Scribbles

Hear her speak, Its flames of wild fire burning sweet sensations down your ears, Imbued in wisdom and traditions of our ancestors, Clothed in enchantment of the blue sky.  Of her bewitching build none competes, Not the texture of the sun’s rays or that of petals of roses, Fairly not even the phenomenal tombs of pharaohs with all their might, It is just uniquely sophisticated. Talk of her character, Beautiful and heavenly, As the display of shiny pearls which populate the skies at night, As the glow on one’s face ignited by genuine happiness. She is a splendid gem, A woman of Africa, Of beauty kneaded from black earth A woman to adore!. Gerry Sikazwe Model: Angelina Shamz Picture Credit: Lobe Musonda

                                                                Pictures: Google  Little birds sing,  Old negro spirituals.  Around the harbour,  These tunes they echo;  To cement the hearts,  To dry seas in eyes,  Of men,  women,  To brew liquor of hate,  In boys and girls growing.  Little birds echo tunes,  Before our strong brothers,  Before our pride, virgin sisters,  Before our fathers and mothers,  Are dragged by their necks;  As we do bulls when they plough,  Smitten like we treat thieves of corn,  Dragged as our cows for slaughter,  Into a mammoth ark, ark to slavery.  Little birds cry,  They shed tears with us,  Their hearts like ours,  In great a...

Listen to the trees as they sway in the wind, Their leaves are telling secrets, Their bark sings songs of olden days as it grows around the trunks, And their roots give names to all things, Their language has been lost, but not the gestures. Mpanji Siame

 If the sky was a blanket,  Then it could be one held invisibly,   Fastened tightly in midair,  And Earth would be the bed,   On which witty dreamers lay,  Dancing with beautiful shadows,  Pacing to and fro the ends of the world,  In close stance shaking,   Wriggling their wine-bottled waists,  To tunes of old, tunes of ancient Egypt,  To rhythms of first day Africa,   Before music was molested and lost its purity,  To Gypsy melodies,   When music still had its head proudly swung,   Left and right with no reservations.  If the sky was a blanket,  And Earth, the bed on which dreamers slept,  Life would certainly be a massive dream dreamt by all,  It would be nothing existent,  But merely a masterpiece,   A Mona Lisa of sleeping minds,  Just a beautiful thought. Gerry Sikazwe

I am not my own, For I had nothing to do with my existence, I was merely a thought mercifully conceived in the creator’s mind. I am not my own, For I did not design nor decide what skin dark or bright to permanently wear, I was clothed in black earth following the potter’s careful image. I am not my own, I am nature’s because I swing on icy strings tied around its hands, I am my land’s as my existence is the extension of its love, Not my own, never my own. Gerry Sikazwe

                   Light up the path of a lone hunter in the dark forest, Brighten the dull cold dreams of an infant girl. Let the night glow, brightened with stories of sleeping old heroes. Warmth of our sleeping fathers, Bring out from within us the good that accompanied generations of our fathers, Burn in our hearts, burn in our souls, Keep us awake, keep us alive. Gerry Sikazwe

Care for me when old I become,  Tend for me when my bones weaken,  For I have toiled the earth all my life for you.  I'm an aged Monkey now;  Whose survival begs on you,  So be mine sight, now that my eyes slacken,  Walk for me, now that logs my legs I've become. Gerry Sikazwe

Be wise my daughter, These men you see are beasts, Beasts wild and hungry, Don't be naive, you can't tame them, Run, their thirst none can slake. Gerry Sikazwe

  Your eyes twinkle with an alien light, Your mouth smiling, that moment, is heart-melting, Your voice rings with sweet sensations that tickle their way into my ears, Your touch, that embrace, has warmth which many just meet in dreams. Woman, you are a goddess golden, Woman, you are a star pearly; The desire of all men awake, The treasure which every sharp-eyed pirate insanely endeavours to pick, The dream most minds think impossible to conceive, Mpande, my woman, The only daughter of Shula the old hunter. Gerry Sikazwe

Mpande, daughter of the great hunter Shula, Apple of my eye, from whom the stars borrow their glow, You who makes the beauty of soft colorful flowers questionable, with your queenly build, Mpande the admired of the gods of our village. Listen to the gossip of birds as they sit chattering to themselves while you pass, They alleged singing that your are admired of the gods, Do hear the mighty mountains pause in awe, dazzled by your charming beauty as you walk by Entertaining in their minds insinuations, thoughts of you being desired by gods, yes glorious gods of our land, Look up and see the stars peep almost falling off from the sky to catch a glimpse of you, the goddess beloved of their fair masters, Take time also to watch trees in their might bow in reverence to she, you, who mesmerizes not men but gods too, A beauty arrayed in black soil, formed from Bangweulu waters and Mungwi clay, A woman thirsted and hungered for by the witty gods, to wed , to own. Gerry Sikazwe

- Who Will Marry Musuma?- Who will marry you Musuma? With beauty of the morning sun, Eyes of a twinkling sky, Touch as soft as clouds, Musuma, who will marry you? Who is worth your value? A woman that gods plan, from our village at night to steal, A woman who is wrestled for by our village's strongest warriors. Who is fit to espouse you? Who will marry our beauty, Musuma? For now her head slowly greys, For now her skin gradually loses its softness, And she soon approaches barrenness. Who will marry you, pride of our village? I fear, your beauty might become your mock, I fear, a spinster you would age, I pray, old and unwedded you do not die. What a shame is there anyone befitting of your beauty O daughter of Shula, the great Hunter?

 The first day we met, the first time you saw me I was young, a baby  The first time I saw you, the first day I met you I was shy, my lady  I remember forming my first poem later,  It was about you, about how much I didn't understand who you where  I don't remember its full contents, but it was lovely  I must have lost and forgot it along the path to youth somewhere.  The first time I witnessed your beauty, was when you were just from waking up, in the morning  You looked beautiful even with your hair untidy, face wrinkled, with your smile dim and your whole body marked by the reed mat you previously laid on,  Your beauty pulled me toward you as gravity to the ground and within me was left no more energy to fight your claws.  So each day before you awoke, I would awake and outside sit to wish you a good day,  I would ensure that my day is fully spent on seeing  you off as you travelled to the west, ...

My village is very, very small, But my father, mother and all, It supported till their death. I am equally small, young, But my womb will bring forth great men, strong, To till, plant and even grow the earth. Small but not for the earth.

We spoke words, We sung our emotions loud, We felt fiery feelings for each other, We shared smiles, we shared frowns, We played in the rain, we wrestled in the mud, But today we are against each other, Today we are pointing not only fingers of accusations but actual machetes, My folks why are we at war? * Remind me please, why are we fighting? Is it because Ngwenya's son stole a cob of maize from Chona's field? Is it because of hunger found in our own brothers household, that we choose to spill blood? When we were young, remember, we stole not for hunger but for pleasure, Even then, our parents never in a moon wished to shed blood, Our parents never sworn enmity, never disowned each other because they knew that children are children, Now our son has stolen for hunger, a noble cause, Why then should we fight, men of one house? Why my brothers should blood be shed? Why should blood of our very own be spilt? * Is our blood of equal value with maize? Should our blood be of eq...