Mntungwa KaMbulazi Poetry& Novels

*Grandma's words
By Michelle Dube*

My daughter take these word of encouragement and use them wisely
If you want a rich man
Work hard and be rich
Or just accept what comes your way

My daughter
U never choose to be born poor
But surely dying poor is your choice
So chose wisely

Love them all
Befriend them and smile back
But remember they are characters in that season
So learn from them
But never be a fool or fooled

Life is a journey
Hike to the nxt level
Life is a story
Make yours a fairy tale

Don't waste your time looking for love
It will come to your door step
But remember money won't
So look for it

My daughter
I love you that's why l m teaching you all this
So litsen and litsen good

They all have advise on life
They act like they know it all
Yet they struggle
And walk aimlessly everyday

My daughter
Give life your definition
Let it be the way you want it
But remember you only live once
Never forget my words

*Grandma's words
By Michelle Dube*

My daughter take these word of encouragement and use them wisely
If you want a rich man
Work hard and be rich
Or just accept what comes your way

My daughter
U never choose to be born poor
But surely dying poor is your choice
So chose wisely

Love them all
Befriend them and smile back
But remember they are characters in that season
So learn from them
But never be a fool or fooled

Life is a journey
Hike to the nxt level
Life is a story
Make yours a fairy tale

Don't waste your time looking for love
It will come to your door step
But remember money won't
So look for it

My daughter
I love you that's why l m teaching you all this
So litsen and litsen good

They all have advise on life
They act like they know it all
Yet they struggle
And walk aimlessly everyday

My daughter
Give life your definition
Let it be the way you want it
But remember you only live once
Never forget my words.

Michelle Dube is a20 yr old lady. she is an uprising poet in the City of Kings and Queens, she writes about love among people.

I Chuckle (Appreciating laughter)
By Dr Lesedi Gaeemelwe

Sometimes it's in what I see
That hilarious moment when my intellect teases my silly
Or my madness overrules my logic
Just then, there's nothing able to stop the spasms
Squeezing my abdomen like a pleasurous panic
Causing my face squinch as an anti cry

Once in a while this tickle comes through a woo
Romancing my unprepared ears & giggles being my shy response
Trying to brush off the shock
My subconscious experiencing an unwelcome arousal of love

Many times it is in what I hear
Resulting in my voice projecting hisses of whisper
Like a joyous idiot trying to gasp for air which is already in abundance
At times coupled by sudden coughs
And eyes ridiculously dripping of tears
While my back might loose balance
And 'Pi! Ka sekota' as my natives would express

Dr Lesedi Gaeemelwe is a Botswana born & based teacher, rapper, poet, arts enthusiast & multi award winning children's author.

Lesedi Holy M'rapper Gaeemelwe

the new bridge is old.

the bridge at Marirangwe Crossing does not need to be repainted,
not so soon after it has just been completed,
when most of the cement and some of the last paint have not even dried up enough.

it does not require a face lift at all,
the bridge was only done a few months ago, after all.

they are said to have used sixty million dollars all in all,
though the bridge is still not that tall,
and looks so shaky it may just fall.

in the afternoon of today i did pass by the same bridge,
where i witnessed that it is about to fall.

no new paint can rescue any bridge from the risk of falling too soon,
nor postpone the same from being about to fall.

the rafters and bridge railings are both rotting,
while the plastering and the painting are both peeling off.

Sanganai reckons that his old ox-drawn cart cannot afford to go over the newly done bridge ,
which is shaking and sagging at the crossing of school children.

i met up with him today in a state of worry and agitation,
leading his ox-drawn cart on a wide berth of the bridge.

Sanganai did not forget to complain bitterly about the old grinding meal being rendered too far away from the village.

children from our side of the new bridge have had to miss school more often than not,
for weeks on end sometimes long months to their end,
the parents have imposed sanctions of the children not to ever cross over the bridge.

headman Mutandwa passed by my homestead last night,
telling me about the plight of the bridge about to fall

he advised that we need foreign currency from Harare to build a proper bridge


(achurchinmtpleasant)
21-10-2022.

Obey Chiyangwa is a poetry and short story writer based in Harare. He can be contacted on +263779393661,
+263779393422
[email protected]

THE POOR ME.

I truly do not know whom I am
my soul has got no peace
my heart has got a painful sore
which doesn't want to get healed

I look at myself as a failure and an unwanted person
I'm always overthinking during the day and night
I have got no one on my side

my mind has got great plans and imagination's
but my legs doesn't want to take me forward
my eyes doesn't see the way forward

my body is weak and useless
my ears believes in hearsays
my nose can smell a better future
but my hands hesitate to feel it.

my tongue tries to avoid gossiping
but my lips keeps on mumbling
my feets try to lift me up
but my knees quickly bend

my neck stretches to pip for a better tomorrow
but my head become heavy for it
my heart can bear a lot of pain
but it stand still
I really don't know what kind of person I am.

Cebolenkosi Ndlovu Zimbabwe 19 of age young author, wrote grade seven on 2016 at Mlomwe primary school then went to Sikhathini high school wrote my a' level on 2020,, currently doing baking course and writing

HAVE THE HOPE
By Daniel Tusiimukye K'abaasa

The boy with a million dreams,
Why are you trying to kill yourself again?
Your work on earth is not finished;
Why should you mourn over your own self?

Who has told you that your time is up?
Who tells you that there is no more chance?
Listen to me with attentive patience;
Put a brave face though deep inside,
Your heart dances with rage.

Abandoned in the mire of your troubles,
You feel your brain and heart burn with pain,
You cry until your tears have filled drums,
It still makes no difference.

The boy with a million dreams,
Wear a scentless perfume and let us dance;
The dance of the hunter and the hunted,
Let the fire die and ardour retreat.

Now that the sword is sharp at both ends,
Come back to where you started,
Sleep to have the million dreams,
Crawl, but at last, arrive.

Daniel Tusiimukye K'abaasa is an author and a publisher at Iconic Publications.

His first book Golden Arrow won the African Honree Author's Award 2021 in Lonehill South Africa, he has co-authored other books like Seasons and Amazing Culture.

He is an engineering student at Makerere University, Kampala Uganda.

THE END
By A. A.Milne

When I was one,
I had just begun.

When I was two,
I was nearly new.

When I was three,
I was hardly me.

When I was four,
I was not much more.

When I was five,
I was just alive.

But now as I'm six,
I'm clever as clever.
So I think I'll be six,
Now forever and ever.

DAVID AND HIS BLOODY HANDS

When he had summoned the chief council.
And the elders full of eloquent wisdom,
And the material was set to build,
A magnificent temple.
A temple to stand forever.
That was to make him feared
In all the cities and the world.

His hands were found dirty.
Dirty not of battles and wars
To save the nation.
His white robe was red.
Red in blood of Uriah.
Whose crime was his beautiful wife.

Then the privilege passed on
To another innocent, coming king.
And God being God hated bad things,
Build by bloody hands.
The hands that has blood can not build.
The hands with blood turn peace into peaces.

Though he had reconciled with God.
And washed his name with great fame.
The innocent blood followed him
To the grave.
Such is the blood,
The blood of innocent souls.
The blood that haunts and torments.

And the once strong nation crumbled.
Crushed and became two
Conflicting pieces.
The ones that once shared peace.
The innocent blood divides

And God being God heard the voice
And the cry of forgiveness.
Nothing was done to clean the
Hands fool of blood.
Blood of innocent Uriah.
Blood of an unsung soldier.

I met this old man who is my neighbor. His daughter-in- law bought ?
He said to me, "I like the poem about omakorokoza.. And he asked me where did I got the inspiration from when I wrote that poem..

The poem has a title; Gweja

Miners are donors,
Sharks that carelessly cough up.
They drink their beer from the hose;
Tomorrow it's just another harvest.

Some will kill for a pit,
The pit you nailed and burrowed for bread,
They close it with your headstone.
I saw many a fortune hunter fall
At the shine of steel.

Some are crocodiles
Puffing gorilla fumes,
Flies partying between their jaws.
They sleep in the bush
Trusting the good bad news of the next day.

Who Killed Grandfather?

We have seen wounds healing, this wound will only heal if it kills..

Jeys Marabini uza ngofutho...

NO KING IN THE JUNGLE

Grandpa was so sad
I thought he was mad.
He eyed me and said.
Grandson, my blood.

How can a lion be praised
As the king of the jungle,
Yet he's butchering and
Continuing to do so,
Only to save his appetite?

He said animals are killing
And feasting on each other.
Yet the lion watches and just
Watches.

How can a king sleeps all the day
And it's wife hunt down and follow the sprouts of the game?
Can he be called a king, for his
Fascinating sound when he roars,
Or perhaps his ugly face full of long bushy hair.?
Is that so son of my son?

Even the elephants bow,
Because of their foolishness.
Yet they can break down,
The strongest trees in the jungle.

The giraffes are tall, seeing the distance from afar,
Yet they salute the lazy bastard.
With its kicking weapon,
A zebra is usually buried,
In the stomach of the cruel man.

But he has nothing to give.
Except the disturbing voice,
Of naughty speeches that
Always remind the animals,
That he is the king.

No leader was born to lead
Only fools in their fears
Choose one.

No WaY BaCk AnYmOrE

For miles I have travelled.
Carrying the luggages of hope
And tools of future.
They were for only days I thought
They turned weeks I began to feel.
But the years and years followed.
In the midst of the journey;
The whether continues as normal
Sometimes bad enough,
To keep me under the shades of trees.
Or in caves for some months.

The food that I had began to fade.
And the clothes that I wore began
To tore.
I had to continue with swollen feet.
But the load was heavy for an
Exhausted and tired body.
Suddenly a big mountain appeared.
Firstly as a long magnificent tower.
Yet it was a barricade,
To close my journey to the other
Side.

Going back,
Was I going to find the way back?
Too far..

WHO KILLED GRANDFATHER?

I remember without color
That day of desperate grief.
Early 2014, our last root curled lifeless
Into the streams of civilizational poison.

Cars came hooting,
Mourners wailing in return.
That morning our night dawned on me,
But by whose hand?
Who killed the old man?

We have seen wounds healing
This wound will only heal if kills.
I need a herbsman with ancient hands.
I tried to shut my mouth
But the rocks and trees are shouting.
Their ghostly chill cries
Murder.

The killer went at my fortune
The killer went at my tomorrow
The killer went at my being.
By whose hand is the old man fallen?
Who killed grandfather?

?

A LETTER TO MY FATHER

It is unfortunate that you won't read this.
I had to scribble this letter to you,
Seeking for your forgiveness, dear Dad,
Perhaps not for being the child
You were expecting.

I have inked this paper to find favor
From you to answer me on why
You rejected your only son.
I should be blamed for fantasizing
That things are easy for a father.

I have never seen your picture
Since I have seen the sun rise and set.
I have never read a letter with your
Signature.
I heard all stories from my mother.
Demonic as they are, I have believed them,
Since I never heard any word from you.

You betrayed me in broad day light,
Refusing me your surname,
My forefather's name.
Dad you were a coward worse than a snake.
That dumps it's young ones before they can wiggle and hiss.

You humiliated my mother
With shame that she is failing to wash today
I thought I will be a man one day
And sith with you under a tree,
Hear your side of your story
Perhaps mom was wrong.



"Until this society values it's poets and prophets, our lot is loss and shame"

William Butler Yeats was an Irish poet, dramatist, writer and one of the foremost figures of 20th-century literature. He was a driving force behind the Irish Literary Revival and became a pillar of the Irish literary establishment who helped to found the Abbey Theatre.

LET ME TELL YOU WHO AM I

I am the son of a dull mother whose illiteracy has made her to be a sojourner
In neighboring nations.
I am the one whose father is a thug in South Africa,
The father who ran away from school and chose to be a criminal.

I am the grandson of the grandparents who fought for the country,
Yet their farms and properties
Were taken away from them till now.

I'm coming from that homeland were innocent men were castrated like bulls and mothers were chopped hands for fun.

I'm the one whose uncles disappeared fearing for their lives after terrorism accusations.
Some of them are nursing wounds of shame and poverty.

I am the son of the fathers and mothers whose bones are scattered in mountains, mines and the bushes.
Whose crimes was innocence.
I am the son of those who should let the ' bygones be bygones'.

I'm the son who nurses u healing stinky smelling wounds that won't heal.
I'm that son whose history has been distorted and turned into bizarre novel stories.
I'm the one whose history is dark.
The one who wishes to re-narrate the history.
I am the one from the last class of the 'thugs'.
I am.... I am ....I am...

Henry Miller’s advice to a young writer:

“Write honestly even if poorly.
Throw your dictionary away.
If you can’t make words f**k, don’t ma******te them.
Try to forget everything you learned in college.
First ask yourself if you have anything to say.
Don’t draw the pen unless you are ready for the kill.”

“My schooling not only failed to teach me what it professed to be teaching, but prevented me from being educated to an extent which infuriates me when I think of all I might have learned at home by myself.”

― George Bernard Shaw

Every time I go home I get into a car that will drop me at Matshudula business centre. It is a place that pumps back the 'welcome back home' feeling. Although most of the times they will be cars which can drop me closer to my home, I prefer finishing a kilometer journey alone as long as I passed through Matshudula business center. One cannot mention our community history without mentioning that place.

Various occasions have been done at that place which shapes and promote the unity of the community. One of the local fellow brother was talking of Matshudula F.C. I have been seeing it from a distance, since I'm not into football. It had a lot of talented guys.

We had local leaders like, uKhulu uJorodi and the likes of Mkhweswa Ndiweni who had unique characteristics of leadership. I'm always told that in every person you can learn something. No one is so dumb that you can't get anything from him. The history of the community is very important. It pumps the attitude of oneness in a community. When Children are told their stories, the people who succeeded in the community and how they managed to be where they are today, that can change their life approach.

But sadly we are eaten up by the cancer of individualism. When one work hard and succeed, he wants to be hero worshipped alone in the community. He wants all eyes to focus on him. Of cause you can't feed people by your fortune but at least putting an effort to make change, be it in a local School, clinic and all, that will go a long way. We are one, and we have to move together as such. Rich or poor we are born, Rich or poor we die. While we are still in a waiting queue for days, months or years, the difference we make will be not forgotten in the history of our communities.

"We have seen wounds healing, this wound will only heal if it kills"

I have been alone but seldom lonely.
I have satisfied my thirst
at the well of my self
and that wine was good,
the best I ever had,
and tonight sitting
staring into the dark
I now finally understand
the dark and the
light and everything in between.

peace of mind and heart
arrives when we accept what is:
having been born into this
strange life we must accept
the wasted gamble of our
days and take some satisfaction in
the pleasure of leaving it all behind. ~Charles Bukowski

(Book: The Pleasures of the Damned)