Fungisayi Sasa

Concrete cows have calculated
that only eight chicks are required
to change an energy-saving
light bulb.
Their findings are inconclusive,
wind-farms were not taken into account.
...

let's start a fire then you and i
blaze a path through
this gulf between us
rage ferociously
each hungry for the other
till we touch and burn
the flesh off our bones
...

my mother sings me to sleep and i wake
clinging to the wet wall of her drunken tears
i miss your father i miss you

leaning in close

the alcohol on her breath ushers me into dreams where sheep
count the empty bottles of Baileys in the bathtub
while a talking fox sitting cross-legged on the toilet tells me about puberty
...

days spent away from him are dragging
she is worried for he has not said
anything she actually wanted to
hear the verbal diarrhoea of
her nagging mother soaks
up memories of him
he should have
proposed
by now

father
the bobble head
idiot nods silently
as he pecks on the stale
breadcrumbs of marriage
which he does not wish upon
his daughter but he must agree
with the madding reason of his wife
...

Take one man.
Remove his feet and head (for the head holds the mouth,
the mouth conceals the tongue
and a man's tongue lies)
Pound, then knead the flesh until soft and pliable.
Place in a preheated oven (400°F/200°C/Gas 6) and roast for 50 to 60 minutes.
Serve hot before bitterness sets in.
...

musoro musoro musoro
musoro wakazara dovi
head, a head full of peanut
butter
brown smooth
colour culture

a dog without
a tail
imbwa isina muswe
no respect
don't look me
in the eye
kneel
cover your bare
legs
rise early
from
bed

nzou an elephant
hairemerwi
is not burdened
nenyanga dzayo
by its tusks

kudzai vana
raise the children
breed them
into obedience
into children's children
so they will care
for you in old age
...

they shut
themselves
behind doors
in darkening rooms
lost
in the blankness of
reality
shadows
flit
back
forth
everywhere
memory has
broken through
barriers
of the mind
...

sleep deprived hides in chambers of
naked-bulbed wakefulness where
the conscious splits and hours
hidden by the mind creep
on reality and masqu-
erading thoughts
rise to take
control
...

i am coming home
how long i have missed your red earth
your scent of jacaranda
your balancing rocks and your dazzling smile
but
you are fading
those who loved you once
and vowed to cherish you
men you and i trusted
have violently taken from you, all
that is precious
many of your children who fled in fear, weep
for your pain, and those left behind

nematambudziko

who, out of all the countries
in Africa, consoles you
has anyone tried to clothe your shame
the men who publicly raped you
now pretend to make love
to you in secret
their hearts full of
revulsion with a greed
that feeds only itself
...

My life is measured out in spoons,
teaspoons.
Teaspoons of sugar.
"How many sir?"
"Three, just three."
I nod and smile a tight smile.
My life is a bitter one,
I take sugar to sweeten it.
As the granules
sink in a brown murky
pool of tepid tea,
I feel time dissolving
into the past, a pool
of despair.
My failures and days are heaped
in spoons,
teaspoons.
Teaspoons of sugar.
Three, just three.
...

I walk through the ruins
of what once was a mighty fortress
of stone.
The wind echoes emptiness
and the merry conversations of a prosperous people
are now
silence.
Where is the Colossus that once stood
guarding the breadbasket?
Where is the Titan that fought
for freedom?
He has had his fill and trampled
many in his haste to kill and eat.
The basket is empty, the land derelict,
its people shackled.

I roam the streets of our sunshine
city where death no longer yields
wailing or tears
but mute apathy.
Newspapers preach abundance
whilst the government's doctrine of pilfering
and hoarding wealth thrives.
Where is the man who swore to rule
for the good of the people?
Where is the mind that concieved
a vision of independence?
The god has grown old and his wilted
wits tyrannise us all.

Graveyards overflow, our country is in crisis
and my heart is a fortress of stone.
...

his mouth is intrusive
invading my conscience
with words
his promises
i believe his tongue
dripping honey is a dagger
through my ears
sirens wailing
in my mind
are relief from
his public addresses
his idle chatter i believed
his voice is the
hyena's laughter
animals in the night
whose wildness i cannot
hear when asleep in bed
dreaming
of a time before
his mind withered
and let his wide open mouth
spew hollow words
i believe mr president
nobody is tuned in
to your frequency
...

your sun has blackened and now it sets night has come at
last there is movement in the air change in the wind's
direction your voice is now a whispering soprano
beseeching your pet cockerel to crow but it shall
not wake the nation tomorrow a new sun is
rising and as your dead orb plummets over
the edge of your crumbling world
go to sleep Gabriel
goodnight
...

Does Sir David Attenborough know that african blue-wing butterflies migrate?
My heart is the flame-lily on which they land.
...