cropped-miombo-publishing-header.jpgPAMOJA TUINUKE!!!: see Nyiragongo draped in robes of white mist .Nyiragongo,  Eastern window of Africa. Vomiting the beauty of yellowing mellow rays of the glowing sun.Kindreds of Dawn, Caressing the skin of our clay earth, Nyiragongo .Kadyengare the house of God. Carrying rituals and spirits of virgin Africa. Spirit of Nyerere drinking your wild honey sweetened drizzle. Rise mountain of dreams, Rise! Kilimanjaro!! Rise and forsake naked sinners soiling your fontanels. Kadyengare, nest of spirits. Kenyatta’s fist holding tight, grains of black earth, walking the Rift Valley. Bring him a cup of black tea .To quench the anger of revolutions aborted onto the hearths of violence. Darwin the dreamer once walked this land. Birds of Ruwenzori sing songs , songs of Masai Mara,  songs of Kalenjin ,  songs of Kikuyu ,  songs of laughing moon and saddened suns .Buganda you are a poem frothing on my lips .Dada never went with the oil of your poetry, Buganda, land of many tongues, my unfinished lyric holding my tongue tight and tied .You still fry metaphors and roast allusions in pans of your earth . Makerere, river floating  with waters of wisdom. Children of Africa. Drink the wisdom of your mountain drizzles. Shape guns into pen barrels, tell tales of Africa with throbbing hearts .let your dust clad feet  dance with the talking drum . See Ngugi talking to Matigari  to decolonize children of red clays. Wangari planting sugarcane in  the virgin sands of  Ngoro Ngoro. Oh! Wangari our God sent Wangari .PAMOJA TUINUKE……!!!!

Celebrating the power of words in solidarity with East Africa, Kenya, Uganda and Tanzania. For more information contact the CURATOR, MBIZO CHIRASHA at miombopublishing@gmail.com. PAMOJA TUINUKE!!!

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CAROLYNE AFROETRY MA, Carolyne M.Acen is a Ugandan Spoken word poet, and writer.
Her work revolves around society and women stories. She is also a mentor to young poets.In 2017 she was shortlisted for the Haiku Africa Competition. She competed in the East Africa Poetic Hour competition early this year. Her poetry has been published in poetry magazines like African writers space. She has featured as a guest performing poet at poetry monthly events like Ladu Poetry slam. She is a counselor who creates awareness about mental illness using poetry. She recently had her first themed poetry show about love. She writes to inspire and educate.
THE REVOLUTION WILL BE OFFLINE
You will not be able to Facebook
live or periscope it, brother.
You will not be able to log in,
record, and sign out.
You will not be able to take a
screenshot, crop and filter it
out with sweet selfie app and
share with your followers on
throw back Thursday because the
revolution will not be online.
The revolution will not be online.
You won’t be able to upload it
to your timeline using MPEG Video,
AVI Video, Windows Media Video
or DIVX Video.
There will be no like button or
face reactions.
The comments section will be disabled.
The revolution will not follow you
online or respond to the urgency
of your blaring messenger tone
just because you slipped into its
inbox to send your unedited nudes.
The revolution will not be online.
The revolution will not follow you
on Instagram when you share or
tag it in a photo.
Slay Queens’ snap chat views
will be irrelevant.
It will not send you a friend request
if you change your name to, “conscious”.
The revolution will not trend as
a FreeBobiwine hashtag on twitter;
a metadata tag will not be generated
to spark a conversation or discussion.
Social media tax will be so high.
You won’t need Wifi or VPN to
access your page because the
revolution will not be online.
The revolution will not be brought to
you by Bosco Kataala, Mr. Money,
the Nile post, Club beer or Tuve Ku Kaveera.
You will not be able to download
the revolution on your IPhone
or android phone as an app.
There will be no mobile money or
airtel money accounts set up to
procure compassion for the snottily
pococurante and the disdainful
scholars who think the revolution is
beneath their intellectual minds.
The revolution will not be recorded
and broadcast live on TV after
Museveni’s state of the nation address.
You will not be able to slouch on your
sofa with your waragi and watch it
on your Flat screens while you rub
your belly.
There will be no pictures of the
1,000 naked women’s protest march
and Kiiza Besigye ducking with his
hoodie on a police truck.
No, your muffled voice won’t be
able to chant People Power with a
chicken bone sticking from your mouth.
The revolution will not be interrupted
by Umeme’s tantrums or Kampala’s
rowdy matatus.
It will not be a time to chill or just
kick it because it will show up at your
door, grab your hinges and peer
through your keyholes like a thief.
The revolution will not pick you
using a boda boda from your muzigo.
It will not be a blankets and wine
event or Nyege Nyege festival.
And definitely not a premier of 27 guns.
The revolution will not be online.
Will not be online!
Will not be online!
The revolution will be no
Live stream, brother.
The revolution will be offline.

 

tom mwiraria
TOM MWARARIA is a Social Rights Advocate,Kenyan Writer,Journalist and Author of ‘The land of Bones’ –a collection of short-stories.His essays feature stories and short stories have appeared in magazines,newspapers and journals such as The Kalahari review,Hekaya Review,Writers Space Africa,East Africa Sustainable Tourism Agenda,Bibsbebe Magazine,Daily Nation and Academia.A Pan-Africanist at Heart,Rights Campaigner and environmentalist, he has been awarded Eco-Warrior Award by Eco-Tourism Kenya for promoting people, culture and Heritage through writing.In 2018 he was nominated as finalist Youth Advocate of the Year by Africa Youth Awards.
Mwiraria, the Founder Nairobi Literary Café is also a Member of International Journalists Network (Ijnet), Young African Leaders Initiative (YALI) and Writers Guild Kenya. He is currently writing a collection of short-stories.

WE FAKES( Highly Thematic, Main feature)

They want to write,they are in a shell of youth,fragile buds bathing in a sea of dreams,bathing in the future.Sometime in all innocence they trust us ,they come to us seeking writing advice, but what do we do ? We fakes lie,we romanticize writing.We tell them to read big books and write daily ? About what ? We hold workshops and massage their delicate egos. Bad writing like runny stomach is contagious and mindless of carnage, we clap and thunderously applaud They come out high, drunk with inspiration but the bubble bursts as soon as they get to their vermin infested little rooms.We idolaters of a prosperity cult, worshipers of glitter, writing feel good piffle. We who love showering them with torrents of advice but zero in action. We fakes who think the world will judge us harshly when we say the truth because we have little jobs to protect.

We never tell them we are the sound of ourselves. That our lives are political acts .We lead our self-revolution .That we are self-edited, self-made by our experiences. That we are fierce protesters against what world wants to make us. Leaving and never looking back. Walking with solid shoulders.

We never tell them that we are wolves that belong to no pack We live at the outskirts of man, searching our dreams in dark expanse, we prowl through the mist and when we reach the border of dawn we howl at tomorrow. We never tell them we are stealth lions brushing overtly through Savannah’s sway, and when we reach at the twilight without a kill we growl, howl and roar at the void.

We never tell them that it may entail living in a shack, eating tangerines of sadness, waking up in numbing cold street verandas and cursing the night. We don’t tell them it entails escaping the insanity of drugs, beer and sex addiction. We are tight lipped of our brushes with the law. We don’t tell them we are sufferers of bipolar disorder. We don’t tell them we are survivors of rape and bullying and our writing is painful blisters. We don’t tell that we are the black sheep of the family, the prodigal sons .We don’t tell of the many deaths we cheated that led us to bleeding on paper.We don’t utter of a night we were coming from a party,thug cops handcuffed us,accused us of ‘loitering with an intent to commit immorality’, pressed a cold gun’s muzzle on our heads and stole from us.We were thinly between this world and next,we repented our sins in haste and silently mumbled to our ancestors ‘the hour is upon us,we are coming’

We fakes in trim suit ,pirates and men with full-stop size heart, deaf to the faint voices in the city margins.We fakes who exchange niceties in street pavements and say ‘nice meeting you’ as we glance at our wrist watches. Descendants of the faithless,gangsters,brutes and companions, whitewashing dirty money in churches.We fakes who are ever praying for goodies from the Almighty but cannot quench a thirsting calf.

Do we talk of car-crash when we saw our souls slipping out, the world receding behind us,and now we smile at nightmares ? We don’t tell that we know how to swim ,we nearly drowned as we dared troubled waters. We don’t tell that we cheated on our girlfriends and we were forsaken by our wives.We don’t tell them of miscarriages ,weeping for our husband’s folly.We fakes write about our stellar careers but not how we bribed for that job.We write about our guzzlers and not the blood that fuel the monsters.

We fakes don’t tell of many rejections and laughing at it, mockery in their eyes and never drooping our gaze, jobs lost and being own heroes because the strength of alone wolf is his and his alone and she shan’t howl at anyone when a thorn sinks into his paws.

We fakes, We modern Pharisees, allergic to the truth we cannot be agents of the great if we are not truthful. We fakes are the enemies of rainbow, the ruination of the Nation. If we cannot confront the truth about us and our society, our writing in the world full of ugliness is at best cat’s meow, pig’s grunt and at worst, last night’s stale bean soup.

We fakes, who soften our mistakes with a smile, who hope time will forget out misdeeds and noble things we did not do when we had a chance. Leather hearts alien to word sorry. Let’s go to the confession and receive Holy Communion.

 

 

ndeke
NANCY NDEKE is a widely published poet of international acclaim. Her writings and poetry are featured in several collections , anthologies and publications around the globe including the American magazine WILD FIRE ,SAVE AFRICA ANTHOLOGY , WORLD FEDERATION OF POETS IN MEXOCI CITY. SHE IS THE current  CONTRIBUTOR in RESIDENCE  OF THE BRAVE VOICES POETRY JOURNAL .Ndeke is an international poet with her own books and collections under her creative belt .

WHERE WE ARE……..
As a people and as pupils,
Is the lowest rungs of a spiral case,
Teaching and learning if awake we are,
That the task of self-preservation is embedded in plurality,
Of each in the all and vise say versa,
Graft has become craft of the witches of riches hunters,
A loud and about is the anguish of many,
A uniform cry of dilapidated insolence,
Divisions sharp tearing asunder cultures,
Bully’s pulling down hope and planting boorish seeds,
Knee jerk reactions towards any call to right,
The clan of thieves with degrees rise to spite the people,
Politics ascending the throne of protected territories,
Propaganda machines baying denial of injuries even as blood spills,
Corruption has been coronate by priests of dark alleys,
Old tales are told of colonial injustices,
To divert the truth by refocusing on alternatives,
As we burry tribal crash victim after the next,
Public coffers run to off shore accounts by the ‘trusted’ hand of the elected honorable.
A fate most prevalent in beloved African shores.
HAIL MARY
Am no Catholic but I know man is universal, and what ails one could easily ail another,
Pain is pain as gain is gain and all impact the same,
What’s different then with the sons of the black continent?
Who rob mothers and mug fathers, while destitute they manufacture by sheer negligence,
Who answer to divisions like a man to prayer, when war is a profit and death collateral damage?
Users used and reused by other users, as human debris scattered in slums,
Look at the emaciated frames begging from the peripheries of your cities,
Look at the independent mind fleeing your cage, as your economies slump in grief of loot,
O! the land of Mau Mau wariors living like beasts in the forests to clear the way for you,
O! the land of Wangari Maathai bashed to stop fighting for your forests and catchment areas for your children’s health,
O! the land of marathoners and stipple chasers we are so proud of,
What is this bug of evil weevil eating away your conscious till you bring down the lands granary?
With justice a casualty of men without conscious, a resilient people groan daily with burdensome living,
You wonder I and I plus a few silenced voices cry hail Mary Proclaiming the lord is our shepherd in the privacy of our neutered breaths?
Church is silent often unable to take sides, for brethren and dead hearts occupy its front pews
The so called rights groups have a higher calling and appetite for differing opinions where kick backs and propaganda hold advantage,
Hail Mary I continue to chant knowing salvation is an eternal matter even as we dig pasts to justify our current waywardness.
The mirror tells the truth and the truth is that corruption is eating us up with our heads buried down ostrich style.

ELEPHANT JUSTICE.( short fiction)

HE, is not ordinary. Not in in the village or the town. He is THE man with the ear of the judge from whence all justice flows into the rugged land of petty crime and underhand deals. He is the man in colored coats and even more colored ties. He coughs in English and sneezes in French. His look is exotic like a spicy drum stick from the east. He is the man with the judge’s ear and eye. He asks not but waits to be cajoled to accept the honor of receiving bulging envelopes, stuffed with good will for quick fix of cases before the bench sits on men. He is the saint in the faith of unholy unfaithfulls in the land where there are more legal consuls’ than hair on a baboons body. A man above men of crafty graft and gritty shifts of justice systems that go in circles without defined seasons. Call him MISTER. No other name would befit him.
At home, wife is the silent listener to his dreams as he hugs paid up maids for gymnastics after work. That’s beside the snores and accompanying bodily protest from an overstretched gut with roasted goat meat. Kids are attended to from a distance. Cash flow is good. Better than good is the truth. An entire room is his private central bank hoarding millions of rotting notes some gnawed by rats that took resident in the airless abode.
There is a saying, probably a proverb; that a man is not an island. Not so for MISTER. He is an island and a continent to boot; quietly bowing to none but self.
So it came to pass that upon a harvest seasons finale, he came home at his usual hour. At the third crow of the cock. He packed his big machine and took a moment to survey his kingdom. Sitting on twelve acres of land, the moon favored him with a splash of his well-manicured lawns. Jasmin’s and bottle brash swaying gently in the early morning hour as they shot forth fragrance upon his fat nose.
Wife tuned and purring a commanded welcome had the door open for the mighty MISTER. No hello or how are you for that matter.
“ Welcome home dear” she mumbled to the deaf master.
She followed it quickly with the usual drill. Undress the big baby in readiness for a massage for that was the duty from the gods of matrimony.
Not this night.
No sooner had the last designer garment been peeled off than a piercing scream hit the silent early morning.
Any decent drunkard can attest to sound robbing you of drunkenness, it happened. This is because the screams were from his work force.
With a hundred grade cows he was a farmer at heart. And if he loved to show off anything, it’s the beautiful black and white Friesian milkers that were the talk of the area.
Like an arrow he shot out and was out before he realized his state of undress.
“What is it?” he called.
Further screams answered him but this time from further away from where the cow minders lived.
“MISTER!” The wife screamed.
MISTER ignored the wifes worried concern as he walked to the paddocks to ascertain his pride and herd was intact.
Then one blast from hell raised the naked man up into the late moonlit morning and landed him face down on a fresh heap of elephant dung. He must have passed out for no sound came out of the inert body. Meanwhile, the bull elephant made more blasts as it stomped on the ground around the unconscious man. Wife bolted back into the house and locked up the back door.
Villagers knew the elephant invasion dance. Armed with drums and pots and pans they started a cacophony to aid the migratory herd away from Misters home. Some came with lighted torches and screams of their own to rival the beasts.
It took sometimes of course. For the bull stood its ground until the herd had found its way off the immediate farm before it blew another blast to signal his exit.
Mister was in bad shape. Nakedness is a human and bestial state so it’s understood. Not the burst balls of a man for that’s what the neighbor’s found. All his ego and pride had been spilled on the rough concrete where he had fallen on a huge ball of coiled barb wire. Blood and gore and more run a milky path between his spread legs.
“ O my God!” was a common call among the neighbor’s and workers when they came back.
As if that was not enough, what was left of Misters manhood had no head……
MISTER Lived.
But not in that village or town. The story of that night has lived on. And nowhere is it rich as from those who had paid dearly for the ear of the judge.
It is said that KARMA is a bitch. Villagers’ of former Misters village believe it.

 

 

KHAN


DR SADIQULLAH KHAN is a gifted poet of immense insights and creativity. Writing on a range of subjects his themes are social, spiritual and politically aware. Looking the domains of day to day living, delving deep into the sufferings and joys he seems to be the voice of dispossessed and the vast majority of poor he passionately identifies, yet his art touches the high mark of existential writing, unique in style and composition, he appears to lead his own genre. He belongs to Wana, South Waziristan in Pakistan.)
MYSELF WAZIR (Za Wazir)

Legend of course, like psnther
Sleek. Wisdom and ethoes –
None other code, niether Pashtun
Not match to be found –
Rebel indeed, bled enough
Indeed. Moan never indeed
Like mountain hound, licks own wound.
None other talked about –
In Parliament debate, fear of Raj –
Fought the recent might
At loggerheads, – aims but enemy
Vital in character, – husband to land
Pride of blood – of name none other,
To a scholar, – the most ancient –
His limb hairy, – takes by throat,
Treats with honour gracias speak.
Days of valour are over, in certain
Dark ensemble, its fate ponder
Lament the nights or future aspire –
Myself Wazir, – tribesman to the core
Yet what I otherwise become –
My dearest possession, – I spear with
Shield myself or charge like Legion.

BEING HOME
So retrograde, ask me Herat
Or Paris. I would settle
For the former, – if it be roam
Shanzelize or Bistro latte
On some paved pavement
Or soft stare of Mona Lisa
In glass louvre, – Bastille might
To provoke a thougt or borrow
Rousseauen spirit spoiling myself
Like wayward child. Other
Sensibilties might go
With latest show of fashion –
But Herat, the Bastan,
Most anceint, – a school in art –
Or you might of king’s taste
Aquire or you might live
An extended time and long night
Talk nothing but love
Listen to Shams of Tabriz
And verse of Jalaluddin Balkhi
Chewing pistachio on green tea
Blue inlay on ceremic
Behzad of the lost days, yored
Herati motif called mahi
Seeing fish of pond surface up
Imbibe the rich reflect of moonlight
Born to learned mothers,
A certain saint burried long ago
Mud house, – warmth and longing –
Where I may call myself
Being home wearing blank-et.

 

 

jambiya

JAMBIYA KAI,the works of South African writer Jambiya Kai, unwraps the exquisite beauty of humanity, passion, love and faith against a backdrop of the dark concaves of violent crime, corruption, bigotry and poverty. She carves a medley of multi-cultural stories into a sanctuary where love lords over war and bloodshed.

THE FACE OF IMANI -( A story)
“Ravaged on Mt Elgon”.
The crunch of the autumn leaves resounded under my feet. I ran swiftly and the long limbed trees flirtatiously swiped at my caution as I moved through midnight’s misty breeze. Mt Elgon in Kenya had become a warscape. Rebels rose against the people in their fight for land and committed hideous felonies and crimes. I marvel at how a tranquil landscape could become so infected with violence. To move from peace to theatres of war.
Then came the soldiers who abused those they were supposed to protect. The Human Rights Watch documented deliberate killings, torture and rape of civilians. A genocide of the worst kind. I was running to find answers. To bring the guilty to their knees. My knees buckled once or twice but I kept moving along the route revealed in my vision – beads of fear rained down my back. Finally, there it was – like a submarine in quiet waters – invisible and undetectable. Meticulously constructed.
I did not have much time. “Reporter scum” were hot targets. A machete ripped my predecessor’s gut. My throat stung from their trails of sweat and semen – dogs on a hunt to mute the truth. They were hot on my heels.
I could smell Mt Elgon go up in smoke and I was close to finding out just how wickedly menacing a war could be and uncover the veracity of those who commit such grievous crimes.
I felt her heart beat as I moved towards the concealed door – the one who called me through my night sweats – I was overcome by the intensity of her desperately unspoken pleas. I felt her fear. An indescribable and harmonious telepathic connection that led me through the undergrowth to the secret hideaway.
She once was a ballerina who carried the the elegance of a princess. I reached out to her pain. Any last minute thoughts of absconding were shattered as the door moaned and groaned. It literally fell from hinges that were decades old. I choked on threatening hysteria as I looked at the larger than life mahogany skinned doorkeeper. He was as an angel who guarded the portals of heaven. His eyes belied his colossal presence. They were clear round black pools of kindliness. Right there and then I was inspired to sing the Handel’s Messiah but refrained.
Instead I stepped inside and the shrieks that permeated the sacred refuge rattled my reserve and shook me to the core. Oh God I cried, where has the music gone – who or what was so demonic a thing that it could strip the soul of its vivacity – a refuge where music once belted out, children giggled and choirs echoed the genius of Mozart and Beethoven. Grief rushed at me.
Mr Mahogany set the doors aright then turned to lead me on. The odour of death unceremoniously attacked my cavities and clung to my nasal craters. My guardian took me along passages and hallways designed to cause disorientation. Designed for war.
Another slim door creaked and suddenly even the silence grew still. The rebels were thumping the upper world seeking entry but the victims were safe – cleverly hidden.
Tears slowly tumbled down her cheeks, into her neck where it soaked her night shirt. Anguish rippled through her violated body. A body that became the playground of Guerrilla’s who took the town in the name of war. Forces who succumbed to evil – Rabid dogs who rape and violate the bodies and souls of women and children. The sinister games warriors play. The ragdolls and ruffians of hell.
Before me lay a casualty of war and depravity – disabled and battered. Beautiful IMANI– pistol whipped – her head split. The face of IMANI was a distorted and disfigured mass of blue and black. A bludgeoned and terrified face. Her suffering racked my frame. In that moment I understood why the music had died. I threw my body across hers. I remembered her ebony beauty from my dreams. The moments before they smashed her to the ground, forced her legs and snuffed her light. IMANI. In leaving her for dead in the thorny rough she reached for me. Her soul searched through the galaxies and found my need. Our bond a wondrous mystery.
There were others – 4000 victims. Corruption and violence led to intentional physical trauma – gunshot and machete wounds – injuries sustained from being beaten. Many had limbs, ears and lips cut off. A sight far removed from the Kenya of luxurious beaches and safaris. Wet and muddy terrain became their new home – living under the mercy of killers and criminals.
Imani was raped multiple times. Beaten, burnt and tortured. Ravaged on Mount Elgon. They crushed her will to live. Rape was a weapon of war. Part sexual male libido and largely an expression of rage and revenge. Madness. A strategy to undermine the enemy. Triumph to the winning side. Symbols of dominance to the defeated man. Defence Forces becoming perpetrators of these horrendous crimes. Morally defendable in war and to be “understood”.
As I yearned and mourned with her for virtues and lives lost I felt her limp arms enfold me; saw her eyes mouth a million words. How much she wanted to believe in a new dawn for Mt Elgon. I heard her story – her pain. her hope. Kenya’s hope.
I concluded her narrative – I was the host that would carry her testimony; a witness of the brutality of a hungry and tortured people. Through her eyes I saw the demons who annihilated a defenceless people, killing children.
We had come to the end of this road. The guillotine of justice will decapitate the guilty. I promised her justice.
A light shone from the shattered soul as I held the smashed hand. The world needed to view Imani’s broken and twisted legs. Irreversible injuries. A Beautiful Ballerina. In one miraculous moment she whispered into my heart, “Thank you for walking through dreams with me. It was done. She smiled. I sobbed and trembled.
Heads would roll like the heads of the victims whose bodies were never found.
Justice will be served.
I woke from my slumber. The lenses of my vision clear.
She was still with me. Her bludgeoned beauty empowering my fight for Kenya ‘s freedom. Her last breath was of her love for Mt Elgon and the people she would leave behind.
If I listened intently I could hear the cries upon the slopes of Mt Elgon – of homeless, raped and pregnant women whose men lay mutilated and mangled in the trenches of war.
Kenya is a courageous people.
They will rise and sing their songs for Imani who told their story to the world –
Then once again, a new perpetrator of conflict and crime will rise.
But in my dreams remain the face of hope.
IMANI.
© Jambiya Kai
The Face of Imani is a work of faction dedicated to Sarah (Wanjiku)Muhoho who inspired the piece by asking me a simple question, “Why do soldiers rape in war”?
It includes details of events as recorded in various media reports of the land conflict in Mr Elgon in Kenya – 2005 to 2008 – with new perpetrators of conflict and crime rising in 2018.
Reference: Why do Soldiers Rape – https://www.researchgate.net/publication/227674039

 

 

WAISON
WILSON WAISON TINOTENDA, an aspiring poet, human rights activists, page poet, flash fictionist as well as an editor of the Deem.lit.org ( Deem literature organization ). Born on the seventh of January 1998 at a local clinic in Chitungwiza of great svikiro, Tsuro Chaminuka. A Zimbabwean by birth and originates from Malawian tribe. The son of one Godwell Waison and Angeline Mandimika, being the first in a family of two, Annah Waison, little sister.

THE URGE

For we been equipped fellow citizens of
Motherland, Africa she sang of, Poetic is
It justice? just ice frosting dreams, hopes
Parliament a breeding citadel of perverse
Codes that terms us laborers in our land.

Gazetted reforms that impairs our virtues
And moralistic principles of being, rejected
By those with all the mighty through veto,
How lame I voted him in for betterment
Of the kin, weary leaving in the cold street.

My ails heals from their white precipitates,
Inscribed by a solo individual, dual turns a
Taboo yet granny always had crushed roots
The ails would shy… Boots, books, and tie
Paper wetting from the drips of enslavement

Hunting modernized but the parliaments left
In great chaos, adaptation of the scripts left
Us this urge, The urge to revolt, yearning…
Codified practices that are never followed by
The sire, a new mutant foe in make, Change.
VULTURES

No wonder why I have this naked head
These weak claws, Neither have I ever
Wondered why I feed chiefly on carrion
Rotting carcass dressed by fellow humane
Ages past starving, preying, pitying shame.

Carrion bird been termed, so wary I envy
The keen and noble eagle whose social unit
Portray efficiency and tranquility in plays
How he is gifted in soaring up highs spred
He preys on fresh flesh, he hustles nothing.

Vultures we been cursed by mother nature
For we toil yet others birds emblems might
We long for the deprived freedoms, denied
And fed on their remains. Avarice being no
Shame for no honor is related to my name.

Black birds whom seize by violence, preys
Like us, feeds greedily stood forth our Sire.
Corrupt ravens whom disperse parliaments
Owls on the watch, waiting to grace thier
Chance too, damned birds of disgust, cursed.
REAGAN RONALD OJOK is a Ugandan poet. He is a poet from the heart. His poetic fangs strike hard like thunder, searching all corners of societal quagmire. His ideas hit the bottom of his heart and it bounces out into the marrow of a pen that oozes magical thoughts, imaginations and dreams on a crying paper.

IN THE BACKSTREET OF POWER-
In this murky waters of our land
Under the dark wondering clouds of political hobnobbing
We gonna sing, to the most high…
Hallelujah, hallelujah, halleluuuujaaah
Let Jah bless our mother land
Hallelujah….
Yagayagayo oo o oooo

Bomboclat!
Let’s roll it…

We gonna kneel down to Jah
And say:
Down with corruption
Down with unemployment
Down with oppression
Down with dictatorship
Down with shrinking space for artist
For we need our freedom
We need our creative space
Jah bless our land

Tanzania, Uganda, Kenya let’s sing along
No to political blood bath
No more poverty
No more incarceration
No more torture
And we need our freedom to express ideas

abukutsa

ABUKUTSA teaches English and Literature. His short story Abraham’s Cremation was shortlisted in the 2017 Nalif Literary festival. He has published poems with Praxis online magazine, African Writer and a short story with Kikwetu literary magazine.
FROM THE HEART OF FERMENTED WISDOM

From the heart of fermented wisdom
Can you look at tangled hair
Walk in the flawlessness of its curiosity
Your mind-
Can you stand naked in the light
and be blind to shame
Your pride-
The long walk could be short
like the anger of a child
Could be truth is freedom
Could be freedom is the lie
Beauty the mirage
Gone when night falls
The broken-heart your tears
Could be balm for your sores
like a rooster to the early morning
Could you look at barrenness
and see your fertility
Or a poem
and see reality

we?
Do we still hesitate
On the future state
Stolen,

When we look in the sky
Where we see our past
In tails of fleeing comets

We the earth
Do we remember
Rain,

The lush pasture
The white milk
From the breast
of she who eloped with our youth

Do we still meditate
The cycle of the moon
The throbbing of first love

Or
we are the tide of sorrows
In the sea of turbulence
in our barrenness.

 

OPEYEMI JOE OLANIHUN

SUCH IN HEART

I am superstitious by
My full African blood
Every Thursday night they visit
The Ancestors I see their pale forms by the
Moonlit door I hear them slurp from
The water pot

They neither hum nor talk
They only brood and watch
Facing sideways, never with their fronts

I had screamed once
Before I knew things before
My father told me: they
Are your blood and would
Know your scent
If they must they would plunge
Into the abyss of the world
To save your pate

I am superstitious a
Full-blooded African soul and
By the same token polygamous
For I shall raise a large home
And my wives with children shall
Be like the crowd of a market

Harbour no fear for my pagan lot
I intend to join their train
The watchful silent ones

Not for me the assembly of
Saints in the clouds
Harping by some glassy sea
Munching eternal praise…

But the totems the symbolic meals
Earthing morsels
And the endless vigil to keep

 

ADRIATIC
Adriatik Jaçe was born on 21.05.1971 in Përmet. After graduating from high school, he continued his studies in Tirana University. The passion for literature started when he was very young, passion which it grow throw years, as well as numerous reading, was transformed into poetry and creative spirit.
The diversity of life, Life metaphysics and deep sensation experience, those are the basis of this poetic creativity, which comes through symbolism and metaphor, that is used on creative style and creative art for the moment.
Poetic dimension touches the highest peaks, has beautiful colors, deep meanings and furthermore express the idea that goes beyond limits of himself and runs on a tomorrow’s path and the next light. As a missionary of hope and confidence that has been created through verses the poet expresses concern, and he creates bridges of understanding. His purpose is to represent world’s peace and human integrity.
ESCAPED LIFE

Her body slide like a desert snake …
It was so tired…
As the steps seemed to look like they had been through the centuries.
They were terribly terrifying steps terribly frightening and hungry.
The baby stutter in the sling bag
And in the horror walk, was sucking the salty nipples to find the baby milk …
He was striking the step that already tortures everything…
There have been days, that she was running to save life from death …
She followed step by step.
At the door of the protected shelter, from the flame, which was fool of anger …
She was still willing to hear her husband’s horrible calls, which attracted the killers’ satisfaction, to save the two lives, to the horror of the escape …
From far way, in the hidden casks, the beasts of the beasts that cut the prey were heard, they blew blood shots …
The sun was trying to eat at night …
The clothes were wrapped and just stayed in their bodies …
From then on, the sand dunes run to catch the sand dunes.
While the send granules, whipping the pieces of meat…
She walks..
The soul wanted to come out of her own freedom, but she holds it with her teeth …
Running in her arena ..
To save a life ..
A life that already absorbs the mother’s blood, from her salty crack breast …
She’s looking, caressing her head …
While his two eyes laughed ..
Two eyes, like two lakes ..
Ohhhh …
She sees herself scared there …
There were days on the way …
Days to walk ..
She could not recognize herself …
If she had a little rest in this place…?
A little bit …
She could not bear the burden of life …
It was worsened ..
Even the kid … was …
Here, to the west, she draw a piece meadow, green …
If she rest a little.
A little bit …
E .
Everything collapse
The sun goes west, it is not born still ..
The body crumbles, crushes, in the sand …
Slides …
Shrinks …
Supports, shoulders, on the brown powder …
She suffer..
While the eyes, tired …,
The body, in the hollow silence ..
She raises her hands …
Tries …
But no!
It can.
Hands draped down to the sand that begins to burn ..
And before gone, she saw the child, sucking her body, into the torn sling bag …
………………..¬…………….
Wakes up.
Oh what green and clean water!
There, a group dancing, singing and playing instruments …
How beautiful!
Then remember.
Yes child?
I had a baby …
Someone takes her and she looks a group of people …
Holding somebody in there hands …
And oh …
“There is me”
Then a woman keeps and caresss her baby …
While the verse turns to the green meadow …
She laugh ..
Swallow a tear…
And barefoot she runs to the Creator …
………………..¬……………..
Insatiable madness with life, run in the escape of others life …

WRETCHED MAN

I don’t give a f…for your wealth!
All your power in the world!
Because their value,
It’s not worth the tears of this baby giirl.
I don’t give a f…for your mansion or the cars
Even the luxury you live in.
Gardens, vineyards, everything gold..
That smile, I’m telling you
Is a billion buck .
You can’t even sleep.
Because you sleep over mountains of money.
This poor little angel with her torn dress,
Don’t even care, I don’t give a f… for your millions.
You never laugh, with your heart.
You don’t have spirit…
Your soul is subdued,
Her tear as crystal …
… nor does her pain soften you.
You throw way mountains of food down, food to feed,to feed an entire village. But you don’t think,you’re beast.
How many children sleep without food like this little angel?…
How many children are there on the streets,
like this poor girl ;
Behind the car glass,
You see the poverty.
Rob your dirty and fat belly,
What?! Nothing matters to you ?!!
You want to keep everything for yourself?! Keep it like a gold dirty necless on your neck! Tonight is …
Maybe tomorrow you will never find it

 

 

edm
EMMANUEL DOUGLAS MULOMOLE was born on 8th December 1994. He is a conscientious poet, avidly quotable writer, story writer and Life advice writer. He is from Africa, Southern part which is Malawi as his country. Many of his poems have been published on national and international website and some of her poems have also been published on international anthologies. He has won many awards from international poetry forums.

” O HEAR O HEAR!!

O hear!! O hear!! O come my dear
Let my voice whisper into your ear
A shameful news of abusing a law
From these people who really jaw.

Purely they’ve deposited the shame
Into the nation’s mind as the theme
Theme from them as political turmoil
Kill their title as the sons of the soil.

Reality is nobody is above the law
But here they’re bragging on the law
Forgetting that law quells every position
And they’re lessing their cards on election.

Everyone must evince a honorific action
On an acme of truly legitimate condition
Not to assail the law like this party done
Let’s sing the ditties in the unvarying tone.

THE LAMP OF TRANQUILLITY”

Let’s kindle a fire in the lamp of tranquility
For lighting our path of great action ability
In gleeful living with an apt magnanimity
And displaying a purely fruitful positivity

Let’s kindle a fire in the lamp of tranquility
For beaming all the structure of humanity
For chasing the gloom of discriminability
For killing the dark soul of discerpitibility

Let’s add a paraffin in the lamp of tranquility
Retain lighting the nation with compatibility
And bringing an illuminated light of futurity
And couriering a bright vitality with munity

Let’s add a paraffin in the lamp of tranquility
Emblazing the harmoniousness & lovability
As great protection from auspicious liberty
To all the regions from this or that country

Miroslava Panayotova 3

MIROSLAVA PANAYOTOVA graduated from the Plovdiv University majoring in Bulgarian philology. Her whole lot of poems, stories, tales, aphorisms, essays, criticisms, translations, articles and interviews in periodicals and collections. PANAYOTOVA’s books include Nuances(1994), God of the senses( 2005), Whisper of leaves( 2017), Green feeling( 2018); Two collection of stories: An end and then a beginning( 2017), The path of love(2018),Two eBooks: Laws of communications /aphorisms/( 2018) Old things /poetry/(2018).She is a member of the Union of the Independent Bulgarian Writers and a member of the International Association of Independent Writers “Sodrujestvo”.
POET
You wear in your light soul
everything that comes out
under your fingers –
shapes,
flowers,
aspirations
and sun.
A scarlet flower breathe
in your mouth.
You give the others
fiery scrolls.
Roses burn
your sides at sunset.
Your thought is a world
and a mirror.
Your body is
in your rhyme.
All the grasses and stars in space
hear your voice –
it springs from above!

ПОЕТ
Всичко, което излиза под пръстите –
форми, цветя, въжделения, слънце –
носиш в душата си светла, поете,
диша в устата ти алена цвете.
Даваш на другите огнени свитъци,
рози опарват на заник страните ти.
Твоята мисъл е свят, огледало,
в твоята рима е твоето тяло.
Всички треви и звездите отгоре
чуват дъха ти – извира отгоре!

 

 

 

michael
MICHAEL MWANGI MACHARIA is a poet based in Kenya. He is interested in the arts in various forms including photography, fine art ,music and dance. He was anthologized in Echoes Across the Valley (2000) and has contributed articles in local newspapers. He also enjoys identifying and promoting youthful talent.
YOU SMILE AGAIN

You are still a beauty
despite having to endure pain
by those who seek gain
and shame a rich past

Aren’t they perturbed by shadows
those bereft of abode
disturbed and distraught,
protest for hearing unheard?

We can see the rivulets
flowing down your cheeks,
though your back is turned
to mask profound sorrow

Rest assured,
it cannot be forever
for a new day will dawn
restore your smile again…

JINJA

The spirit of Gandhi
Hangs over the source
Of the great River Nile,
Ashes interred in the waters
Speaking on need for peace
To inhabit a beautiful earth;
The waters sprout and rush
Embark on the epic northern journey ,
To nourish the eternal thirst
Of distant sands…

 

 

james coburn

JAMES COBURN is an Oklahoma poet in the United States. His first book of poetry “Words of Rain” was published in 2014. The book was a finalist for an Oklahoma Book Award. In 2016, ten of his poems against terrorism and to save the Sunderbans (wetlands) were published in “Onnyodhara” (The Alternative Way) Eid-special issue festival edition in association with “Anushilon” (The Culture & Literature Society) the National Literary Organization of Bangladesh. Coburn is a 2013 inductee of the Oklahoma Journalism Hall of Fame. He has been published in several anthologies. Three of his poems were published in Tuck magazine in 2017-18. He is a resident poet at NonDoc.com

INHERIT THE EARTH

Find God on a desolate street
in the roots of a weed clinging to earth
growing in cracks of an empty lane.

In the cityscape rising above its past,
find the wildflower never seen
in the smallest flicker of hope left in dust.

Grow like a weed; multiply in violet fields.
Cling to stems entwined in cityscape.
Leave new footprints beside
river bed.

Sojourn
with fireflies through darkness,
from where you are this moment,
and love innocence when shunned.
Grow with the smallest of creatures,
but grow.,

 

NGOZI

NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA is a Nigerian poet/writer/-thinker, a graduate of Estate Management with experience in Banking and Broadcasting. She has published over one hundred and fifty poems in over thirteen countries and featured in over twenty international anthologies.
She has published three poetry books and coauthored one, they are THE TRANSFORMATION TRAIN, LETTER TO MY UNBORN, SENSATION and TROPICAL ESCAPE respectively. She writes hymns, psalms and has numerous words on the marble. All her books are record breakers.
THE GODS (1)
Where are the gods
Are they still sleeping and snoring,
While their lands soak in blood?
Where are the gods
Are they that blind, deaf and dumb,
That strangers harvest their farms?
Where are the gods
Has the flood swept them away,
Or were they also killed by men of the underworld?
Wake up the gods
Call them loud
Let them know their priests have been massacred
And their pregnant women butchered,
Tell them their men have been abducted into slavery
They parade their virgins naked in a walk of shame,
And their warriors made prisoners of war.
Where is the town crier?
Let him go round the land and summon the people
Let him announce a solemn assembly for our gods,
For things have finally fallen apart.
The aliens take a ride
Their arrows feast on our skulls
Strangers now live in our barns
We hunger and starve to death.
Where are the gods
The African child wails
He weeps and mourns,
As if there is not even a god.

 

STAR OKPEH
STAR OKPEH
is a passionate African writer and Poet. Active Poetry Coach, Publisher at Star Write Productions and Author of The Dance Of Dawn. Her works have appeared on Atunispoetry.com, anthologies, Poetica Magazine and many platforms. She is the Head of Writers at The Portal Network International, Member of Writers Space Africa, Editor and International Project manager. Chinua Ezenwa Ohaeto, winner of The New Hampshire Institute of Art Writing Award speaking about her did say…“Star is a dynamic fellow With a beautiful mind… Her writings measure the environment, relationships and understanding of self.”
IT’S NOT FOR ME.

Far off into the sea
I see life paddling death to sleep
But, not for me.
The fisherman throws his bait in
To void bottomless deep.
It’s not for me.
My eyes defile such luxury.

I know no feet of escape route
No voo doo rings; enchanted boats.
It’s not for me.
Locked. Lost.
For me there is no cemetery.
I am far gone.

 

 

 

smeetha,

SMEETHA BHOUMIK is an artist, a poet, and she curates poetry at WE, as Founder of Women Empowered-India (WE). She is Chief Editor – ‘Equiverse Space – A Sound Home in Words’

BIRDS OF A FEATHER-SKY

Hark O Tree, O Flyaway Eastern Sky !
I am Shelly’s greenbul, Sharpe’s greenbul
a mountain greenbul or a ulugulu greenbul
I am your very own bare-faced-go-away bird
a papyrus gonolek;

East coast boubou, zanzibar red bishop,
I sail on your wind, I cry on your tree-tops,
I sing of dawn, well before dawn while it is still dark
and you are restive, you are worn,
I sing !

I sing to you of vast green Lake Nakuru
where primates swing and people dance
in joy unbound !
Masai Mara, O Masai Mara,
Do you hear me, O Masai Mara?

I fly the oceans and sail the skies
in search of that ephemeral stillnes
almost divine :
a sameness on the other side!
O Enchanted Eastern Sky, I am home.

 

BIRDS OF A FEATHER- SONG

Flying to the other side of the universe
on wings of hope
I see you

cross a river,
scale a mountain, hum a new song
with roots of trees embedded in it, shells

of magic too! Gold dust flying in the air
with dreams you dare.
Your silk

rustles in
a song.
Your dance

visible
all over the
world,
heralds good cheer of warmth…

 

 

 

dr zg
DR ZACHAROULA GAITANAKIwas born in Athens on November 30th, 1966. Now, she is a small farmer and lives with her family in Arcadia. She writes poems, articles, short stories, essays, novels and review of book. She is also a translator of books of poetry. She is a life member of the “World Academy of Arts and Culture” / “World Congress of Poets” (which awarded her the title of the Honorary Doctor of Literature), of the IWA, the “WPS”, the “Poetas del Mundo” and the “Asociacion Mundial de Escritores. She has published twelve books

POETRY’S MATERIALS

A well – dressed verse
with a red, full of freshness
and fragrance carnation on the lapel
pops out right
in the crown to dance.
Two strophes start a feast
on the white paper.
On top, an underlined title
assigns the intention of the poem.
Rhymes, words, “moments”
are valuable and invaluable
materials for a Poet
to make an emotion,
to pay off a debt
and to defeat a chimera.
DOLORES MEDEN
WITHOUT WORDS
Without words
you told me
to disappear.

Without a witness
to my shame
I stumbled,
I stumbled upon
myself
when I tried
to undo
your doing.

Your harshness
is invisible.
I’m without
a scratch,
but full of scars.

 

 

doleres menden

DOLORES MEDEN was born in Sweden by Croatian parents and have lived there all her life. A graduate of Bachelor of Arts in History of Religion. She also studied some languages, mostly Slovene and Chinese. She is a translator and have since translated one children’s book by Brane Mozetič from Slovene into Swedish and some of his poetry for a festival and for a magazine. She is a house wife , studying Spanish to expand her translating career .

READING WOMAN

To read is to enter
a new world
A new unlimited world
with words, connections
and invaluable thoughts
on the other
of the unseen
of the untouched.

To read is to shelter
an enemy
when the guards are
looking for a scapegoat.

To read is resistance
to stupidity
to ignorance
to the unhealthy
relationships
you once
escaped from.

To read is to be.
To be the one
you can be
instead of the one
you are.

To read is to
reach the collective
mind of others

and for the
time of reading
escape the loneliness
that capsules you
in ignorance.

Once reading for
a woman was
a privilege.
To enter
the world
of men.
To enter
a forbidden
space.

 

arabambi joseph a

ARABAMBI JOSEPH ADEWALE  is a special educationist with a Nigeria Certificate in Education, pursuing my degree in surveying and geo-informatics, a citizen of Nigeria by nationality, a great promising poet and writer, a God fearing person etc.

WE ARE AFRICANS

Cat and dog
That is odd
Though not wrong
Just at fog
There can be bond

Haves and not
Both got gut
Difference maybe lot
Should mean all but naught
Both they shouldn’t

The pleasant and the rubbish
Both have a wish
Though never served the same dish
Both are made bliss

Spiced and the tasteless
Though not of the same address
Both ends as mess
What’s the stress?

The flashy(s) and the trashy(s)
Both ends as dusts and ashes
Even the mountain crashes
Nor ever lives two batches

Shouldn’t we be friends?
Shouldn’t tears and cracks be mended?
The way up is up
And the way down is down
No mountain climber makes its top home
Riches means not eternity
While power means not totality
The poor will die
While the rich won’t live forever
Wisdom!
Smartness!
All will surely end
Even wickedness
And gossip
Will definitely end
Everything will come to halt
It doesn’t matter
Whether good or bad
But what you do will do
How you do it will do
And definitely when you do it will do
Giving to the poor won’t make you poor
Talking to the influenced never make you one
A rich amidst many poor
Is said to be nothing better off
A hand is miserable
While two are capable
Let birds gather together
For their oneness is harmonious
Let ants form a fence
For their act is courageous
Iron is said to sharpen iron
Not alone will it sharpen it
It will also influence it
Harm shocks the scattered
Trouble condemn the confused
But the home of unity never crumbles
The decisions of the bonded are always flawless
We should be friends not foes
The color made us one
So should be our souls
Our hands should be open to each other not close
No problem hung anywhere
If not those we create ourselves
No hurdle we can’t overcome
If not those we cease to help each other with
We are one
We can fly
Like birds we can hover
We are strong together
No mountain is too high
No valley is too low
Black is power
It means we can
Africa can stand
Because we are one
United we stand
Divided we fall
Lions may be kings
The stallion may own the swift
But the converging action of the ants
Are hazardous to the kingdom of the gigantic
Arise and shine
And eradicate the lines
For no branch fruits without the vine
Let’s stand as one
Let peace and unity be born
Let all grudges and diversities be gone
To move our nation to a perfect new dawn
Our languages might be at diversity
Our culture might not be at equality
We might be at different personality
Yet we are one
One voice
One people
One continent
Together we are one AFRICA.

 

 

 

 

mbizo9THE JOURNAL CURATOR
MBIZO CHIRASHA is certified as a Global Literary Influencer by Directorio Mundial de Escritores through Academia Mundial de Literatura, Historia, Arte y Cultura. Recipient of PEN Deutschland Exiled Writer Grant (2017) Literary Arts Projects Curator, Writer in Residence, Blogs Publisher, Arts for Human Rights/Peace Activism Catalyst, Social Media Publicist and Internationally Anthologized Writer, 2017 African Partner of the International Human Rights Arts Festival Exiled in Africa Program in New York.2017 Grantee of the EU- Horn of Africa Defend Human Rights Defenders Protection Fund. Resident Curator of 100 Thousand Poets for Peace-Zimbabwe, Originator of Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Movement. African Contributor to the Table of Words Demer Press International Poetry anthology edited by Hannie Rouweler in Netherlands. Solidarity Member of Global Alliance for Politics and Arts. African Participant to the 2014-2020 World Poetry Almanac Anthologies series in Mongolia edited by Hadaa Sendoo. Co-Editor of German Africa Bilingual Collection with German International Translator Andreas Weiland in 2016 (http://www.street-voice.de/SV7/SVissue7.html).2003 Zimbabwean Young literary Delegate to the Goteborg International Book Fair Sweden ( presented at Nordic Africa institute, Swedish Writers union , SIDA Diplomatic luncheon , Radio Dialogue , Swedish International library Association , Sweden National Education Summit).2009 Poet in residence of ICACD ,international Conference of Africa Culture and Development courtesy of African Culture Development Institute .Founder of the GIRLCHILDCREATIVITY PROJECT. Curator of MIOMBOPUBLISHING, miombopublishing.wordpress.com and PERSONALITIES OF INSPIRATION,personalitiesofinspiration.wordpress.com., http://www.en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mbizo_Chirasha

 

 

mothers

BRAVE VOICES POETRY JOURNAL– A weekly platform of poetry for resistance, literary freedom of expression and protest Poetry in pursuit for a peaceful, just, non-dictatorial and nonviolent environment with a special on Zimbabwe , Africa and other nations around the globe through poetry , Flash fiction ,arts , brave voices and literary activism. Contact the Curator/EDITOR of the Brave Voices Poetry Journal MBIZO CHIRASHA at miombopublishing@gmail.com , post on MIOMBOPUBLISHING Facebook Group or Inbox the Curator on Messenger.

Mbizo Chirasha. Miombo Publishing Header Image. a publishing platform for young and EXPERIENCED fiction writers

 

 

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