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Identity Apples: Poems by Mbizo Chirasha


iam a fat skeleton, resurrecting
from the sad memories of dada
and dark mysteries of aminism
iam buganda
i bleed hope
i drip the honey of fortune
makerere, think tank of africa
i dance with you wakimbizi dance

iam tanganyika
i smell and fester with the smoke of african genesis
iam the beginning
kilimanjaro the anthill of rituals

iam the smile of africa
my glee erases the deception of sadness
my tooth bling freedom
iam  myself, iam gambia

when others seep with bullets stuck in their stomachs
i sneeze copper spoons from my mouth every dawn
iam the the colombia of africa

iam the cinderella of africa
where mediums feast with the ghost of kamuzu in mulange trees
here spirits walk naked and free
iam the land of sensations
iam the land of reactions
coughing forex blues
i still smell the  scent of nehanda’ breath
iam african renaissance blooming
i stink the soot of chimurenga
iam the mute laughter of njelele hills

iam soweto
swallowed by kwaito and gong
iam a decade of wrong and gong
iam blister of freedom vomited from the belly of apartheid
i see the dawn of the coming sun in madiba ‘s eyebrows

iam abuja
blast furnace of corruption
nigeria, the jerusalem of noblemen, priests, professors and prophets

iam guinea i bling with african floridirization

iam blessed with many tongues
my thighs washed by river nile
iam the mystery of pyramids
iam the grafiti of nefertiti
i am the rich breast of nzinga

iam  switzerland of africa
the rythm of kalahari sunset
the rhyme of sahara, yapping, yelping
iam damara, iam herero, iam nama, iam lozi, iam vambo

iam bitterness, iam sweetness
iam liberia

iam king kongo
mobutu roasted my diamonds into the stink of deep brown blisters
frying daughters in corruption microwaves
souls swallowed by the beat of ndombolo and the wind of rhumba
iam the paris of africa
i see my wounds

iam  rhythm of beauty
iam congo
iam bantu
iam jola
iam mandinga

i sing of you
i sing thixo
i sing of ogun
i sing of god
i sing of tshaka
i sing of jesus

i sing of children
of garangaja and banyamulenge
whose sun is dozing in the mist of poverty
iam the ghost of mombasa
iam the virginity of nyanza

iam scarlet face of mandinga
iam cherry lips of buganda

come sankara, come wagadugu
iam msiri of garangadze kingdom
my heart beat under rhythm of words and dance
iam the dead in the trees blowing with wind,
i can not be deleted by civilization.
iam not kaffir, iam not khoisun

iam the sun breaking from the villages of the east with great inspiration of revolutions
its fingers caressing the bloom of hibiscus




democracy does not heal the syphilis of apartheid
it never healed the hepatitis of  racism
it is the ritual of the governed to govern
though they remain governed

democracy, a word of the corrupted learned
democracy, a fart of the bullet
signature of  ballot
sting of the scorpion

blood boiling stomachs of darfur
darfur you smell nagasaki

blood frothing hard rocky buttocks of congo
congo you sting baghdad

hunger pornographing breasts in somalia

ministers dangling bellies
poetry scattered in slums and ghettos
word stitched between bullet and ballot
grammar punctuated between slogan and vulgar

democracy an oxymoron of abacha’ machete and madiba’ bible
hyperbole of guantanamo bay and robin island



freedom unearthed from apartheid intestines
a legacy that carried sorrows since the days of yelping baboons
and yapping dogs
monrovia blooming legumes of blood in superstitions
of blood harvesting
crocodiles basking in the east of political comfort zones
afghan with the heart burn for freedom
baboons laughing other baboons in political forests
politicians crushing poverty under their feet
polishing streets with the glitz of robots and rainbow sweet talk.



see talking slums
silenced tongues
freedom silenced
hope killed
a bling of ghettos
collapsed humanity

mothers weeping,
under the compression of religion
trees dripping tears
ethiopia, your festering open wounds
you are my anger!

children burn in smouldering canisters of hunger
time opened new wounds of memories of old scars
chained on rocks of ignorance
you need a compass of decency

my poetry is a catalyst fermenting your injustices
into beverages of justice
you are my sadness!

your heartbeat bleached in political fermentations
rhythm galvanized  in furnaces of cultural myth
laughter imbibed by the rude stomach of the gun
culture crushing under the weight of globalization

ethiopia, you are my wound!



trapped between digital civilization
and chimurenga revolution

iam a poet from the land stones
iam a writing from the bush of trees

justice is not the shape of our noses
freedom is not the size of our breasts

morning children of chimurenga
belly of the struggle carried you to war and back to your canaan of mixed flowers

your ears are not wounded by bullet, but by gun sound
your minds stitched together by marxist propaganda

you married liberation and divorced oppression
erasing the dust of centuries of peripherilization

born out of blood filled centuries,
living in centuries refilled with blood

where the sun rise with blood on its thighs
trees weep at dawn

sorrow dangling in the mist of your wronged faces like drying biltong
good morning children of chimurenga




iam drunk with the sting of your tongue
iam drenched with the bitterness of your lips
iam dopped with the smelling scent of my sweat


black smell is lingering in the bottoms of your conveyor belts
spirits of my children dance in your coffee shops

sight trapped in your coca-cola barrels
scent floating in the rude rhythm of hip hop

my children
with civilization scarred faces
with their slavery wounded hearts

florida bring back my children
come out, let’s fight




sunrays dozing inside tired yawning tombo mugs
babies breathing mucus and dust
wealth and wisdom  draining down through the nose
sex demons pornographing their drama on teenage breasts

shebeens walking the streets  naked,
brothels stripping nude in my face
poverty farting its stink in aging faces

neighbours stealing love from neighbour’s lover
within a blink of an eye.
Hakahana, your brother Havana, cough syphilis
and other half brother Eveline Street sneeze the bad breath of bullet

ghettoes dancing kwasa and ndombolo with the wind, Hakahana, repent tonight
life is a fraud
good morning Hakahana.



sting of my rhythm arouse dozing minds, to
rise up and arouse other dozing minds
to provoke slumber to life
and stupor to soberness
i am not addicted to mental slavery
i have to discard some burden in the journey to my
wrongs have to be righted.


(c) Mbizo Chirasha

Mbizo Chirasha
Mbizo Chirasha
Mbizo Chirasha was born in 1978 in Zvishavane District in Zimbabwe, and was inspired by his social surroundings at a young age. As a young man, Mbizo quickly gained prominence as a performing poet and writer both in Zimbabwe and internationally. The themes of his poetry include children's rights, politics, social lives, gender issues, praise and protest, culture and African pride. Mbizo's poems can be read in print, but are even more powerful when performed by the dynamic poet himself. With a vision of using his poetry to promote peace, healing, stability, and cultural freedom, Mbizo is a poet with commitment, talent, and a desire to perform whenever and wherever he can.


  1. Your poems are breathtaking! They reach out to you with a powerful force, demanding attention and a response.

    Hats off to you!

  2. poet of the Africa soul, Bayethe, hail, i salute. You are baked by the hot sand soil of kalahari, heat by the sun under the Zimbabwe sky.

  3. You are an incredible poet with a rythm, all its own yet as familiar as the terain of your motherland. Your colorful imagery leave classic master pieces on the line canvas. Aluta continua!!?

  4. Mbizo , you are the child of the world , it is long since I found a fearless worrior . You tell it as it is . Your poetry is hot water to the dark cloud of corruption in Africa . Oh princes of darkness and doom, why can’t you stand the truth ?

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