I smell the crashing of the revolutionary light
Soothsayers talk in sacred tongues that the light in the moon went with last revolutionary legend,
Tyrannical legend died clutching the clay of country in his hard-clenched right-hand fist. He chanted another chant,
another clenched fist slogan.
In this pitch-black night,
obituaries wetted pseudo-revolutionary columns and frail patriotic tabloids,
paradoxical revolutionary legend died with his Marxist -Leninist hardened forehead creased with the graffiti of a stolen country, a country strangled to death, a country that is now a walking ghost.
A country lost in the cemetery of political vendetta and propaganda vulgar
Learned tyrannical revolutionary legend, munched the all -protein -all vitamin chlorophyll-filled bean-leaf Oxford English dictionary, Imbibed the red-grape beverages of Latina encyclopedia, sanctified by Vatican City Catholic moguls. The dead tyrannical, revolutionary legendary stalwart shaped by concocted ideological recipe and intellectual concoction of Marxist-Leninist-Stalinist socialist gin, Victorian- Elizabethan verbiage, peasant-guerrilla-bush struggle for freedom scholarship, pan African-Nkrumaist socialist extremism-
A balanced diet.
A concocted Ideological recipe.
An Intellectual concoction
The revolutionary legendary stalwart is lying in salient stone
And that lashing tongue with its lips chapped by vitriol is sealed in silent marble
And that Leninist- Stalinist- Marxist- Nkuruma-ist charisma is silent in the silence of the stone
And that extremism carved propaganda-ist clenched fist slogan holds the red clay of earth in silence in the silence of the stone
Tonight, this midnight, Ideological charlatans sing praise and protest, the legend went with the country, the tyrant went the country’s sorrow-soaked epitaphs, grief-laden obituaries, tear-filled eulogies and our gold in his fistful slogan.
And zealots and charlatans, poets and griots sing still, they sing praise and protest for a guerrilla graduated into patriotic superstar, later an autocratic medalist but still, he lived and died in paradox, revolutionary paradox
Griots and zealots sing protest and praise still and still, they sing to the pitch-black night, to the death of the death of a legend, to the stolen country
the legend stole treasures of the land and the conscience of my now vulgar tutored and vitriol schooled poverty hardened generation.
My generation polarized by political polio.
My generation lost the light of the moon
My generation lost the beautiful blink of the sun
Legendary tyrant died clutching the golden red clay of the country in his slogan hardened clenched fist
Raenda rakanyarara,raenda rakaguta
Jongwe rakukurudza,raenda jongwe
Raenda jongwe raenda richidemba
Jongwe raenda nezuva,raenda nomwedzi muchena
Obituaries inscribed in rain- beaten century- aged potholed highways
epitaph was a black cockerel carved onto the edges of torn banknote,
eulogy was a by a Vatican supplication and a Latin poem
jesters and griots danced out the night with presidential parody
He died inside the pitch-black night,
the funeral ritual was conducted inside the pitch-black night.
In this pitch black night, zealots and senators congregate like wild hens
Senators cackling vendetta and zealots singing political vulgar, gobbling fresh bread from the rich wheat of our sweat, gulping matured grape-wine of our toil.
Tonight, our tears wash the corruption-clad parliament tarmacs
As our ever-pouring sweat rinse their extortion-laden courtrooms
teargas graffiti decorates the broken statehouse lampposts
Hieroglyphics of poverty match the campaign print on the torn presidential election bandana
I see the president grazing the steak of our ballot-cast for dinner,
I snoop on torn newspaper headlines for lunch
I stuff my rumbling stomach with gossip and grapevine for peace
I see the double-chinned parliamentarians greedily drinking our juicy sweat of our hardly won freedom for breakfast.
I see famished citizens gasping for dignity, dignity imbibed by the un-couthed mouth of the gun,
Father died with a torn election campaign Tshirt draped on his wood and tin-made coffin and his cold feet was covered by the three doeks emblazoned cheap propaganda, he raised his fist for a solid slogan and chanted a revolutionary hymn before sliding into a death trance.
Father died a socialist, an ideologist, a revolutionary
Towards the dawn of his sunset, he jabbed the wind, jiving for the freedom cockerel,
he chewed propaganda mustard biscuits with gusto,
he drank the ideological whisky with verve.
Political vibe chopped his mother tongue and spoke in political tongues of green combat propaganda
Father died waving a fistful slogan.
Father sang a song alongside the slogan chant
A song of the last liberation
A song that was carved on his DNA like a radio antenna
He died before the setting of the moon
and left a song and a slogan chant,
a song of the last liberation
He died before the claws of dawn caressed our rondavels,
In this pitch-black night, I hear the wind whistling the tune of that song
, song of my father
He loved my mother, president black cockerel and the song
Brother went to war and never came back,
I peep through the broken window of life that one day we see brother walking back to his village rondavel,
the pain of loss is decaying my respect to the parliament until my brother returns.
Freedom was gobbled by the November goblins,
revolutionary eggs gulped by greedy young cockerels with their disrespectful alarms announcing dawn at night.
Charlatans reaping cash and belching corruption stink into our sandpaper, poverty taunted suffering souls.
Beloved generation, beloved bitter-sodden generation
Our sunset long years before black cockerel died, before November knives hacked the revered black cockerel from the zenith of the throne, Yes, another dawn was announced inside the pitch-black night, before owls announce their anthems, before dog’s howl to the last star, before hyenas laugh the last giggle
Tribute to African Writers
by Mbizo Chirasha
That will marry when I want
For the beautiful ones are not yet born
While we wait for the rain
In the coming of the dry season
Behind the anthills of Savannah
Milking the cows of Shambati, gathering good bits of wood,
And the fortunes of Wangarini, in that forests of a thousand demons
A sleepwalking land, for things, had fallen apart
We faced the wrath of the ancestors, bones, and shadows
For it was not an easy walk to freedom
With farai girls, nehanda, and the son of the soil,
In that long journey of popynongena, we met Matigari,
And the tycoon from Peter Maritzburg, and the poor Christ of Bomba
We saw the devil dangling on the cross and his blooming petals of blood
We had the arrows of God
We wanted to kill the mangy dog
In the river between was this a war of freedom?
Indaba my children
We sang the song of lawino and ocol
Walking down Second Avenue
Fighting to decolonize the minds of the people
We became the house of hunger
In the country of our own
The butterfly was burning
In the burning summer season, we never ate the grain of wheat
For we harvested thorns and nervous conditions
Cry my beloved country, country of my skull
For Nehanda still snores even after the struggle of Zimbabwe.