The Mosquitoes country Classics!

Kadaffi

I see America dancing in oil sodden nights, nostrils stinking the scent of death

Your ghost exorcising demons of colonialist clout, walking along banks of the lost river

River that lost its freedom

Your shadow suffocating under the smell of exile and scent of slums

Kaddafi, propaganda is fart, fart deodorizing the winds of the villages

I have a burning passion to bring back the dimples and wrinkles of this country.

Kongo

Your past is a mint of blood and tears

Daughters tearing their way to decay

Sons castrated by poverty and superguns,

Kongo, a dream battered and bruised

Your conscience poliorised by oppressive -dans

Highways clogged with hatred and vendetta

Gutters donating stench and typhoid

Kongo, let my poetry feed your withering dreams for guns, insult the tired memories

Of voters.

Children of Xenophobia

Children eating bullets and firecrackers

Beggars of smile and laughter

Silent corpses sleeping away fertile dreams

Povo chanting new nude wretched slogans

Overstayed exiles eating beetroot and African potato

Abortions and condoms batteries charging the lives of nannies and maids

Children of barefoot afternoons and uncondomized nights

Sweat chiseling the rock of your endurance

The heart of Soweto, Harare, Darfur, Bamako still beating like drums

Violence fumigating peace from this earth.

Kalinga-linga.

A daughter of revolution fed on rich political nutrition

With a smile bandaging scars of the streets and falsehood by political demons

Fingers burnt in pseudo democratic pans of the West, what a political humor

I see you smelling love through the thick dew of corruption and robots

True heroes and heroines swallowed up in the deep silence of chingwere and uzambwera

[Cemeteries of the poor]

Leopold hill shadows faking dances to the throbbing rhythms of vumbuza drums

Kalinga- linga- your rising sun will soon spread the beauty of its fingers in the skies of Afrika.

Diary of Povo

Another whistle from election fervent fathers

Another ululation from slogan drugged mothers

In chimoio we roasted bullets like mealie cobs for breakfast

In nyadzonia we boiled grenades like cassava for lunch meals

In magagao we munched parcel bombs like tropical fruit

In gorongoza, we learnt totems of war and syndromes of propaganda

Today, our ears are deaf with sediments of slogans

We are the povo

Iam Kongo

I am Kongo

I roast grenade for supper

Kisangani my stomach shit dysentery

I am Congo of Lumumba and Zaire nzere of Mobutu

I see my dysentery washed by Nzere river every dawn

I am Kongo, my underfed kasiku vomit wind and hatred after hot nights of salongo

I am Congo where locusts eat the naked ness of babies and lizards urinate on sweating tired hungry rocks

My horizons ravaged by acid rain and smoke of mutilated cultures

Iam Kongo

I see Njelele’s red earth carrying rituals of rain

His mother tongue burning hot in the empty wind.

I see Tonga and Kalanga licking shadows and smoke

Wild dogs lapping their tongues swallowing riddles, metaphors and dances

Jackals vomiting the flesh of apartheid for GMO generation to breakfast. Iam Kongo.

I am Congo. I sing of them children of nyanda nehanda, grandchildren of shawasha and gumboreshumba.Whose blood is in the color of their flag?

Grandchildren tasting omelet of freedom of shukulu Kaunda, samora and Josina.Spears of metaphors falling like hot embers on the hearts of chameleons

Grandchildren of shikulu and samora are griots with machetes skinning off apartheid from the color of their mind

Griots tired of minds bleaching in apartheid coco butter.

Iam Kongo 11

I am Congo, with my cough riddled voice

I am Congo i see my children bewitched by the wizard of Nile

I am Congo whose clans are foot mats of war gods and goddesses from the east and the west

Iam Congo with emerald in my blood and diamond in my stomach

I drink my tears with triplets’ kayole, kwangware and kiberia,

We ate our stolen coco beans with

Ivory Coast and gold coast

When will chairman Mao, Samora, and Neto amilcar of this earth of stolen diamonds and dried

Peanuts, that we write our history in blood, sand and granite

Shaping the ideology of generations and the dreams that we eat the eggs of uhuru

And see the dimples of freedom smiling.

DECADE of bullets

Ouagadougou, Ouagadougou, Ouagadougou
See a procession of young mothers chattering their way
from water fountains in grenade torn sandals
and blood laced bras

Somalia, Somalia, Somalia
See the moon disappearing in a mass of gun smoke
Guns splitting the stars from the skin of night

Rwanda, Rwanda, Rwanda
this is a wound from which the pus of grief flows freely
meandering through rock masses into the valley that lost its freedom

Timbuktu, Timbuktu, Timbuktu
I hear a rush of footsteps of sorrow
rugged peasants carrying their compounds too far away valleys of flowers

Mbizo Chirasha (African WilliamBlake)

MyPen – Dear Reader this blog journal you are about to read .It is a mix bag of my tough experience as i escaped from my home of birth into an unknown concrete jungle as much as supported by one of my new poem which is carrying the title of this blog-journal.This blog-journal gives my raw scary story in full as much as an extract from the short essays that am putting together as the book of my life.The Pen is mightier than the sword . What is right is might and what is might is right.