Mother Africa survived the trauma of clanging chains of captivity during SLAVE TRADE , shackles of colonialism and winced from beatings of hard bolt nut clenched fists of apartheid. Children and grandchildren of Mother Africa watched helplessly her sorrowful dance to the acoustics of sufferance. Still , Africa remain resilient against beauty – smashing punches from kindred’s of neo-colonialism : global village, digital revolution and consumerism .Mama Africa’s groin is ripped apart by her triplets totalitarian regimes, economic malaise and moral decadence. Today Mother Africa of pyramids , Africa of Nefertiti , Africa of Lumumba , Africa of Mandela ,Africa of Kambarage , Africa of Lithium , Africa of diamond and Africa of uranium wallow in murky waters of poverty ,chronic civil wars and deadly epidemics .Young and established poets contributing to this Brave Voices Poetry Journal 65 Edition, AFRICA IS A POETRY REPUBLIC dipped pen tongues into dimples and crevices of our Mother Africa . The poetic tongues then spat their snort of satire and the saliva of paradox onto our mental inboxes. Tonight, we are pilgrims to the poetry gods and goddesses, we trudge through shrines of metaphor, altars of irony, mountains of hyperbole and forests of rhythm until we reach to the zenith of the POETRY REPUBLIC-Africa .( Editor of Brave Voices Poetry Journal).


BENEDIXIO MOORE KHOTI (PEOPLE’S CHOICE) hails from Southern parts of Zambia. An upcoming writer, Spoken word artist, lyricist and storyteller. He writes about the universe and the beyond.

Benedixio Moore Khoti Consul - Zambia
My Motherland —
A blend of artistic and prehistoric attributes of ancient history,
a bittersweet story of a magical perambulation so golden
clothed in extraordinary fertility of soils
embellished with silver and gold,
an unending fold pregnant with tales untold
pillared with walls of a rich culture and tradition
livid with luminesce and pure magnificence.

My Motherland is a flourish of nature’s splendor
like that of rainbows glamour

fully possessed with countless beauties –
an absolute magnitude of beatitude
stretching from oceanic fountains
to eminent mountains,
She glows with fervency of nature’s resources
and boasts with umpteen wildlife
carrying around an atmosphere of care
orchestrated by hearts of a people so tender.

Her vast canopy of lingua is a sensational shade
that caters for all
her utopia is not chimerical but practical.
Oh Beloved Motherland
you are a blessing indeed.




NANCY NDEKE is an accomplished literalist and internationally acclaimed writer, globally anthologized poet, widely published author of long fiction and poetry from Nairobi, Kenya. Ndeke is a book reviewer, a distinguished critic and Literary Arts Projects Consultant.


A short essay –
An observed old story cum history,, that like a bad penny, keeps showing up, is the juicy lie that has for centuries oiled the unsavory tales of savagery of Africa by men seeking thrills, adventure and cheap goods. A tale of sordid disasters that afflict a beautiful continent with its huge potential for growth and self-reliance. A tale of lies streamed and spiked with spices of backwardness and nudity to shocking levels.
Egyptologists and the noble UNESCO have acknowledged that the ancient Egyptian civilization were the works of strictly black Africans. This is as documented by Cheink Anta Diop (1923-1986) in the study of the identity of ancient Egyptians.
Africa of present day is tainted with rot, decay, and outright chaos through corruption and engineered poverty to the extent that in some States in Africa, peace is as temporal as breaking dawn, what happened to these giant minds that are shadowed by the technology that has outlived their industry, education and social systems?
What splintered the social fabric in the African that each subgroup is suspicious of another and is wont to steal from and hurt them as seen in endless civil wars?
Commerce and faith as propagated by succeeded African invaders are suspect, planting divisions and bias based on belief and education. Slave trade and its utter evil cannot be overrated.
Still this does not explain why Africa is the face of a beggar with a bowl or why the poster child for aids in international conventions is an emaciated African child.
But something explains something. Civil wars, coup de tats and rebel movements in Africa have been on increase with fresh out breaks reported nearly daily.
Of note is that whenever the above disasters raise their ugly heads, for sure, the land and state in question has either huge crude oil reserves, gold, diamonds, forests cover with mature hard wood for harvest or uranium for more sinister deadly weaponry making.
Is the African descendant of ancient Egyptian fame so inept that he cannot manage his resource for the benefit of his society without massacring entire tribes?
Greed, corruption and interference by corporeal entities that benefit from sponsoring wars by funding dissidents to fight sensible governments or sponsoring irresponsible governments to loot from its own people are by and large the problem.
Displaced populations, huge refugee turnouts, genocide and failing or failed states are the results. Governments groaning under debilitating debts from foreign government bent on recolonizing the continent through looting a country’s resource through corrupt deals is in vogue.
Truth is African leadership has failed its people. By proxy, Africa has allowed artificial boundaries of maps and education and commerce to rule them. It has no regard for accountability to its people but rather to its personal interests and the interests of fellow sponsoring looters. Unless Africa collectively rethinks its current fiasco facing its people, it shall continue as easy pickings for their history deniers as pestilence wipes off its people off daily.
KABEDOOPONG PIDDO DDIBE’ST (EDITORS CHOICE) is a published Ugandan poet, artist and Literature and English Language teacher, an Acoli by tribe, born on 25th February, 1992, Kitgum, and Northern Uganda.


I have come home
A long way behind me,
from the heaps
of tall city of garbage,
to dine with legions
of men of honors
in the city of gold
Where they killed God.

I have come home,
From the heaps of the gutters,
Down the dark alleys,
Putting up all the shutters,
But my path has a roadblock,
Under hawk-eyeing eagles,
I want just a glimpse
Of what is happening.

I have come home,
From the other Riverside;
There’s disemboweling home,
Of a dead white elephant,
But where shall I place
My tired feet and head?
Each with his cutting knife,
each marching inside
the powder-heated womb
to cut his liver of the elephant.

I have come home,
Each time they enter,
The belly of the dead elephant,
They return out with livers
Of men on their cutters,
As their shares of the elephant.



PHODISO MODIRWA is a Motswana writer and poet. She is a recipient of the Botswana President’s Award for Contemporary Poetry 2016. Her short story, ‘The Healing Balm’ was short listed for the Botswana Tourism Fiction Award 2019 and her poems, ‘Family Time’, ‘Surviving Suicide’ and ‘Coat of Many Colours’ are published on the Writers Space Africa magazine .



The sound of ululations and drum beats lays a welcome mat for you
The women with beads on their hands and feet
Are gyrating under the sweltering heat of the September sun
You are a daughter celebrated by fattened beasts and grain
This is your first day here
So the women gather around you like prayer
Hum as your mother lays her language on your tongue

Soon you are older and your youth meets Autumn early
Your trust for the world around you slowly peels off like old paint
You might learn too early the urgency to return home before dark
The lessons of womanhood and its dangers flood your budding stem of a body
Standards of beauty will flash like slides past you
Will beg you to come along, pick one
Do not buy any mirror that dismisses your beauty as ‘other’
That affirms not your skin, your smile, your belonging
Remember you are Africa’s pride
Carried on the back of sustainable Agriculture
And blooming mining industries

And when you turn 30 and your finger bears no carats still
I mean 30 and the man leaves you with daughters to both mother and father
Teach them about the African sun
How the morning is for rising no matter how long the night lingered
And the night will be the loud femicides
The need for constant protests against violence on women
Will be the unrelenting ideologies imposed on us
To make us feel as if all this vast land is not enough all of us
As if Africa is not the mother-land
Show me a mother whose hands ever shorted to embrace all her daughters
Definitely not the Africa I know
OLADOYIN AYODEJI was born in South-western Nigeria. His first poem the ‘Fall of Africa’ relates a metaphoric account of Africa’s history from colonialism to independence which won the Newman poetry contest.

(The trauma of child soldiers)
Procession of proclivity allured! By profound
Indoctrination bequeath a flowing trail of blood.
Chaos returns in his blood infused regalia that confound,
Turbaned apparatchiks of chaos abduct us in flood.

Henri gustave delvigne’s innovation adorn our necks
Kalashnikov innovation is our companion.
Under the brotherhood we are brainwashed to wreak havoc and woo chaos like a soul companion.

Deceitfully we are manipulated by Bacchus chalice,
spawned gambit pawns on a chessboard,
as vainly our light brigade charged to the fortalice
and they are suya for the vultures roasted and gored.

Divorcing our creeds we are plagued by horror,
revealing our berserkers conscience that pound
viciously as we are tangled in the webs of malice
spun by the cruel hands of fate.

  • Suya- local name for roasted cow meat in Hausa language.
  • Bacchus- The god of wine in Greek mythology
  • Fortalice- archaic english: A heavily fortified fort.
    *Henri Gustave Delvigne- Made notable contributive innovative ideas to the development of bullets
    *Berserkers- A special unit of Danish warriors who fought with intense rage and brutality.
  • NGAM EMMANUEL BEYIA, Cameroonian born is poet, educationist, and an advocate of socio-political change. His writings address various issues and every reader is likely to find one that suits their interest. His works have been published in magazines and anthologies the world over.

Slogan slingers drilled in theatricals
with chief slave storm the town
Bearers of messages of peace from heady headboy
Under scorching midday sun, sweating
Tired hired praise singers flank street sides
Singing, hailing sycophantic roosters
Leaders with dead consciences
Triumphant the servant comes
Not into Jerusalem though
but into a,bullet wounded city
Clad in attire so gorgeous
Olive branch in hand
All hostilities he promises to end
ceasefire nothing he knows
Deep in his heart it’s just concert
Staged with floodlights of global media houses
to cover another fake peace crusade
an animated mascot he parades the streets
Charismatic and cheerful, optimistic but naive
Preaching Peace gun in pocket
Disguised, in the apparel of evil men
projecting ego of his sadistic boss
Who saddled on a monarchical throne
has changed colors for decades
But a chameleon has remained
And like it’s feaces has remained hard to clean
Mickey Mouse Peace he preaches
masses still caught in cross-fires
Is this not an insult added to injury?
If guns are silenced,
fraternity retrieved from history
Africa will again stand tall and proud
Seeking paths that lead to the human heart


Michael Mwangi consul Kenya

MICHAEL MWANGI MACHARIA is a poet based in the Rift Valley region, Kenya. He contributes literary and education articles to the Kenyan dailies. He is also involved in directing, adjudication of music and drama. He is fast developing interest in History, Fine art and photography

This place
Beautiful sunlit continent
source of glorious narratives
By those who sought her warmth
A sense of humanness
And found a creative space.

This last bastion of nature
Where beasts still roam free
In open savannah plains
And lurk in the dark woods
To pursue hapless prey
Or gaze at their own image
Partaking waters in gleaming ponds.

This wealthy place where maidens
Laugh a coquettish laughter
Display milk white teeth
With round water pots on flowing hair
Watched by energetic bare-chested lads
Wooden guns on oiled backs.

The land
where great kings once reigned
before the new dispensation
that partook to the new ways
And forgot the paths ancestors trod.
REGNARD BISHOZA is an upcoming Tanzanian poet, a true lover of literature. He writes passionately for peace, tranquility and harmony. He holds an international diploma in writing bestowed to him by World Nations Writers’ Union in 2017MY COLOURED CINDERELLA
Your hair is midnight – black
Your hair flows over your shoulders.


You have honey sweet lips
They have saccharine sweet lips
They are blossom soft.

You have demure personality
You have a bubbly outlook
Kidult clothes in an offbeat way.

You have wasp – waisted
Your eyelashes are velvety.

You have halo-white teeth
Your set of dazzling, angel-white teeth
Gleam as you blow gently
On your carmine-white fingers nails
It is a pleasure to see you flowing
Moon shadow-black hairs.

You have a decanter shaped waist
Your complexion has an impeccable
An impeccable ochrous hue.

When you break into a smile
Your beguiling oyster white teeth
Lit up the darkened chambers.

Your calamine-pink lips
Taste like rose petals
As sweet as any songbird.

Your vanquish clothes still kept
Captive an aroma redolent
Of cinnamon and meadow-fresh mint.



TINOTENDA WILSON WAISON an aspiring poet, human rights activists, page poet, flash fictionist as well as an editor of the (Deem literature organization). He contributed to many journals online, The Kofi Annan tribute, African boy child campaign, The Ghetto Symphony Orchestra.

In her nudity we do merry, like infants nursling
Nursling from a savage breast, of bitter truths…
Juvenile strengths sapped in her oil fields, hatred
Amongst tribes generated, conflicts ignited now
And forever. Brother killing sister in cold blood
For the precious gem around her neck, violence
And guns the tranquil drum beat infants dance to
Ashanti no longer a bliss, xenophobic experiences
No longer spawn tears to drip and wet grounds
For bloody reds has curse her red savannah soil.

A rinsed civilization from west has risen tempest
Storms, fierce to fright her pride, she is stripped
To the bone, chattering in Russian winter hoping
To get tatter to clothe her peel, East is there hope
And guns, muscles for more grenades and artillery
Rebellious cubs an endangered creature. Oh Ma!
Gather your children…
STEVEN FORTUNE is a  prolific poet and writer from Nova Scotia


Smarting still from the stripping
of their landmark events badge
moments of intrusive triviality
exemplify the smallest razor’s aptitude
for unparalleled precision in the lacerations
on the recollective oscillations of my sunrise
splice of hum and sigh like a roll of bullets
rattled off in a child’s cap gun

The lethargy that wraps
its transparent ribbon round a clinomaniac’s
box of Tuesdays is antithetical in its ambition
as a Little Black Book – bloated with an atrium of
improvised post-it palpitations –
is emotionally verbose

Yesterday the discordant acrimony banshees
you unleashed on my generic inhaled waking
would have found tune in the calendrial malaise
of a rusty human culture but today my recollections
sit like opened zippers on my skin
in the aftermath of flagellations stamped on me
by searing banshee tongues
as tomorrow’s mandate pleas with the radio
for another song to sigh to in redolent composure
PROSPER KUVANIKA is a Zimbabwean Afrocentric poet, social commentator and a provocative writer . Besides poetry he finds comfort in writing short stories. Some of his work has been featured in the Tuck Magazine. He is currently he working on a short story entitled Dual Sim.


I hear the voice which was left behind in the canal

I still hear the cry of the Suez crisis of Egypt piercing through my ears

As I stand between the north and south of Sudan

I choke from the smoke that still puffs up from the ashes that was left behind by Helgig

Each time I pace through the streets of Rwanda

I feel the heaviness over my shoulders as I walk past the Hutu and Tutsi brothers

Burundi is still stained by the blood of the Banyamulenge tribe at Gatumba

I still struggle to control my tamper over the uprising of the Kikuyu by the Mau Mau of Kenya

On countless occasions I have tried to draw up sense from the abductions and destruction by the Boko Haram in Nigeria

How Democratic is the Republic of Congo when the Hendu and the Hema do not see eye to eye because of Huri and Kivu

The massacres of Sharpville and Marikana are even still gruesome to mention in public

The fear of Xenophobia still lingers in my memory and is always resurrected each time I see fire burning in Mzansi

Gukurahundi left a wider gap between the Ndebele and the Shona people of Zimbabwe

Was all these moments of insanity or Autocracy at loose?


MICHAEL DICKEL (Poetry Chef) ( has won international awards and been translated into several languages. His latest poetry collection, Nothing Remembers (, will come out late summer 2019 from Finishing Line Press. He co-edited Voices Israel Volume 36, was managing editor for arc-23 and 24, and is a past-chair of the Israel Association of Writers in English. He publishes and edits Meta/ Phor (e) /Play and is a contributing editor of The BeZine.


I never was to Africa, Ferron’s song goes,
‘tho it comes up in my dreams.

Once I stood near
the Egyptian border, looking in from Eilat.
Now friends along our spider connections
ask me to go. First a student invited. Then
other poets did. I want to come out of the books—
A Grain of Wheat, Things Fall Apart, Secrets
I’ve read.

I want to see my friends,
Richard and Eriata. I met them in Salerno.
Mbizo, an editor poet who has taught me to say,
together we rise. Nancy, John, others on
the threads we string together. But I never
was to Africa, only in my mind.

Now may be a good time to learn from
my sisters and brothers in this original mother
land, second largest of continents, where we
first stood as humans—a good time to stand
together. It is not so easy to stand alone—
to struggle together. Aluta continua!

And let us then sing songs with Africa,
music and poetry calling out.
Do you hear them? Do you hear
the mbila, mbira, kora accompanying
the words? I am listening. I try to hear
the instruments woven deep in us.

But I never was to Africa, ‘tho it comes up in my dreams.
WAFULA P’KHISA s a poet, writer and teacher from Kenya. He studied English, Literature & Education at Moi University. His work has been published in The Legendary (issue 48), Aubade Magazine (issue 1), The Seattle Star,The Beacon (ebook anthology), Scarlet Leaf Review, Antarctica Journal and more other platforms online and offline,


Rain in June tastes like ice cream on my tongue
It awakens the memories of the apple I ate in your vineyard
And how its sweetness trickled down my system, setting me ablaze
Before tides turned, and wiped you from my map.
I wait patiently for your return
The pillow beside me is cold and empty
The path from your home is empty and desolate
Your flowers in the vase are broken
Your pictures on the wall are torn
But the hope of seeing you refuses to wane.
I’m hanging on a thread of hope that
before the sun kisses the rim of the sky again
before the rains leave the arena for the sun
before the cocks crow at daybreak
before another scandal is reported in government
before another man kills for love
before another tide sweeps me off-balance
You will be back in my arms, singing hallelujahs
with me in the moonlight

mbizo 43

MBIZO CHIRASHA is an Essays contributor for the MONK art and soul Magazine 2019, United Kingdom . Co-Editor of the STREET VOICE a German Africa Poetry collection, in Germany Editor of the WomaWords Literary Press,, Curator of the Brave Voices Poetry Journal,
Boende, You sold your morning sun for a cup of tea

I see red ants coming for you in the wake of another dawn
Bujumbura, You lost your salt in gossip
Sambisa, pungent smell of home brewed war,

permeating the nostrils of Africa
We are children of chiboko burning in the charcoal of war,

When Ebola sneeze, Bissau catch a cold,
When the sun sits over hills of home, I see triplets Ebola, xenophobia and Sambisa sharing half smoked cigars after a ritual bath in Tugela
Pongolo and mfolozi bleeding xenophobia
Limpopo crocodiles smelling roasted flesh
Soweto smoking imboza
After another Marikina
Ghost of biko eating beetroot in the drama of rainbow revolutions
When the sun filter its orange into this red earth.

I see twin brothers Renamo and Frelimo

laughing outloud to baboons dangling in gorongosa trees
I see children sniffing face book and colonial dope.
Darfur, drowning in the din of rattling drums and blood dollars,

their children eating wiki leaks for breakfast and twitter mojo for supper,

oiling the revolutionary engines through song and dance
Burning candles from both ends.
Nodding to the wind of drums and beat of the gun, drunk with wind and sound
Sing Darfur
Sing to the freedom babies eating twitter berries and faces book figs.
Forgetting their fingers in Google forests.

Licking Wounds after burning in cultural monoxide and moral dioxide
Bastards starved of ideological oxygen
Black monkeys learning about trees from sparrows
Khayelitsha ,Armageddon of kwaito and booze
Enugu drunk with palm wine in the red hills of manobe
Sankara and his ghost breakfasting Communism in upper-Volta
Harare wincing from punches of media witches
You need holy water to wash your armpits
Last night Congo drank Ebola from White Nile
Copper pregnant earth of Congo,

carrying the wind of want Heart beating like djembe,

monkeys sneezing flu to equatorial birds
Anopheles defecated malaria in Cabinda
We are the children of sabalele.
Sharing our DNA with Hani and Biko,

Whose ghosts walk in the fake bling -bling of rainbow freedom,
Freedom still born!!
Eating carrot and beetroot in Mpumalanga- the land of sun.
Rains of death are beating the land into madness
Madness breeding slums


CHRISPAH MUNYORO is a graduate of Applied Art and Design, Graphics and Website Programming from Kwekwe Polytechnic College in Zimbabwe . Munyoro is a talented writer, journalist and a dedicated Design Artist. She is natural linguist, fluent in many languages among them English, Shona, Esperanto, Setswana, Swahili, Italiana and Yoruba.


You have cried a river,the river you cried bursting to a storm
You have worked hard,bathing in your own sweat
Looking gloomily up the skies
Instead of praying and expecting rains,you cursed
Robbed of your wealthy at fingertips and underneath
The heavens had turned into war zone of terror
Instead of giving liquid of life
You receive blasts of swords as cyclones
Stabbing to the core of humanity
Ravishing with no mercy, turning you into hobos
Devil on spree in glee at the disarray
Confusion of Africa a mega boost to hades
Your glittery dimmed and robbed
Homeless,hungry,pest¬ilences and disasters
Living on handouts and scraps
Stacked in darkness, your souls roasted

and blackened Love,joy,satisfactio-n,peace

and happiness just history and tales Africa,

hugging and grabbing dunes of confusion your solace
Groaning and shrilling at the word’s peril,

tirelessly hoping for oasis of peace


GENE BARRY ’s chapbook Stones in their Shoes was published in 2008. In 2010 Gene was editor of the anthology Silent Voices, a collection of poems written by asylum seekers living in Ireland. He additionally edited the 2012, 2013 and 2014 editions of The Blue Max Review and Inclusion as part of the Blackwater International Poetry Festival. In 2013 his collection Unfinished Business was published by Doghouse Books, a collection that has been critically acclaimed. In 2014 he edited Irish poet Michael Corrigan’s debut collection Deep Fried Unicorn, and the anthology fathers and what must be said. In 2015 Barry edited The Day the Mirror Called and MH Clay’s book son of fred.
(For Mary)

Healing is a matter of time,
but it is sometimes also
a matter of opportunity.

Inner Peace, the clinker-built
she has admiringly created,
sanded, varnished and polished
lovingly boasts of pleasantries,
success its unmanned tiller.

Before her launch, she decks in layers
of approval and acknowledgment;
acceptance the rivets she has driven home.
The love anchored to her cheery heart,
delivering an abundance of approval.

Tide’s fortune speaks to her from
above her fading Cimmerian Shade,
as she puts sail on happy waters,
a tide of doldrum seeking torments
her overfed squad of jetsam.

Farewell my scapegoat,
a confusion of stooges bellows from
their angry-captained quay wall,
perpetual puppets whose sick noises
merely waken her jubilant emotions.

What does happiness look like, she retorts,
as her pathfinder, a keel of love
gulfs this pleasant awakening sea.
Happy sails filling boundaries and
pulling her further from suffering.

At dusk she orphans a protesting
jetsam of projections, prejudices
and screaming inadequacies,
loneliness and hurt their desserts;
equilibrium her welcomed ballast.

For acceptance lives this side of the grave.



GEORGETTE KENDRA MBALE is a rising poet and writer from Zambia .She exposes the good and bad of her country through her poetry. Her dream is to bring unity and peace through literatures.




Africa my queen
Bedazzling me with her natural beauty
Like a beautiful bride clad in ankara with an afro
Dancing before me with her anklets and waist beads
Enticing me with her accent of a million languages
In her I see a vision of pride lands; Zambezia.

She brings echoes of voices ululating in cheerful nods.
Africa my home my pride
Home of the beautiful kilimanjaro
Victoria Falls and meritorious pyramids
She is a bride adorned in mystery and adventure
She is indeed the first wonder and my first love.

See the egwugwu makishi and massai defy science
Hear the ogene and see my sister’s musisi
Hear the rumbling of the gods
They give us showers with blessings of greens.

Africa the warrior and goddess of love
She has flaws and she has claws
She bites and smoother;she isn’t perfect
Africa is the beauty I see and the rhythm I dance to.


BAKARY KONE ,Né en 1990, Bakary Koné ou encore appeler Poète d’AURORE est un Ecrivain poète, Artiste slameur de Nationalité Malienne. Diplômé en Science de l’Education, ayant travaillé avec certaines ONG et Centre culturel de son pays, il évolue dans la communication écrite et orale pour assouvir sa passion d’écrire et d’échanger
Pour qu’Afrique soit des nations unies :

Elle qui est déjà unie par la nature,
Unie par ses cultures, par ses mœurs,
Unie par son histoire, par ses vécus,
Unie par les chaines, par le fer.

Ne devons-nous pas mettre en application
Ce qui, par nécessité a été déjà planifié ?
Ne devons-nous pas faire face à la réalité
Et prendre en main de fer notre destinée ?

Ou devons-nous rester les proies de la domination
Et survivre en esclave à la merci des alliés ?
Ou devons-nous rester les soumis de la colonisation
Et survivre de part à part faibles et crédités ?

A vous les enfants d’Afrique sommes-nous
Ce qu’ils veulent que l’on soit ?
ALI UDE UCHENNA is an international award winning author, has gotten over twenty five powerful award in the field of global literature including a Bronze medal from motivation strips India, a Golden globe medal from Maria Elena Vincente, Las Vegas and so many other accolades

Land of the giant
Filled with men of wisdom
Dwelling to portray the sheen
of nature, in it’s highest….

Like a moon sitting on it home
And a garden of beautiful roses
before the twilight’ she appeared

The land of my great ancestors
That existed with might and courage
Fought a many wars, human and inhuman
To preserve and protect her offspring…

One people with diverse colour
Diverse colour with multiple culture
Multiple culture, but a single mission
Which is to love and protect one another

A home of distinguished species
Filled with natural strength and power,
Toiled under the rain and the hot sun
To ensure that its descendants keeps feeding and living….

What else shall I call thee!
O’ how do I stratify you my Africa
If not to say! you are “THE GIANT”.
ARABAMBI JOSEPH A Writer , Poet and a student of Federal University of Technology Minna Nigeria, a special educator and an aspiring surveyor


But bares a soul white as snow
Light makes ever thing shown
But much about her yet known
Many say she is vulnerable
I say she is adorable
Just as the color black
Full of honor and greatness
Many call her trouble
I say she is noble
Just as the color black
Full of fertility and richness
Culture a cure
Color greatness wore
Land so pure
People so sure
Africa is black
Black is African
Nothing can be compared to black
Africa! A home of knowledge.


JULIET DHLAMINI is an Accomplished Educator, a seasoned English language teacher, rising Zimbabwean Poet and an Advocate of Women Rights

My Beautiful Africa. Africa my DNA and blood
Africa of great treasures , rich soil , vast lands and everything
Africa my promise
My seeking eyes find only you, threshing in the throes of sorrow,
Africa my Africa where did you go wrong?

Beautiful Africa , my breath
It is true is it not?
That as you sow, so shall you reap?
We sowed, they reaped and now we are nothing
We are harvesting despair and hunger. We lost the treasure to the robbers, we lost all our hope. The sea-worn fishermen’s child has never tasted the shrimp, the prawns. OH no, they are for titillating of faraway taste buds.

Beautiful Africa mine, my being
Education as it was is no longer the key
And so we scrimp, we save, denying ourselves others that could be
In a futile attempt to win that trophy, education.
Eventually we gaze at it as it sits proudly on its throne
As it gathers dust, bows in capitulation while we stare at it bewildered
Africa my Africa Where did we go wrong?

Beautiful Africa, my tears
We are lost. We stumble, fumble and mumble in the dark
Can you untangle yourself from this sticky snare, this cauldron of barren toil?
Unchain yourself from cultural manipulation
Redeem yourself from economic slavery
Rise from the blaze of mental colonization

Africa my Africa , My DNA
You have lost yourself , you are lost
We your children are swallowed to extinction!
Africa my Africa Where did you go wrong?
AUTHOR OMWA OMBARA is a Political Asylee, an investigative journalist, poet, vocalist, performing and visual artist. She is author of a Memoir, “God’s Child on The Run.” She is a former Bureau Chief, The Standard Group, Co-founder of Tujipange Africa Media.

OMWA OMBARA - Consul Kenya


Africa Mama, sing for me
Cradle of mankind, swallow me
Sacred shrines, pray for me
Mother of warriors, fight for me
Mouth of the river, sanctify me
Rich black soil, mould, create me
Spirit strong, uplift me
Africa mama, embrace me
Womb of the mighty, comfort me
Granary of wisdom, restore me
Fire and brimstone, chasten me
Mouth of the river, ground my feet
Rhythm of kindness, dance with me
Africa Mama, sing for me
Mother of lullabies, sing for me
Mountain of giants, strengthen me
Endless Forest, nourish me
Soul of justice, grind for me
Epitome of resilience, sing for me
Mother of poets, create for me.

OLANIHUN OPEYEMI JOE writes from Ibadan, Nigeria. His works have been featured in Kalahari Review, Nebo Literary Journal, Lost Coast Review, Cordite Review and elsewhere.


To a deserted school
We were wont to say
To a deserted school gone on a holiday
If you would still go
Geckos will be your mates
Birds your teachers
And when it is time for break
You will be served the eggs of lizards!

Via the lidless eye of a well
We telescope the belly of the sky.

In a deserted school
On this sultry Sunday evening
Over the empty playfield and on the roofs
Of the silent classrooms – raucous in bird play –
Crows commingle with eagles.


CAROLYNE AFROETRY MA , Carolyne M. Acen is an International Ugandan Spoken word artist, poet and writer. Her work revolves around society and women stories. She is a 2019 participant of the East Africa Poetic Hour competition. Her poetry has been published in poetry magazines like African writers space.

Carolyne M .Acen

Your emotions perch outside
the door of my heart.
Locked into obedience.
You treat me like an office
revolving door.
Walk in and out of my life
as you please.
Your love isn’t home.
Just another traveler with
itchy feet.
Interrogation is forbidden.
Adulation is a taboo.
Vehemence of your devotion
to me is vilified.

Like a nomad- you never stay.
Mingle with free range poultry
as darkness blooms.
Pride leans against the gnarled
trunk of the old mahogany.
Your emotions hang in the
night sky like a hunter’s horn.
Kisses are equivalent to a
dalliance through a busy
shopping arcade ginnel.
Treat me like a mannequin.
Clothe me in the colors of
Imprudent promises are
made on a bed of lies as
grandfather’s clock chimes.

Intentions are unclear as the
murk of the damp weather
blurring my vision.
Thoughts are altered.
You call that confusion.
Call me your woman-
then push me out like I
mean nothing to you.
Love is tested in a laboratory.
You bleed me out.
Resuscitate me with a promise
of commitment.
Preach forever once again to
this street and disappear like
tears in the rain.

What do you want from me?



REFIKA DEDIĆ: Rođena u Bosni i Hercegovini u skromnoj bosanskoj porodici.Osnovnu školu završila u Bužimu, srednju u Bihaću, Pedagošku akademiju u Banja Luci a Filozofski fakultet u Zagrebu.Objavila je četiri zbirke poezije: 1999.god.“ Išćem hair,upijam mir“; 2002.god. „ Injekcija razuma na prijestolju“; 2011.god. „Ispovijest na dlanu“; 2016.god. „Uz kafu razgovora“


Idem ulicom bez broja

bez oznake

bez duha


nema poznatog sokaka

nema osobe koja s prozora

zove na kafu


ostavljam juče

otvaram vrata za danas

sutra čekam


s rukama (ne)sreće

u trenutku tras

moje ja i Ja

u sukobu interesa

Vidim budućnost

iz prikrajka suživota

promatra me

Slušam misli

u uglu dilema

u iščekivanju smiraja

od djelića grade figure

za vrijeme

i prostor


I’m going through the street

With no number

With no label

With no spirit

I’m looking

There’s no familiar little street

And no person who calls for a cup of coffee

From the window


Leaving yesterday

Opening the door for today

Waiting for tommorow

I’m rushing

With hands of (un)happiness

And BAM!

In the moment,myself and Myself

Are in conflict of interests

I see the future from the corner of coexistance

It’s watching me

I’m listening to my thoughts

In the quoin of dilemma

In anticipation of peace

And from little pieces

They are building figures for

Time and space


ELKE LANGE – an International artist ,philanthropist , writer and poet from Germany


We allow
that people are expelled
that mass murder is committed
that our forests are cut down
the lungs of our earth

We allow
that our seas are contaminated
Animals tortured and slaughtered
that biodiversity is eradicated
the wealth of our earth

We allow
that people are enslaved
that hate is preached
that children are raped
the future of our earth

We stay silent
do not want to see
do not want to hear
do not want to say anything
where we would have to scream
of pain.

We allow ourselves
To stay unmoved
In our hearts.




GRANT RODI is a poet , writer and teacher from Malawi
Blame yourself
Don’t place the blame on the blameless
Don’t point your finger at the responsible citizen
Blame your wrong decision

You were there during the campaign period
Your brain had no chance to choose the right
You decided not to pave way for the light
Your ears were deaf towards their manifestos

To register for voting you repudiated
To vote for a leader is what you hated
Like unborn baby you reasoned
Blame your unreasonable reasoning

That one heard the manifestos
That one registered for voting
That one had the power to choose the leader
That one doesn’t deserve the blame

Your failure to vote,
Voted for the leader you didn’t want
Blame your irresponsibility and selfishness
Blame yourself for the ineffectual leadership

EMMANUEL DOUGLAS MULOMOLE is a conscientious Malawian poet, avidly quotable writer, story writer and Life advice writer. Many of his poems have been published on national and international websites and other global poetry collections.

“N O T M E”

Not me but my tears are going to narrate
This story about my nation is surely lost
In the hugely wicked forest of corruption
That many are afflicting by its pure ghost

Not me but my eyes are going to capture
Everything as my eyes are lofty attestation
On every political violence,quelling people
All these are bringing us a painful affliction

Not me but my mouth are going to recite
These long ditties about the political turmoil
Of harshly reprimanding each other
That retaining us to see a way of no vision

Not me but my ears are going to graze
All the words from the manifesto of parties
Some are truly bogus and others are dodgy
All these are bestowing us no confidence

Not me but my brain are going to deem
All areas from these offices to those offices
As they beam a symbol for criminality and impunity
That surely nurturing us with no tranquility

Not me but my voice are going to verbalize
That our voiceless will soon be heard clearly
As we are believing our voice is on the ballot
Ballot is only thing which will soon quell our afflictions.



NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA is a Nigerian poet/writer/¬thinker. 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.

NGOZI olivia osuoha

Ancestors without souls
Ghosts without soles,
Spirits on the go
Bodies on the low.
Parades of powers
Serenades of flowers
Marmalades of towers
Lemonades of lovers,
Charades of showers
Masquerades of blunders.
Blight and bight of no light
Night and might of no bright
Sight and plight of no right
Fight and plight of no wright.
Lemons from demons
Demons with lemons
Demonic lemons, demonizing.
Slavery and salvage, opposite and equal
Poverty and hunger, identical twins
Death and graves; parents and children
Continental presidential, presidential continental.
Greed feeding them fat
Greediness greedily on feed,
Budgets budging, bugling
Breasted beasts, breastfeeding
Jungles juxtaposed, jingling
Giggling guns gunning
Continental crocodiles caressing carelessly.
Masses miss, rolling moss
crosses crossing,
Punches pointing point blank.
Uniforms, deforms, reforms, forms and norms
Brutality, immorality and captivity
Choices slicing and piercing cravings
Witches bewitching, bewilderment bewildering
Total eclipse of the moon, sun and earth
A darkness of heavenly bodies
Navigating in circumstances beyond circumferences
A circumnavigation confusing the universe.
Jets jetting, zooming gloom and gloominess
Convoys and envoys, enjoying
Boundaries uncared, unmarked, unmanned, unmapped
Continental dish serving starving people.
Dark faith around dark fate
Blue hope within blue blood
Yellow grace for yellow feet
Purple food on top purple palm
Rainbows aligning, alluring, affirming
Thunder parting colors, people of color.
Presidential continental, la presidento
La presidento, continental presidential
Africana, Africanism, Africans
Black and white, white and black
Servitude, a solitude against the multitude.



MIKE STONE (GUEST POET)was born in Columbus Ohio, USA, in 1947. He graduated from Ohio State University with a BA in Psychology. He has published four books of poetry. Mike currently lives in Israel. He is married and has three sons and seven precious grandchildren




He heard a call from the branches of a tree

Somewhere in the woods along the path he walked,

Stick in hand to steady his steps

Like a shepherd’s staff.

But where?

He looked around to see

Who or what had made that call,

Almost child-like, but not quite.


It called again.

He squinted his eyes toward the dappling shadows

The trees made with their leaves and branches,

Searching tree by tree for something half-hidden, half-seen,

And then he spied him –


He said, “Hope, oh! O hope!”

The hoopoe called,

Come follow me

And I will take you to Sheba,

Young Solomon, my sire,

For she’s the most beautiful queen in all of Africa!

The young man was only at the beginning of his wisdom then

But he knew the language of the hoopoe and his heart grew large.

Still, he asked, you can fly I can only walk or run –

How am I to follow you?

I will carry you on my back, wrapped in a dream.

The young and future king agreed

And instantly fell into the depths of slumber.

The hoopoe slung the dreaming youth over his back

And flew with his weightless load to Azeba

In the Kingdom of Aksum, seven days distant.

On the seventh day, the bird flew through the open window

Of Makeda’s palace in Azeba.

Makeda’s beauty was uncontested in all of Aksum

But when her eyes saw how fair was the dreaming youth

On the hoopoe’s back, she fell hopelessly in love.

The hoopoe said fret not fair queen,

He dreams of you!

Come to him in distant Jerusalem where he waits!

In Solomon’s dream, he saw Makeda’s sublime face

At the center of a whirlpool swirling round him.

The bird turned around and flew homeward.

When Makeda finally came to Jerusalem,

Solomon was King as prophesized by the hoopoe

And had built the Temple and a palace on Mount Moriah.

Although he had a thousand wives, he pined for Makeda of Sheba.

She came with six thousand camels

Bearing more gold and spices than Solomon had ever seen,

All of which were gifts for him.

Makeda stood in all her beauty before King Solomon

Who said, I’ve dreamed of you every night

Since first I learned to dream.

Makeda answered, as I have dreamed of you

Those same nights since the hoopoe

Brought you dreaming to me.

That same night they dreamed together,

Arms and legs entwined, a small seed

Of their son who would be called Menelik.

In the morning when the sun rose over the hills of Moab,

Solomon gave Makeda a ring

To signify their willing enslavement to each other

But before she left Jerusalem for Azeba,

A jealous wife of Solomon bribed a priest

To hide the Holiest of Holies,

The Ark of the Covenant,

On the back of one of the camels in Makeda’s train

Unbeknownst to Makeda or Solomon.

When she reached the shores of the Red Sea

A storm raged, making the waters

As treacherous as the wives of Solomon,

But because the Holy Ark rode in her train

She crossed the sea without event.

Makeda, Queen of Sheba, reached her capital, Azeba,

Where she raised her son, Menelik, of Solomon’s seed,

And continued ruling her people during the day,

But at night she dreamed of Jerusalem’s king

And he of her until the day she died.

Makeda’s wizened body was buried at Axum

And the Holy Ark was buried under the shifting sands of time.

That is how, sons and daughters of the land of promises,

The wise King Solomon first met his beloved Queen of Sheba

Of the ancient land of Kush, which today is known as Ethiopia

And whose men and women are still the loveliest in the world.

The hoopoe hopped onto another branch

And flew to a further tree where perched another bird,

And both took off somewhere beyond my ken.

I put my pen and notebook back in my homely pouch

And Daisy led the way we knew and loved




MBIZO CHIRASHA is ( 2019 International Fellow of the International Human Rights Arts Festival New York. 2018Recipient of Global Literary Influencer Certificate of Merit by Directorio Mundial de Escritores through Academia Mundial de Literatura, Historia, Arte y Cultura Vice President of POETS OF THE WORLD in Africa 2017 Recipient of PEN Deutschland Exiled Writer Grant.2017 Recipient of the EU-Horn of Africa Defend Human Rights Defenders Protection Fund. Curator of the Brave Voices Poetry Journal,, Editor of the WomaWords Literary Press,, Resident Curator of 100 Thousand Poets for Peace-Zimbabwe , and the Originator of Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Movement. of the STREET VOICE a German Africa Poetry collection, in Germany . Contributor Atunis Galatika,, Belgium. African Contributor of Demer press poetry series since 2018 , Netherlands, of the International Gallerie 2019 in India,, United Kingdom.African Essays contributor for the MONK art and soul Magazine 2019, Contributor of the World Poetry Almanac series, in Mongolia.Featured in the POIESISI Slovenia International literature Press ,, Slovenia.

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


8 thoughts on “Mama Africa is the Republik’ of Poetry (Brave Voices Poetry Journal 65)

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