Nicole Garwe

Week 11


I fell in love with the dips

in her hips

The contour

From where rains pour

When it’s warm

And she cries out til dawn

Insatiable woman

With a mouth so full and certain

And skin so black

And soft like satin.

I fell in love with a smile

A small thing

And a wink to beguile

And coerce

Men too kneel and depress

Bestown Historical powers

I fell in love with an opposite

Contradictory and cherry sweet

Cold as she is heat

A classic record on repeat.

I fell in love with a woman

The woman

She is me.



Week 10


Lover, Do you remember?


I see myself  lying on a bed in rainy December.

You trace my skin with your finger

Long, Calloused,

An easy thing to pull my trigger.


I am a wave confined to a bath tub

Incessant desire for escape,

An itch I cannot rub.

A sweetness I am dying to taste.


My water spills out the edges

And I guess it makes sense

Because you never did learn to colour inside the edges either.

Lips red and plump

From the friction of your mouth.

Your teeth graze the peak of my mountains

I picture heaven with all it’s angels and fountains.




Lover, do you remember?

you always knew how to get us there together.








Name:Nicole Garwe




About the artist:

I don’t want to make anything I write too complicated or filled with ambiguities. I want the message to come right out and grab you.

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.

Cristol Mubaiwa


Black Blues
 Dear black girl what it u knew that your hair is good enough that it curls black rings of gold in the air
“that your nose is never to big and that u even kylie jenner went for surgery to have lips like yours
“that they envy your tough skin that’s why they botox/
“they they can’t rock an afro but u can rock it all/
Why do you allow the immersion of your beauty and
Uniqueness to drown in waters that bruise instead of bathing your beauty
Buried in insecurities, feeding on the media’s definition of beauty making
You hide your ebonic rubies therefore creating magma on your core/
If only i was a shade above this one i would be better ,and maybe id be boss if
My hips and ass were fatter  and if my hair was longer and straighter ,maybe id Fit in if my lips were smaller and pink in this white set up/
 made to believe with our natural tough skin that bruises our within
Walking in the dust roads of your mind leaving barefooted tears engraved so deep they leave tattoos on your chicks because we came a long way/
Innit we came from apes so they expect us to still warm when life is a cold day/
The shelters of the black girl spirit is the black skin/
And even our own man now prefer the color of the next kin/
Because if you are not lightskin then you are not good enough /
And now u wear these contacts tho your eyes are black they are not blue black so not blue enough/
Black girl had it rough/
No black color on the rainbow either is there white enough is enough/
And this music this music you dance to insults you /
A bitch is an animal and a hoe is a farm tool yes tools that’s all we are to you/
They say bend n shake there’s nothing new to this/
The shiny moon is ordinary but everyone ignites to a black eclipse/
So when you speak well they are disturbed by your confidence/
Thick skulls ,thick hips , thick hair
Yes its evident


Un-love you
I need to un-love you
You make me feel the universe within my chest but my rib cage can’t withstand your hold.
You make me lose my words, you have me searching for my own tongue in my mouth.
I need to unlove you
You are a living image of all I ever wanted but all I will never have
You make me want to write love poems and that has never been my strong ink
See sometimes I forget you are not mine so I hold you in the palms of my memories and draw your heavenly essence all over my thought process
So when they ask me how I am doing, I yell I am gorgeous but really that will be the pieces of art you left in my heart talking.
You are this drug and I am a willing rehab patient
I have overdose written all over my face every time I see you
So you see why I need to unlove you?
I believe in you
Seeing that your eyes speak in doctrines that preach to my spirit
Your lips look like they could suck the oxygen out of my already failing lungs , seeing that you take my breath away
how cliché
But these lips have the ability to decapitate me after murdering me for seconds
So I need to unlove you because I fear you are not ready to be cared for like I would care for you
Not ready to be loved like I would love you
Not ready for all these flaming emotions I have towards you
Not ready to be taken for the germ that you purely are
I need to unlove you because you don’t understand my type of love!


No Space allowed

Closer than my shadow and rivet these artistic hands together…
probably that way the temperature of our bodies could magnify
and faithfully teleport this duo to art galleries and celestial galaxies…
Tattooing this whole being with metaphors and similes…
Leaving the ink to sink engraving melodies…
So these melodies will burn calories…
as our shadows make babies…

Shhhhh let’s pause

Do you feel that?

Feel my hands leave do-re-miz behind your knees…
Lips with tricks forever up my sleeves. .
Tongue like fabric,with talent to make you clean. .
We have acted for so long to cut this scene…
Within you
My fingerprints paint your masterpiece of a body
Your planet of curves
Every touch staining rainbows and every kiss beholds stars
Stars that make you shoot despicably until you wish we were not unified in one plea .
So I watch dry places transforming to seas.
Tap dancing to these sacred sounds
We are bound

Close, closer than my heartbeat
Closer than my breath
Closer than my thoughts
Close enough to feel me bleed

So would you?
Would you come closer?


When you confessed your love for her,

when you proposed to her,

did you forget to tell her?

To tell her that you have a fattish, a rather crude envy for handball.


Instead you took the politician stunt and sold her roses with your speech and sunflowers with your eyes.

But you forgot to mention that your hands were exceptional at tying nooses around her neck and that you’d practice handball with her face.


But you should have because in her mind it should have been you to wear an armour so as to save her from such men.

And your arms should have been a compound she runs for refuge

And just by holding your hands her heart would sigh and would whisper you are safe.


But you forgot to tell her that to you she was an attractive ball good enough to be labeled wife

One that you hit against a wall


Throw on the floor


Kick while at it



When you told her you loved her you forgot to tell her that you have a different language for love and its you she would need saving from.

You failed to tell her

But you should have told her.

She could have saved herself .


Words from the author:

This piece is inspired by frequent domestic abuse that my neighbor experiences. It comes from a place where I am confused on why she chooses to stay and also why her husband failed to give her a heads up on how he would treat her later on. I feel this piece is relevant and simple as it is proving to be increasingly relatable.




Hey you

You never asked me but I just feel like sharing

I hate pink

Okay hate is a strong word

I hate pink

And when I do have a cute lil princess as my daughter she is going to look like a cute lil dude because she will always be in blue

Okay I’m tripping

But I was just thinking

Who announced pink as a print for femininity

And I gotta ask where the heck was their creativity

And in all veracity

Who gave them the duty and authority


Hey you society..

They , They have a tendency.. to blame everything on you ..

Like you are always to blame for what they are going through..

Like you start teaching them young and still at school..

And you define what a woman and a man are to do..


Society teaches me I should be myself but as I sleep society pegs landmines and dynamites just to stop me from taking strides to my home which is in me..

Society says be you Crissy but wait wait not like that

Like I have to live for her

And stares at my uniqueness as hell appropriate


Mama always made wear pink

Then daddy would say that’s my girl and wink

But mama you know I have never been a fan of pink

But mama only cares about what people think


So I’m sorry

I’m sorry I don’t like carrying a purse because I feel like it’s extra luggage, instead I’d prefer my money and my phone to find dreams in my pockets

I’m sorry I’d rather wear white or black t-shirts because everything in between makes me feel weird

I’m sorry

I’m sorry my lips never find rest in red lipstick but I’m always forced to wear it when I’m at my sisters

My apologies

My feet were just not meant for shoes with a 2cm sole, I love vans ,converse and all


So society I guess you having fun in defining me

Hey you society


I have a question

From which scripture do you gather your theories?

Lest you forget that only God defines Good

Not you or your mother but God

That his word is true though often at times its never in sync with how you feel

Hey you Society

Its a sad thing to say that we follow you like twitter birds were our way to exaltation

We allow you to lead our perspection as if you cursived 10 commands on Moses’s stone

But no

Its time we stop stereotyping and making judgments

When ultimately we all have to judged according to the color of our own garments

So society

Being a woman is not sculptured by what color I like or what heels I wear or whether I find comfort in a skirt or whatever I wear..

Being a man is not defined by bicep and triceps or how tall he is or is he has facial hair..

Its defined by the perfect knowledge of the Son of Man

So since I was made by him for him only he can define who I am


So I’m sorry to say I don’t Milly rock to your moves because you don’t make the rules

By the way society is one person

Society is you

It baffles me how we live by your rectified emotions

And March to the sound of your trumpet

I mean its the same you that tells woman its okay to stay when he beats you and slap you with “I love yous”

Its the same you that turn and twist our men to Caitlyn Jenners

Same that raises banner subliminally quoted miracles for sale


For these bodies we lay in are borrowed

We are simply just stewards

And for keeping then pure we are promised a great reward

So what do you have to offer?

What’s in it for me if I choose to follow your path instead nhai society?


Or popularity?

The irony is funny really

How I choose to repeat saying hey you society

As if I don’t know who makes it up

Society is you

Society is me

Oh by the way pink might not be such a bad color


Name:Cristol Danai Mubaiwa



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

Anita Chiganze

21 (twenty one)

The mere concept of life i cannot grasp.  (sigh)
I thought by going through puberty,
finishing high school, having my first…
My firsts were always so pivotal.
It meant that everything i now do and re-expierence
Can now be classified as ‘deja vu’.
My ending to this realisation was that i will forever question my existence.
 The past lives had something to do with this mental state. Well,
actually,FAAAHHHH(curses) DNA…
Worst thing is that i do not know myself at all, the grapevine knew more
It seemed to branch out to me more than what i had.
I guess wandering is all i know.
I was never meant to be.
I will never be happy. (i catch myself)
I will never accept that ending, i have a purpose, God takes the useless not the willing.
He has a resemblance to my mother.
(Don’t tell her i said that)
I’m not trying to kill myself, but i am killing myself.
It all ended when it began.
That’s what 21 feels like…..

 The beauty of ignorance
How lucky you are to have grown up in an age where you do not realise how unAfrican you are.
To have known how to speak a language that is unrelateable to the soil.
To have never known your  brothers’ native names but i guess it’s for history, fairy-tale and comedy to you.
To be left with no curiosity to learn the forgotten alphabet in which to tell of your history.
 How lucky you are to have known an age of globalisation without judgement.
To be allowed to learn something your mother does not know is truly remarkable.
To have taken a leap past the age of neighbourly bartering to know an age where currency determines who you interact with.
To be left with the scepticism of commodity if does not come from a capitalised brand that the Bohemian club endorses.
How lucky you are to have known a world that is more digital.
To have been told of life through logs,
To know someones life through a photo and think that filters are mere age.
To have never known a life that gold has no value and to think golden globals are endowment.

Now let the old dogs speak….

You now call us dogs,
Forgetting that the colour of your skin comes from the soil we ploughed.
We gave you the land full of pharmaceuticals so that maybe we can heal the years of rampage.
You took it and ran with it.
You chose to forget our history and you thought a book could fill  in the ancient language, as if you vile ravaged creatures could ever
Go back and rewrite the hieroglyphics…
Have you wondered why the pyramids can never fall or be built again?
Because you chose to forget how to to curl your tongue and pen yourself up to us and accept us as your blood.
Though we gave you your skin wrapped in lion’s skin.
You think you have slayen us but we banished you.
You are truly the new type of specimen.
What intelligence tells you that you can take and not give back.
 You continue to take from the soil and never give back.
Keep digging this soil and all you will inevitably reach is our skulls
When that happens you will know that death is not fictitious.
Just as many of us are dust, now… but we reached the grave with days to spare
Your days are forever measured and pressured as if a time zone can tell you what time of the day it is.
If a person can presumed dead at any time of the day- be it day noon and night -then what does that tell you?
The time is not moving you living in a time where history repeats itself.
Trust us when we say, that gold was made over time and we have been sitting on it all our lives.
It is a sad truth that you our children are sitting on it too but you do not know it.
The gold we found didn’t get its value from the black market.
It got it from us the African market.
We breed excellence because we lived an excellent life not one of facade.
We knew who to fear, not these fake gods you have today.
We lived a life of prosperity that we survived so long that we saw dinosaurs fall, religious elevate and energy destroy.
Thus do not hate us for your ignorance because it hurts us more.
Be at bliss with your ignorance because it will hurt you even more to realise that you will never know the golden age.


We saw the end before we could end ourselves
That is what scared us
that is why you drunk a bottle and filled it with your tears
You started to search for another end but inevitability
Mocked you

An angel will never save you but it ill help you walk to the end in peace
Raise the white flag high enough to blind your vision
A facade of seeing the ‘light’
The mistake was you thought that Death came in black

Darkness never deceived you
It was clear that it would not allow you to see
But now you hate it because it pointed out the obvious
And you do not want to believe mankind is foolish

The Oracle told you from the beginning that we are the omega
we are the Apocalypse, shameless in our existence
we are to bring ultimate devastation, rather than allowing generations go through pain
we would rather prolong our plague

Looking for Mars and Venus as if War and Love has ever morphed
Hypocritical contradictory manipulators that do not respect
the Cosmic prestige
Understand we are not stars
We are mere blemishes on a flawless planet

In the actual end, do you think
Perhaps, our own judgement will be strong enough
To kill us
Even before Hell and Heaven have time to save us?IMG-20160801-WA0012


Name: Anita Chiganze (The Wanderer)

Medium:Poetry and Prose

Location: South Africa

Nationality : Zimbabwean


Photo Credit : Andrea Green- Thompson

About the work:

 As young Africans in a world where there is no definition and the constant question of who are we and what are we becoming is prevalent. My work show cases that journey. the work is personal, its scary its not for applause but for realisation. My poetry is an outlet that has saved me but in the process has forced me to kill different beings and affliction from within. To me this dark melody of hope is my salvation and enjoyment.



Simbarashe Knox Kaneunyenye



It’s scary isn’t it?

Stuck on this ever-expanding mezzanine

The clock on the wall is existential

Each stroke of the hand writes “Wasted Potential

Songs of The Struggle still echo in these halls

Ghost voices, ghost footsteps, ghost eyes stare through the walls

Their blood cries for the Liberation’s liberated

While the Liberation liberators wallow in poverty, inebriated.


The mouse tries to run up the clock

But its starved body caves in and to the ground it drops

The sound is sickening

DEATH swoops in, silver sickle glistening

Their embrace is swift, body and soul torn

All this I observe from this damned platform.


Held in place between Hell’s heaven and Heaven’s hell

The revolution as prophesied by George Orwell

Where there is no victor, both sides defeated

The leaders won’t say it, they’re much too conceited

Death the only loss left to concede

But even that is a victory for the pain recedes.
Tick-Tock, STOP!

Smash the clock, break it before we all rot

Freeze time, assess this blood clot

Still standing on this elevated cursed rock

The white faces below are hateful and menacing

Snarling, “Nigger! Kaffir! Your Independence is fantasy”
I clench my fists and shiver

I look up, the glass ceiling shows me my future

Nothing but black

No hope, no chance, just poverty in a shack

The results of self-implosion

Results of The Struggle that lost its notion

So i cross my legs and on this mezzanine I remain


Can’t even say the name without disdain.



Name : Simbarashe Knox Kaneunyenye

Location: Harare,Zimbabwe

About The Artist :

We  die twice in our lives. We die the day we stop breathing and we also die the day our names are breathed last. Art is my way of making sure my ideas, my experiences, my feelings and my expressions never die. I write because I want to live forever.

Mutsa Mungoshi


Name : Mutsa Mungoshi



Background: Zimbabwean

Location:Harare,Zimbabwe/Cape Town,South Africa

About the Artist:

“In my eyes, art is freedom. It is open expression, fully and honestly. Art stands as an articulation of ideas, hopes, dreams, nightmares and all else there is. It is its own creature that exists, independent of society and her whims, and yet depends on society for its nourishment. It has the ability to build bridges between divided people, to wipe the tears from the face of a child, to shake the very foundations of our institutions. The blank canvas, the empty silence, the darkness, they are all spaces waiting to be filled by art. Art is the greatest storyteller, she who remembers and endures beyond lifetimes. In my eyes, to be an artist is to enjoy in all this, but to know that ultimately, you are a slave to your art, for as much as you hold the pen, the words write themselves, and moreover, they demand to be written.”

Ruth Maposa

Nothing but shattered dreams

This morning set forth on my journey to self actualisation,
There was nothing but a box shattered dreams,  10 pairs regrets, and 6 folded apologies from yesterday in my worn out suitcase.
I purchased my one way ticket to tomorrow with the last loose note of hope i had left in my wallet.
My body was tired from all the running from commitment and responsibility so i decided to wait for my train in a café around the corner.
As i was taking my first sip from my shallow minded cup of conversations ,Then suddenly,
Two deep brown eyes caught my gaze from above a thin novel whose tiltle i didnt bother to recognize,
Because his smile was as confident as a sunrise each and everymorning.
I could have sworn he models for nike
Because he had just do it tomorrow
All over his face,
Man was i not lucky.
Manufactured with the most dangerously enticing character,
Naturally i was lured to your bed by your endearing charm.
With you your wolf whisltles and unsolicited touches
You made forget all the pains of adulting.
Ofcourse you made me miss my train to tomorrow
But for you,
I can always take it tomorrow.

I wish time could sit with me
Teach me the twist and turns of life
She has been here the longest,
I wish she would show me how she resisted his charm,
Divored his ass,
And landed on her feet,
But she is always on the move
Dispite her old and brittle bones
Never stoping for anyone
Once she is gone you can never get her to come back.
She is healing though
They say with time woulds heal
They were right
With her wounds turn into little reminders that pain lived here once,
But is funny how she slows down when pain is present.
Its like they are two nostalgic lovers rekindling,
I hear their song replay as razor flirts with my skin,  blood spills and tear run a marathon on my face.
In the mirror,
I see them walts in my dried up eyes.
I shut them
I hear their song replay
razor flirts with skin, again
blood spills again
tears run a marathon on my face,  again.
And they say she never comes back.
Or maybe she just like repeating herself.
She loves being on that dance floor with her lover who now loves in my memories.
How many dates can they be in eternity.

Thanks to you and your ex i missed my train.
You and your pain
Your ex and his lack of shame.
And that was my last note of hope
And I never got change.
So its back to yesterday.
If only i could survive on my excuses.

About the writer:    bio