MIOMBO PEN MAGICImage may contain: 1 person– In this year of great creativity , political tussles , hustles and bustles around Africa and beyond . MiomboPublishing our humble poetry , profiling and story journals has outgrown itself  into   a popular journal  and boasts of profiling and featuring high rising literary arts voices in Zimbabwe , Africa and abroad . The journal is a playing  a big role in both familiarizing the art of writing from both women and men of words . Miombo has decided  this  time to create blog journals  of women writers who have  been highly participating , contributing and greatly featured from 2016 to 2017. We have come up with three prolific young women writers inclusive of Tsitsi Tsopotsa, Munia Khan and Catherine Magodo Mutukwa. Tsitsi Tsopotsa is a Zimbabwean creative arts entrepreneur based in the United Kingdom, While Munia Khan is an internationally and widely anthologized poet from Bangladesh and Catherine Magodo Mutukwa is a Zimbabwean creative feminist and storyteller based in South Africa. In this House of Fame Journal , we feature their previous articles that featured and liked prominently on our social media platforms. This important and inspiring journal will also linked to several twitter handles , Facebook groups , pages and profiles , LinkedIn and World Pulse for the purposes of inspiring young writers , creative and poets as well as familiarizing the literary arts brands of the featured talents.
Follow miombopublishing group on Facebook , send comments on our journals , follow and like our journal . You can also send queries and written articles to miombopublishing@gmail.com or you can inbox the Publisher , Mbizo Chirasha on Facebook.

TsopotsA -first Zimbabwean Writer to make a Book Trailer!

Tsitsi TsopotsaImage result for tsitsi tsopotsa

  is a force to reckon in the literary arts industry and she has become an inspiration to many . She dives into romance , fable like stories then dives back into comedy and satire. Her most popular stories include the Diary of the USAH and The Zebra Crossings . These are all Zimbabwean stories though they may differ in time setting and even place setting. Tsitsi has become a global writer/ storyteller who tells the Zimbabwean story in the global arena. Tsopotsa has proved that she is truly a creative force by winning a prestigious award late 2016 with BAWR for her story ,Diary of the USAH. The mesmerizing author has been featured in several blogs , sites and airwaves .Her profiles have been published in various websites and newspapers. The Writer , Social Entrepreneur , Cultural Activist and Creative Artist ENJOYS both African and International recognition. Her endevours can be tapped by the growing generations of Young writers. She is following up the footsteps of FEMRITE , WRITIVISM, STORYMOJA and other Organisations through her strong , creative and artistic voluntary mentor ship organisation Setseno which is also a publishing organisation. Underneath is the record , files , posts and mentions of the good and inspiring writings / works of Tsopotsa past and present.

The Zebra Crossings by Tsitsi Tsopotsa can be found and purchased at Amazon.COM

The Zebra Crossings (Paperback): Tsitsi Tsopotsa

The Zebra Crossings (Paperback): Tsitsi Tsopotsa

In the 1970s, somewhere in the rural areas of Rhodesia, a young man and woman fall in love. An unremarkable occurrence one might think- except Rob Du Toit is of affluent stock, and Rudo derives from a struggling family. They are living in a country in transition, but that fact does little to help their cause. Their path to happiness is a minefield of hurdles and prejudices that only intensify as time progresses. This is a tender story written with heartfelt feeling, a book that you will want to read from beginning to end.

Diary of a USAH: The Zimbabwe US Dollar by [Tsopotsa, Tsitsi]

Diary of a USAH: The Zimbabwe US Dollar by [Tsopotsa, Tsitsi]

Diary of a USAH – The Zimbabwe US Dollar is a comedy-satire short story about Zimbabwe’s currency situation conceived and written by Tsitsi Tsopotsa.

The story depicts a mythical journey of a United States Dollar Note through various hands and scenarios. The setting is present day Zimbabwe where many different currencies replaced the Zimbabwe dollar following its collapse.

The cover was painted by Barry Lungu.

This ebookis the first product from Setseno which will soon be selling short stories from developing countries. Setseno works with writers to develop their skills and encourages collaboration with artists so that together they can raise their profiles to sell their work to wider audiences in the rest of the world.

Part of the proceeds from this ebook sale will go towards supporting Setseno programmes including the mentoring programme. The mentor programme will launch by supporting writers in Zimbabwe, South Africa, Kenya, Uganda and Nigeria.

Please follow our progress on Facebook, like our page and of course please also leave a review for this book.

It is proof beyond the shadow of clear doubt that these works continue inspire the young and growing generation of writers in Zimbabwe , Africa and around the globe.

 

Metaphors of my mother!- Catherine Magodo Mutukwa.

Catherine Magodo- Mutukwa

Image may contain: 1 person, closeup
is an astounding pen mover. Here she writes to a diverse community of the feminine race , activists , feminists ,peasants and poets/writers. She whispers he husky, metaphoric lyrics in the ears of their minds. She carries her poetic torch without fear; she wields the metaphoric fumigating gun with bravery. Magodo Mutukwa reminds us of the late legendary Chenjerai Hove, her poetry vibrates the soul and all in all evokes memories of great poets like Maya Angelou ,the late Yvonne Vera and the great pen pusher and wordslanger American Nikki Giovanni. Enjoy the metaphors for our mothers by Cathy Magodo Mutukwa , a South African based Zimbabwean Creativity Feminist, Writer and Poet.

To Us (Women)

Image result for a group of poor women in Africa, image

Image result for a group of poor women in Africa, image

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again
To us women! who refuse to be refused
Standing our ground and speaking
our minds,
no more pulling our
hair in anger
or speaking in silence
Something has changed,
I’m not talking about the change of seasons

or the turning of leaves here
We had to break in order to grow
now, as we stand today
all lessons learnt, tall and proud
let us not forget,
that to get here
we had to pass through that place between

nowcrhere and somewhere just before we hit

rock bottom,
The many mountains heavy on our heads,

we had to balance lest they bury us alive but

we survived
The words and not songs taught us the true

meaning of strong, resilience and patience,
Let us remember to remember,
all the women who had to be…then
so that we can be… today,
their dreams which live through us,
their vision that didn’t dry up together with

their tired bones…
Daughters, sisters and mothers…we’ve come a long way,
Define yourselves before they define you!
Be bold, be proud.

 

Restless Song Within Me

Image result for a group of poor women in Africa, image

Image result for a group of poor women in Africa, image

Allow me to sit and catch my breath
the tune in my heart played from
strings that pull and contract,
heavy with
veins boiling with hot blood of a long
line of women yelling
Strong!

“Lend us your ears, they insist, listen!”

The song, this song- they taught me
a long time ago, the words I forgot
though it lingered somewhere in my
being and its roots long made my
soul its home, memory omitted it
the waves life brought made me
doubt
the legacy of my mother and all the
other women before her

Allow me to hold my head in shame
as their voices made one voice
resonates within me
I’m no ordinary person, I am a woman
whose boundaries were erased paving
the way for anything to be possible
only if i believe…

Let me stand before you
celebrating unapologetic womanhood
and dance to US…a new breed who dare dare nots.

 

He’s No More.

Image result for death of african graduate in africa image

Image result for death of african graduate in africa image

He died mother,
In the infancy of his
adulthood
Alone and alienated
intellectually stuffed not starved
Even the years of schooling couldn’t
save him from himself
He was a mad(e) man in an unforgiving

shell of a body
Ah mother,
Him the product of your labor pains
has amounted to nothing except
for fattening the maggots that bore through

his mortal remains once home to pride,
They got him mother, right between the ears

with bullets of edification propelled by years

of missionary education,
Ah mother, he’s no more…

Breathing Through Writing.

Image result for  black girl holding vuvuzela image

Image result for black girl holding vuvuzela image

Then I began writing about

those, whose voices had been
stilled but not quietened
Searching for inspiration in the
web of influences ‘they’ tattooed
on the back of black history
I was like a child without a
mother longing for one
tracing the footprints engraved
in the valley of hope
The muzzle was off now, the one
that strangled and silenced
I could speak!
I the voice of many voices trapped
in one, ancient but not forgotten
then, I breathed life into my words
they weren’t only black letters,
dancing on white paper now but a
story still to be told…

 

Amai (Mother)

Image result for pregnant african mother

Image result for pregnant african mother

There are things this heart can’t express and
the mind can’t compress
There are the things unsaid, the wind can’t
repeat

Yet,like the rush of a gushing river, I need to
pour it out,
turn my insides out for all to see, that I’m hollow
that I’m lost,
that I too died the day you left even though my
heart still beats.

Amai, how I wish you were here,
It’s been several years, couple of months, still
counting the days,
They told me grown men don’t shed tears but
I weep because of my sorrow realizing nothing
will ever be the same.

I mourn your loss each time I think of you while
fighting battles nobody knows about,
I close myself off from being loved for fear of
being left alone again and the world crumbles
around me.

I’m consumed by this storm raging inside me
that sometimes I forget what it feels like to feel
when silence ensues
I don’t mean to be unhappy but I feel your absence
in the depth of my soul,
I guess what they say is true, you will never realize
the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.

Mother, if I could have one more day with you
I would tell you all about it,
I have a feeling you would know exactly what
to say
and you would gather me up in your arms and put back
together my broken pieces.

 

words
they weren’t only black letters,
dancing on white paper now but a
story still to be told…

Amai (Mother)

Image result for pregnant african mother

There are things this heart can’t express and
the mind can’t compress
There are the things unsaid, the wind can’t
repeat

Yet,like the rush of a gushing river, I need to
pour it out,
turn my insides out for all to see, that I’m hollow
that I’m lost,
that I too died the day you left even though my
heart still beats.

Amai, how I wish you were here,
It’s been several years, couple of months, still
counting the days,
They told me grown men don’t shed tears but
I weep because of my sorrow realizing nothing
will ever be the same.

I mourn your loss each time I think of you while
fighting battles nobody knows about,
I close myself off from being loved for fear of
being left alone again and the world crumbles
around me.

I’m consumed by this storm raging inside me
that sometimes I forget what it feels like to feel
when silence ensues
I don’t mean to be unhappy but I feel your absence
in the depth of my soul,
I guess what they say is true, you will never realize
the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.

Mother, if I could have one more day with you
I would tell you all about it,
I have a feeling you would know exactly what
to say
and you would gather me up in your arms and put back
together my broken pieces.

 

 

 

Still Remains – a short story by Munia Khan!

Munia Khan


We are interested in the way MP is creating more interest in our readers and contributors around the world .Ours is a humble blog journal that begun with poetry from young Zimbabweans into poetry contributed by much experienced and acclaimed poets in the global literary arts scene.This month we publish short stories by such powerful star rising voices of Catherine Magodo Mutukwa– a Zimbabwean Writer and Poet and Munia Khan an acclaimed and much published Writer. Still Remains is a family story by Munia Khan that was recently published by one international literary journal. MP is highly honored to be given the opportunity to publish this simple but captivating story.

 

Enjoy reading Still Remains by Munia Khan.

No automatic alt text available.

Image may contain: 1 person

It was, he sensed, one of those fairly cool October evenings in England, when his father used to read him story books while his mother was preparing supper. Now dozing in the rocking chair, he felt the little robin family residing next to the tree near his balcony needed to go to sleep. Every evening the light coming from the neighborhood tennis court made him so vigorously alive. He had been sitting here for the last hour enjoying how the dusk was falling so rapidly only to be conquered by the night. David Ashcroft, a retired man of 67 summers had been a lover of twilight throughout his life. Now his life seemed to have reached its own twilight. Sarah Ashcroft, his beloved wife still dazzled his life with the twinkles of her blue eyes, as if she would remain the brightest star of his life forever.

She was in the kitchen preparing dinner when David realized that these days he was more in love with living in the past than spending time with Sarah. Specially, through his mind he loved to roam around his early childhood days. From one moment to another his memory loved to step back only to rediscover the past. In his mind, today, several times he was in the literature class of 9th grade at high school when he won the writing contest defeating his best friend ‘Fox Jim’. He laughed alone thinking about those fun filled days. He used to call his buddy James Dodd ‘Fox Jim’, as he was the cleverest boy in town, David believed. He couldn’t help laughing recalling how Fox Jim, at age 8, taught him how to blow smoke rings with the stolen cigarette from Jim’s father’s drawer.

Suddenly his mind’s journey to his childhood days was interrupted by the most familiar voice in the world asking him- “Dave, aren’t you hungry, darling?”

“Yes, I am sweetheart” he replied to his wife with a fragile smile on his chain smoking lips.

Sarah came closer. “I know, you’d love the lamb chops I’ve cooked tonight. I tried a new recipe”, she said about the chops that David brought from the store this morning as she was rubbing her oily hands with the kitchen towel.

“Lamb? When did you buy lamb chops?” David asked surprisingly as he remembered it had been ages since they bought lamb chops last.

“Just this morning you bought it, remember?, ” Sarah replied winking her left eye to give David the impression that she knew he had a naughty tendency to tease her sometimes by asking strange questions.

“What do you mean? When did I go out today? ” David asked raising his eyebrows, and his blood pressure. “ I never went to the store today,” he confirmed with a shaking fearful voice.

“Oh! Come on, dearest! Stop joking. I’m not in the mood. I’m too hungry to cope with your puzzling joke now,” said Sarah.

“Let’s have dinner” she said sitting on a 37 year old wooden chair which carried memories from their wedding night.

David felt his sinking heart when he said, “No, I am not jesting! What are you talking about?”

“Are you serious that you cannot remember you went out this morning”, Sarah asked in a shrewd way as if she was an attorney cross-examining a mugger who stole her husband’s wallet few hours ago.

“No! Honey, Trust me!! I cannot recall anything. I cannot tell where I was this morning.” David’s voice was at a loss as to what more to say.

He tried to ransack his memory and all he found was he and his father buying a brand new bicycle on his birthday fifty nine years ago.

“Okay. I understand. Now let’s eat; I don’t want to talk about it” said Sarah. She was in a very sad state of mind and her hunger for food was consumed by her hunger for knowing the mystery of how this morning could become a forgotten time to her husband who had been blessed by a sharp memory throughout his life.

They finished the dinner exchanging unspoken words through their reluctant eyes. David went to watch the highlights of England vs. South Africa, a cricket match on Fox Sports. It was around 9 pm. He didn’t know that he had already watched this match LIVE last night. He felt frustrated not understanding why he missed the match. He’d never missed a ‘Live’ game before.

Sarah cleaned the dishes unmindfully. As the night grew deeper, the sky of her mind became overcast by gray clouds of worries. After watching TV David brushed his teeth two times in one hour before going to bed, knowing he did it only once. They went to bed wordless that night covering themselves in the mild autumnal coolness.

That night Sarah couldn’t sleep a wink; slumber land was a forbidden place for her. Oddly enough, she tried to count stars, staring at the ceiling.

Next morning, the first thing David thought he should do was to brush his teeth as he realized that he did forget to brush his teeth last night. After being refreshed, he started to look for their pet Ruth all over the house forgetting she died last week and he was the one who buried her near river Dart. Sarah was still asleep. He prepared porridge for himself and had finished it before she woke up. He fried eggs, mushrooms and made some grilled oatcakes for Sarah as he knew from decades ago how she loved grilled oatcakes with a mug of tea for breakfast. While preparing the meal, he added salt several times, believing he sprinkled it only once.

And when Sarah woke up that morning, she was surprised that David made her breakfast after such a long time. She didn’t like oatcakes anymore and she was quite certain that David knew it . It saddened her even more understanding that David must have forgotten that too.

Sarah was completely mystified by the realization that something was wrong with her husband. She began to worry visualizing him as a patient with amnesia.

After spending a frozen night of silence with David, the next morning she decided to make an appointment with Dr. Bruce Miles, their family physician. It was a sunny day full of life just exactly how David liked it to be. He spent most of the morning with some memories of his past, looking vacantly at the typical South West English clouds floating across the blue sky. Then he went to the backyard in search of the lawnmower, not knowing why he wanted it. Suddenly he remembered the day when he first came to live in this house at Devon 25 years ago after selling their old house at Essex. He felt it was just yesterday when Sarah gave birth to their only child, Alice, here in Devon. He failed to recall where Alice lived now. His mind was all buried in the long lost past; trapped in the cobweb of numerous incidents.

He went upstairs and found Sarah was in the bathroom taking shower. He knocked the door asking her, “Did I have my breakfast today? I feel hungry.”

“Yes, you did, Dave” Sarah replied in an anxious tone while water ran down her body trying to rinse all her anxieties away. She knew David had already forgotten that today was the doctor’s appointment and all the reports would be delivered after the diagnosis.

Sarah went down stairs after shower and found David reading the newspaper from 3 days ago. She exclaimed in frustration, “You’ve read it seven times so far! Can you remember?”

“This is the first time I’m reading this, sweetheart”, replied David. “Don’t be so mean to me, please!” he said as if a child so annoyed on his mother for her unjust accusations.

Later that day David was getting ready to go out with Sarah. He went in front of the mirror to comb his hair and surprisingly discovered that his hair had already been combed. In his forgetfulness he wondered who combed his hair…when?…and how? Staring at his own reflection, he was suddenly lost in a queer contemplation. The colour of his shirt reminded him of the navy blue shade from his leather bound diary that he used to write in during his college days. He felt the need of finding that diary again.

That day Sarah took him to Dr. Miles who confirmed David was a patient in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease saying, “Mr. Ashcroft, I know you won’t be able to remember this, but I’m sorry to say you are having progressive mental deterioration, which is the most common cause of premature senility.”

David couldn’t believe this initially, looking straight into the doctor’s eyes. He had never been aware of his memory that much because of his confidence in his brain’s excellent quality of recollection throughout his life. After a while he looked away, turning a blind eye to the doctor’s melancholic face because, during that moment, David wanted to feel nothing but the glorious sun from his school days, constantly shining on his aging mind: a mind that can no more form a new memory.

There was a little teardrop glistening at the corner of Sarah’s eye like a pearl, which needed to be hidden because of its preciousness. She tried to conceal her tears by looking down on the diagnosis reports, pretending to read them; and her misty eyes with blurred vision couldn’t afford to read a single line.

Dr. Miles kept on explaining the reasons why David had encountered such a disease long before he turned seventy. Sarah’s ears seemed to be deafened by an unknown chaos from her overstressed mind. The only cause the doctor explained that she could hear was David’s excessive passion for smoking cigarettes.

Dr. Miles stated all the things that David should do from now on. David was perplexed. He kept forgetting why he even had to be in the doctor’s chamber.

They left the doctor’s office at around 4:15pm. Sarah was driving their 18 year old black Jaguar, which perhaps bore more loving memories than she could ever create. David appeared to be very naive as he kept on asking her the same questions so many times. “Where have we been, Sarah?” …“Where are you driving to?”

“We went to visit Dr. Bruce Miles, sweetheart!” Sarah replied for the third time.

Sarah’s eternal love for David was stronger than her patience. And her love became remarkably forbearing in time, which made her respond to his repeatedly asking questions many times.

She never failed him. She believed- I never will.

Right now life seemed utterly obstructive to her. At the moment she wanted to concentrate only on driving, forgetting the world. The sun was going to sink very soon while David’s favourite twilight began to appear. Sarah noticed some beautiful birds going back to their nests flying towards the crimson west; just like she and David were returning to their home. That made her smile.

Suddenly she heard her beloved asking, “Where have we been, Sarah?”

“We went to visit Dr. Bruce Miles, sweetheart!” she replied with all her loving heart.

Munia Khan

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was born on a spring night of 15th March in the year 1981. She enjoys her journey to the literary world. Most of her works are poems of different genres.She is the author of three poetry collections : ‘Beyond The Vernal Mind’ (Published by Xlibris Corporation, USA in 2012) ‘To Evince The Blue’ (Published by Xlibris Corporation, USA in 2014)and ‘Versified’ (Published by Tiktakti Publishing Company, ISRAEL in 2016). Her poetry is the reflection of her own life experience.Her works have been translated into various languages: Japanese, Romanian, Urdu, Spanish, Bengali and Irish.

The Journal is  authored  and published by Mbizo Chirasha.Mbizo is the Publisher of several WordPress blogJournals , Writer , widelypublished poet  and Creative Communities Expert , follow Mbizo Chirasha  on the following link ,https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mbizo_Chirasha.

 

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