In the dead of the afternoon...

In the glum of the sullen hours of day,
perched in a corner,
fixated on the bliss of the rain drops,
the rain that hovers,
through the seams of air,
but never pours...
He strums the strings of his Spanish guitar,
strangely striving for serenity,
solitude and purpose-
seeking the evasive,
on a quest to seize the elusive,
the fugitive truth,
the facts his simple mind cannot fathom.
He murmurs to ponder,
softly hums to make full sense,
of why the world be thus so vile to him,
so callous and oblivious,
indifferent to his emotions and weak heart.
He creates a symphony so melancholic,
brine waters trickling down his boyish face,
whose youthful charm has vanished,
In the dead of night,
with his mistress who fled,
while he was in a far away land,
who once vehemently vowed:
she would never leave,
till death done them part.
In the dead of afternoon,
he slouches in the void spaces of his heart,
making emotionally hardened music...

 BY ALEX NYASHA DUBE (ZIMBABWE )

photo credits; chrischakwana

Beside the fire place......

 Beside the fireplace 
With the melody of crackles of the flames as his sole companion 

A servant to his mind 
His life saved by his thoughts 
His desire quenched by a double malt 
Tamed on the rocks 

His state of mind? 
Manifest!!! 
Asking himself- 
Is this deja vu? 

No, his thoughts have come to being 
Classic paintings camouflaging the sense of success 
Simultaneously accentuated 
by the scent of achievement 
In his head- where it all emanated 

The quality of his thoughts... 
Determined his life



 By :   Ernest Mackina  (Zimbabwe)
Photo Credits:  www.facebook.com/afrofuture

In love with my lumps and bumps.....

For years I have punished my body for randomly creating lumps and bumps without consulting me.
I think there should be some kind of body reflex that warns me (as I chow on a slab of chocolate)  that "Lumpville"(as I call it) is coming to town. 
The shock in my face when I realise there'll be less bikini days on the beach is priceless,as if I didn't know eating orgasmic chocolate would deliver a good old bump in my trunk.

The immediate discovery would instantly trigger thoughts of gruesome,suicidal exercise routines that will get rid of my new "acquisition".
The truth is that it never works because I realise I don't want to stop eating chocolate nor do I want to quit my addiction to carbohydrates.
Food is my culture because I am African.
We eat when we mourn,celebrate birth and we still eat when there's nothing to be happy or sad about.

I am on a quest to find happiness in my body,to accept what I cannot change and to embrace food without fear.
My goal is to create a movement for women that embraces "Lumpville" when she comes to town.

After everything I've put my body through I wholeheartedly believe that  my cellulite deserves a little bit of love.

By Wandiswa Ntengento ( South Africa )

picture credits: www.google.com

The Gravity of my beating heart..(my story)

I always asked myself
Why he did this
And why she said that

And why they felt the way they did
Because mine was a beating heart

It was quite hard
Being compared to a thousand others
So I spoke to defend and define my own
But because this displayed disrespect
They cut off my tongue
To impair the speech that was my weapon

It really was unpleasant
To feel the skins of dead hearts
Rub against mine trying hard to be revived
By raiding my innocence
And all the while blaming me
And accusing me for befriending beauty

Oh gosh
If I knew beauty was a bud of sorrow
I would have told tomorrow not to come
That way I would not have been born
But alas I have known her before my first breathe
For even then I was called a curse
And for this I was to be slain, once again
Because mine was a beating heart

It hurt so bad
When after I let him in
And him, and him,
He tried to peel off my face
And put the one he preferred instead
And when I let him out
And him, and him
He refused to loosen his claws and let go
Of the shredded gory that was my less than beating heart

It was so painful
When the selfless deeds for a best friend
And her friends and my friends
Earned me the label of people pleaser
The highest honour for me,
As making others’ lives easier is Godly
A dire shame for them
As they perceived it as desperacy

In the end I wondered how
She could repeat history
Grab the knife everybody used on me
And stab my back so far in
It went through to my beating heart
And punctured the golden bag of trust I kept
Just for her

But despite all this I have learnt
To love, to live, to forgive and forget
Because before all he did, all she said and all they felt
They had to respond to the gravity of my beating heart
And love me first….

By Chitalu Kaibele (Zambia )

Photo credits: www.facebook.com/afrofuture

A BRIEF RASH LUST......

I smelt it,
The fragrance of that exotic vanilla
That incensed and mummified her glittering ebony.
That fragrance that held my breath,

Took my mind to rest
As I slipped her suit to unguide her breast.

I felt it,
The sleepiness of her dark braided hair,
The zigzagness that rows her hair into a maze
The tips of each braid crowned with beats
And the tickling sensations it unleashed on me
When she took my bosom to let her warmth.

I touched it,
The totems that made her mourned
And cried along; as my hands slipped through
The slippery fluid that wet beneath,
And my lips conquered hers with strings of kisses
Tickling alongside the nudity of her protruding twin.

I caressed it,
With my tongue, my hands and me
From her hairs, lips, breast and beneath
The trembling behind, I made still
My tongue on her navel bore a hole
And we tangled as if we host each other to be.

I did it,
… What mother warned me not to.
Her hips I parted to ease the flow
The mount of Venus was red at the peak of eruption
And behold, on it a red glittering apple was calling
Thus, like Adam with my eyes shot, I descended the valley

I loved it,
The feelings that went through my spin
As I swam through that ocean of curse waters
I heard the beats of my heart as she took me in
And row the boat that led me there,
Where, I exploded and shriek beneath with pleasure.

She opened my eye
And showed me heaven.
She drank with my hose the pool within
Eat from my tongue those leaven breads
Blessed my body with excess thrust
That set me back with blazing heat.

We made lust
And I loved it
I know she loved me not
Thus, I sought not her trust.
It was so brief, rash and smooth this act
That the memory, I’ll spare not ad infinitum

Flee thee now! I beg this of you
This memory, I keep to mark my fall
This feeling, which I let in, seeks my being.
I will never regret this that my body let be
But the stretch of my hands for the first touch, I detest
And long to withdraw all aside the sensation she gave.

Beautiful angel with lusty cross
I bless thee for this body you’ve momentarily made whole,
For, these eyes you’ve widely spread-
To note and state evil from good
But, curse be thee for with lust you crossed me
When Calvary with love seek my spirit and soul to save me. 

By Owokere Asuquo E. ( Nigeria)

Photo credits; www.facebook.com/afrofutures

Erstwhile, a love.......

The winds of time blew
sweeping with them,
footprints left in time
traces of what was
that no longer is
i bury my head in thoughts
longing to understand
for a split moment
to know why
all the love went away
do the winds of time erase love?
was our love like milk;
that is sweet and all white today
but when caressed by the tentacles of life
turns bad
was it not like wine?
that celebrates the embrace of time
that becomes the best
because it stands the test of time
my love, gone
blown away from me
as a cordless kite
drifts from the reach of a kid
and watch it, helpless
only wishing if circumstances
were somewhat different
the winds of time are blowing
my love, gone
erasing the memories
and impressing pains
because this, our love
has vanished in the abyss of time

Pardon Gwara ( Zimbabwe)

photo credits; http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=461110330579105&set=a.203566343000173.45869.151330104890464&type=3&theater

Old house....

An old house; solidly built with each stone telling the story of a rocky valley.
Surrounded by warmth from the inhabiting smiles on the faces of the inhabitants.

This warmth is radiant and radiates round, turning the house into a home.
Laughter and echoes of love pierce through the chimney... sharply and slowly. 

The garden boasts of colourful roses and daisies that call to the lilies in the murky waters across the pond on the Lee-side.
The trees whisper to the path that has become all too familiar and welcoming :

                                              You Are Home!!

                                     I want to know were my home is,
                                    Were I fear not, and have no fears - 
                                Were I look through the vista into my life and see it bright
                      Were the rays of the sun touch my skin and remind me all is fine...
   Were the sun stands firmly overseeing the vast landscapes of a future invested in hard work,
                                          Fruits to be reaped...
                                         Hard work to be sowed...

                        I want to call this old house, this warm place my home 
                                         But I can't...I'm too far away
                                   Freedom turned into a responsibility
                                          Now I can't hardly see
                                      Beyond these wooden fences...
                                 I was taught well and counted all my blessings 
                        It's reach is just but a dream, drifting yonder and yonder.

By Ernest Mackina (Zimbabwe)
First published ; http://mackinaernest54.blogspot.com/2012/08/old-house.html?spref=fb

to youth....

And what shall become of you

When Time’s hands have done their art?

Crayons of hue re-coloured you in shades of dusk,

Graffiti etched upon your brow,

Flawless grace reduced to caricature,

Once impeccable beauty redrawn abstract

And the stains of his oils mock your portraits?

His fingerprints plastered across the wall of your soul:

Your essence withered to the stench of pending death

And your confidence shaken to infirmity,

Shall these suitors, princes in Chevrolets -if not to dust returned-

Still whistle their impotence through toothless smiles?

Bite deep into the flesh of youth but wary the stone,

Cast by those who perceive themselves sinless

Should three words turn to three letters.

I do not wish disease, pestilence or plague upon you,

Only true fruits of old age, regrets grown

To appreciation of possibilities

Chastised by the rod of Time for the road not taken,

Insolence blossomed to wisdom;

Blind valour to meditation.

Subtle pencil strokes to Time’s masterpiece evolved,

While I on his easel remain a fool,

Loving you in more earnest than when I was a boy.

By Philani A. Nyoni (Zimbabwe)

picture credits.corporationshealth.wordpress.com