.Every moment is precious whether it has color or not hence my monochromic appeal to photography

My writing is expression of its bitter kind.It is unapologetic but soothed with a vulnerable touch as l seek to address the ills of societal confinement that is so strong it has infiltrated art which was originally a symbol of being different and free.Because art has been defined l seek to view my art as undefined ,accepted by me because it is mine in its bitter honesty.My art is in words and in people .

Hanan Hassan



Who’s Next

Black boy bound

to a silence of emotion

dry eyes tell lies

cause he’s drowning in an ocean

brothers shot down by cops

or sold by the box

he’s lost

“don’t show me that shit” he says

He can’t stop it, so why fill him with dread?

He’s helpless

We’re helpless

as we sit and we watch

“it’s 2017 and we’re still sold by the block”





The Rug Isn’t Big Enough

A poem about intergenerational trauma of Somali diaspora.



I love you

I really do

and you always told me that the people who love you

will tell you the truth

so I’m sorry

if this seems intrusive hooyo but

the rug isn’t big enough

I used to think you didn’t want me

want us

your words left me in a pile and I

couldn’t understand it I

didn’t know why you were hurting

if you were hurting

the flaming daggers

you spat from the back of your throat must’ve left a mark

but they came to you easier than

an I love you — hooyo

I can say this now because I’m older

and stronger

and bolder

your shoes are starting to fit me

and I walk a little taller but

I noticed something recently

that I

use them to kick things

the problems

the feelings

I use your shoes to kick them under my rug

and at first I didn’t see it

but now things are getting messy and

sometimes I can’t see the floor

I didn’t know you had a rug

until I saw you spilling

I know I should’ve knocked but

something told me to walk in

it seems you don’t like the feeling of too close

or the uncertainty of our presence

so you walk out

and most of the time it’s an “I’ll see you later”

but hooyo


the rug isn’t big enough to hide it all

its starting to fray at the corners

and your fears and memories take turns peeking

we could clean it up together

I don’t want to “just manage” anymore hooyo

I think its time we give up sweeping and take out the trash

because if we’re being honest

the rug isn’t big enough

Name:Hanan Hassan





About the Artist:

Art is honesty. Art can be raw or calculated. Loud or silent. Colorful or monochromatic. But art is honesty. From my experience, art is the product of internal conflict meeting the catalyst of creativity. We present that product after stripping down our walls and reaching the peak of vulnerability. I believe that when we create, we are drawing from our personal experiences (good or bad) that we have yet to fully process in order to come to a level of understanding. Art is understanding. Art is healing. Art can be unique. Art can be universal. But art is always honest.

The Root






Version 2





It’s 4am and I’ve killed my wife and my brother. Insane right? Oh well…

I now have to clean up my blood stained hands. So much blood. It’s hard to imagine we store such copious amounts of this sanguine liquid. I might as well use the sheets…the stained sheets. Ndavauraya. Kasi nhai ishe ko pandakatadza ndepapi inga ndakaedza nepese pandino kwanisa kuratidza Michelle that I loved her. Look at what she has made me do ko Andrew anozoitasei nhaii mwanawagu anochengetwa nani, shuwa Mwari inga makati munorangarira ani nani zvake ko inini mandirasasei nhaii. Shuwa Mwari munerusarura. Mwana Wangu nhaii Mwari inini ndiri nherera mwana Wangu oitawo nherera? Inga zvinonzi hamupe munhu nhamo kaviri ko apa mandipa chimwe Chironda wani. Well everything is stained right now, from our holy matrimonial bed to this blood bashed altar, my wife’s beautiful face to this bruised facial ornament and from my loving hands to these murdering tools- it’s all stained. Hanha yangu haisi kana kurova am just worried about Andrew but I feel like am forgetting to do something.
I’m hungry, I must eat something before the police come. Yes I’ve called them already. At the door I look over my wife and my brother, lying there as if asleep. Such peaceful slumber it seems. They deserve it. I wonder if they can see me. And if they can, I hope they see that I would do it again if I could. Ten times over. Ten. Ironic, the strokes I counted standing at the door, watching his lean self going in and out. Ten. Handisi mhondi inini But nhasi Michelle naBen vandirwadzisa, I had spent 5 years in Ethiopia ndichishanda kunge nhapwa only for them to do that to me. Manje ndazvipedza whatever they had going on.
“The fruits of love,” I recall the words of the fat brown bearded priest at our wedding. That was a beautiful wedding. Probably the best day of my life. And now it has come to an end I realize, staring at the “fruits” of it on my bedroom floor.
You can only give so much in this life, at times you just become depleted . I realize this now and as I look at these dead bodies I’m failing to understand where I got it all wrong. And if they are dead, why is that it is my throbbing heart that feels dead?
My mind is spinning. Right now I’m thinking of the classic Othello. Maybe I loved too well and not wisely. Except here lies the damning proof- that’s what makes us different.
I digress from the issue at hand; I must eat, Time is fast running out. What to eat now, it might be a long while until I can have a “decent” meal. As am walking to the kitchen I meet my son Andrew making his way to the bathroom, we make eye contact and am praying he does not see the guilt on my face. He comes up to me and says “Nhai Daddy what does God look like?”. Am now confused why would he ask such a question at this hour in the morning,I quickly answer“just like you Mwanangu” I respond awkwardly “just like you”, I repeat, this time more to myself. I’m now worried about the question but Still I don’t regret my actions-but what will happen to Andrew when am gone. In the refrigerator I find some pork sausages(absolutely love those), some egg salad and juice. I’ll just have that with a tin of baked beans and some bread. Perfect. My upper lip is bleeding. I taste the blood as I eat. I’m trying to focus but my mind has taken me prisoner. Where did I go wrong? How did I not see it? Why could I not see it? Was there ever a fool like me? My ego, my dear ego, whispers : there’s nothing new under the sun. True. But I’m a novice in an alien situation. I owe it to myself to process all this. Where to begin? Let’s start five years ago.


She snail walks in the aisle. We had been waiting for what seemed like forever. But she’s here now. Phew. She’s here and she’s so beautiful. God I’m lucky! My eyes are plummeting with tears. I’m beyond happy. I can’t wait to begin my life with this woman, this beautiful elegant woman. She reaches the altar, stops for what seems like a fraction of a second, looks at Ben, my brother, then down to Keith and Simba, then her husband to be;who is now seemingly fighting world war three with his tears. So this is it. We are doing this. I swallow hard, my palms are sweating and I’m burning in this tuxedo. I’m going to ruin the pictures with this overexcitement fused with panic of mine. Simba gives me a good squeeze on the shoulder, he sees it too- I’m panicking. Calm down Max!
The ceremony has started. The pastor who is officiating is giving his “love is good” speech or whatnot. I just want to do this, whisk away my beautiful bride, have her to myself. I mean we have been celibate for a few weeks now and I just can’t wait for the liberation that follows hereafter. He gets to the part every bride and groom dread-“if anyone here……or forever hold your peace”. My mouth has partially become the savanna. But why should I be worried. Behind my wife, I see Simba and Keith grinning like idiots and Ben whose furrow is set into three distorted lines. He

hates this part just as I do. He looks up to me and tries to smile. That moment is gone, she’s mine. Everyone here loves us.
We open the dance floor as culture would have it. And I finally get to talk to her. She’s happy. “Can you believe it’s finally done? Look at the deco…,” she goes on and on like any pre-bridezilla. I’m happy she’s happy..

8 June-it’s her birthday today. I have just called Jane to make sure that everything is in place. I have been planning to take her to Mhondoro Safari Lodge. She loves it there. I’ve also made breakfast for her. Holding securely the tray, I make my way to the bedroom and I find Ben and my wife holding hands. Maiguru and bamnini playing chiramu I suppose. And he’s probably woken up early to wish her well too, I concede fighting other thoughts. The two are my best friends and I love them profoundly. Ben I have always taken care of ever since we lost our parents to HIV and AIDS in the early 2000s. So really, it has just been him and I against the world; and fight it we have zveshuwa. I quickly move over to my wife’s side, hand her the tray and join Ben who has started singing the birthday song. We sound awful. She’s sleepy. Well, sleepy but also giddy. Truth is even akarara she exudes that recherché look. We have finished straining our voices to make meaningful sounds and she’s just picked a few of the sliced fruits on the tray. I help her out of the bed and blindfolded I take her outside for surprise number one. She’s complaining about being blindfolded. She had spent the whole of last year and half of this year talking and reeling about her dream car-KIA Sorento. So I pulled some strings for her. I remove the blindfold. The look on her face is priceless. She is beaming, her face has lit up and her upper lip is folded into a smile, I find it weird but it’s one of my favorite looks on her. Her folded upper lip is now trembling in repeated “OMG’s” and “Thank You’s” and at that, the pools in both her eyes give in. I want her to have to have the best of everything; just to prove the apple does fall far from the tree. Growing up, my father ill-treated my mother and I just promised myself I wouldn’t be like him. And looking at these joyful tears, it seems I am doing my best.

We spend the evening at Mhondoro Safari Lodge, Ben included. It’s been great, the food has been spectacular, as well as the company. We have just finished dessert and we are merely having idle talk. I receive a call. “It’s work,” I mouth and excuse myself. I return to the gazebo and Michelle and Ben are no longer there. Taking a walk I suppose. They probably hear footsteps and they emerge from behind the gazebo. Michelle quickly makes her way back to the table, eyes on the ground. Hanzi muroyi royera kure kuti vepedyo vagokureverera. I suppose I should have seen it then. The awkwardness that followed hereafter. But a fool in love sees no fault, no betrayal- that was me.

Reflecting on this now drives me off the edge. Ben!!!! Ben chaiye!!! I took him to private schools, which I had never had the privilege of attending, always provided for him and treated him as I ought to- my own. It’s never enough is it?
I make a futile wish. I wish I could give him back his life right now just so I could take it away again. Probably in a more brutal manner than before. As I wait for the police, I’ve come up with seven different ways I could have taken his life. Insane? Probably is. But let me paint the picture for you

To Be Continued………….



Whenever  l’m alone I hear my grandmother’s voice crying and saying to me Munombo tirangarira here pamunoenda kwamunoenda nevamunoenda navo, munorangarira here kuti tirikowo  kana kuti munofunga kuti tivete kunge imi munozviti munoifamba nyika yacho.Munoziva here hondo dzatinokurwirai zuva neZuva, kana kuti munofunga tivete kunge imi munozviti munoifamba nyika. Sometimes I want to answer her and explain how things have changed; how things don’t work the way they used to.  How I can’t tell my people that I hear her voice and if I do they’re quick to say “mweya yetsvina”

How!? I do not understand

I can’t explain to her that her image, her fight, her resilience has been tainted into something evil, something I cannot publicly hold on to

I can’t hold on to you ambuya, I want to scream, even though your ethos, your mantra runs within me.Another Voice says to me Nyarara and listen and just don’t forget that you are an African boy. I’m reminded that I have to make amends with my ancestors…and that i’m a body of people who are crying not to be forgotten…..Moyo Wangu unochema nemi Ambuya kasi chondokwanisa ndopasina mazwi angu hapana anomanzwa.

And you must think I’ve abandoned you. Lost in the sea of these people, you think I’ve forsaken you. I see it. In my dreams I see the way the tears are canvased on your face, the way they run wild from your eyelids; it screams betrayal. The silence of your tears is deafening.But how can I betray you when you’re in me and I in you? Handina kukanganwa kwandinobva handina kurasa nzira dzenyu Ambuya-Nzira dzedu. Ndinozviziva kuti ndiri Muzukuru waBiri naGanyire vakarova Zambezi neMhapa ikamira. Ndinozviziva kuti ndisutinoriga zvuru neZvuru. Ndinozviziva kuti ndisu varidzi vechiroro dziva. Ndinozviziva kuti mhepo iri pandiri ikuru kwandiri Ambuya kasi ndodini nhaii nyakutumbura?

I wish you could understand. In this world; the man who holds the print in black and white runs the world. Where’s yours?

In me? In us? They won’t buy it Ambuya.

The black and white print has become doctrines, facts, knowledge, and in this sea who I’m I to go against that current?

That’s the curse of having our doctrines, facts and knowledge in blue print…

Vabereki vedu vacho vachina chovotiudza mairirano nemararamiro maiita. Nzira dzenyu hapana achaziva, inga ndimi makati kuziva Mbuya huudzwa zvino tonangepi kana tisina otiratidza matsimba okufamba nawo…

Now you stand before me, once again loaded with accusatory statements :

“Why do you behave as if your face is an ornament? Your body a trophy, ready to be awarded to the highest bidder? All these self-absorbed acts. So self absorbed all you see is you. You’re losing yourself. And I only stand here pleading with you because you forget that you’re a mass of people, beliefs, mantras and ethos begging not to be forgotten. My patience is fast running out of the hourglass, don’t make me give it up. Don’t forget me, don’t forget us…”

And I want to respond, but you’ve vanished from me. Where’s your face? Don’t hide yourself from me. God knows I haven’t changed, I have just adapted.

Stop taunting me. What God you ask?This God. Our God! The one from the ascribed scriptures.

Ambuya don’t patronize me with those eyes. They pierce at my soul and You think I want to get lost in this but Hell what can I do, they have ascribed scriptures. What do you have?

“Scriptures are no worthier than what I bring to you-sacrifice. We don’t have to take it in from a book; we live it. Why do you need the writing on the wall to tell you to love one another? We didn’t need that. It was natural. You think the book guides you, I feel it gets you lost in a tangle, but you won’t see it from this angle.

Get up will you and see the world from here. I’m not here to discourage you, I’m saying LIVE it. We didn’t need the book. You say it’s the life. Probably is; but how ironic the more you get entangled in the fine lines of the book, the life, more lives are guillotined on a daily basis. WAKE UP and LIVE IT. Be IT.

We were love. We were not taught into it. Be it-lest you further get lost in this hole.

For my sake, Be it, lest my efforts “atrophy into dust…”.


Ambuya!!!!!! Fambai neni ndinoda kutevedza matsimba enyu ndinoda kutevera nzira dzevari mandiri. Izwi  ndarinzwa. Izwi revari mandiri vanochema kurangarirwa.

Mukombe ndichatora ndochera kubva muhari yemadzi Sahwira ndodira pasi. Munwe mupembere kuti mupwere arangarira Machembere ekwake!!

Gare Gare ndichauya



Name(s): Tinotenda Gatsi and Faith Mwarewangepo

Location: Harare Zimbabwe
Age: 21

About the Authors:

“This is Tinotenda Gatsi and Faith Mwarewangepo and together we are The Root. I write because
I’m a giver. What I see, experience, live and imagine, I must share. In our writings we seek to
share the lives of many, in their different forms and spectrums, the smiles of many, the love of
many reaching yonder, the dried up tears of others and the unvoiced fears of many. It’s a
gratifying way of giving; even in its most darkest shade and gloomy state, the pen and the paper
will deliver it in a beautiful reeling manner- why we write. We can but give through the pen. In the
writings we become what we in this life could not become: a Picasso with a pen, a Marylin
Monroe on stage and as the words dance off the pen to the canvas like a Michael Jackson doing
the moonwalk, we become what we could not be in this life. Pause. Let’s not forget the culture.
We do it for the culture. For so long, our stories and our fights have been oozing out of the
stranger’s mouth. Writing is a way of reclaiming our story, our fight, redefining the mirage and
coloring our world as it ought to be- filling in the blank slate. “Tabula rasa”, the blank slate, it all
comes down to filling in the blank slate with our wild imaginations and giving color to the grey
Lastly, if not US then WHO?”


Contact Details:    Instagram @just__perere__263    @fayyy_tepa