Identity Apples

I am a fat skeleton, resurrecting
from the sad memories of dada
and dark mysteries of animism
I am Buganda
I bleed hope
I drip the honey of fortune
Makerere; think tank of Africa
I dance with you wakimbizi dance

I am Tanganyika
I smell and fester with the smoke of African genesis
I am the beginning
Kilimanjaro; the anthill of rituals

I am the smile of Africa
My glee erase the deception of sadness
my tooth bling freedom
I am myself, I am Gambia

When others sleep with bullets stuck in their stomachs
I sneeze copper spoons from my mouth every dawn
I am the Colombia of Africa

I am the Cinderella of Africa
Where mediums feast with the ghost of Kamuzu in Mulange trees
Here spirits walk naked and free
I am the land of sensations
I am the land of reactions
Coughing forex blues
Squander mania
I still smell the scent of Nehanda’s breath
I am African renaissance blooming
I stink the soot of Chimurenga
I am the mute laughter of Njelele hills

I am Soweto
Swallowed by Kwaito and gong
I am a decade of wrong and gong
I am the blister of freedom vomited from the belly of apartheid
I see the dawn of the coming sun in Madiba’s eyebrows

I am Abuja
Blast furnace of corruption
Nigeria, the Jerusalem of noblemen, priests, professors and prophets

I am Guinea, I bling with African floridirization

I am blessed with many tongues
My thighs washed by river Nile
I am the mystery of pyramids
I am the graffiti of Nefertiti
I am the rich breast of Nzinga

I am Switzerland of Africa
The rhythm of Kalahari sunset
the rhyme of Sahara, yapping, yelping
I am Damara, I am Herero, I am Nama, I am lozi, and I am Vambo

I am bitterness, I am sweetness
I am Liberia

I am king kongo
Mobutu roasted my diamonds into the stink of deep brown blisters
Frying daughters in corruption microwaves
Souls swallowed by the beat of Ndomboloand the wind of Rhumba
I am the Paris of Africa
I see my wounds

I am rhythm of beauty
I am Congo
I am Bantu
I am Jola
I am 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
I am the ghost of Mombasa
I am the virginity of Nyanza

I am scarlet face of Mandingo
I am cherry lips of Buganda

Come Sankara, come Wagadugu
I am Msiri of Garangadze kingdom
my heart beats under rhythm of words and dance
I am the dead in the trees blowing with wind, 
I cannot be deleted by civilization.
I am not Kaffir, I am not Khoisan

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

Liberation!



May 2019 Mbizo Chirasha MONK

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