We are forever…

We endured the bite of the flagellum,

And survived the blade of the guillotine.

A Broody Hen.

The Narrative.

© copyright reserved.


Mwandishi (Misconception Of Masculinity)

He is a libertine who lost his character in acts of a self proclaimed master of polygamy,
He changes maidens with assorted boxes of delicacy, blowing wealth intended to be a legacy,
While he whisper sweet nothings to his mistresses under these trees in the orchards in illegimate amatory, home is where he carries his physical brutality,
Haunted by the conscience of his infidelity,
….he rupture bones, puncture ribs,
Strangle his wife while his daughter watch to emphasise his supremacy
“I am the head of this house!!” he addresses aggressively,with the boot of his treachery he tramples her dignity.
Submissively,she bows before his misconception of masculinity
She hugs her daughter firmly and whispers
“Excuse his corroding humanity, love is strength and ability. A heart that forgives suffer the less misery.” her voice tremors with agony,
Mwandishi weeps for her Mother with sympathy,
Seven years after her birth, witnessing first the side of marriage that drips with cruelty,she made an internal promise to forever despise the knots of matrimony.

Broody Hen (A Narrative)

Mwandishi Trilogy.

© Copyrights reserved 2018



Ngithe angibenze bubengamagama agqamile ubuhlalu balexube,lezi.. izinkomba zendoda egiqa amahlule.
Inhliziyo usuyenze yabayindawo yokubhukuza kwey’vemvane.
Uma ufunda lencwadi,zikhohlwe zonke izigameko zosuku,
…cabanga ubuhle bezinkayezi zobusuku.
Ungaphathi lutho ezandleni , uma uphimisa lagama izwa izwi lami ezindlebeni.
Akubekhona ukumomotheka ubusweni,
Hogela iphunga lalezimbali engizicoshe emadwaleni ngasemfuleni.
Ndlovukazi yasemathandweni
,cabanga nje kuyimina nawe ekamelweni,
Ngaphansi ezingubeni,sifumbetheni ezandleni, uncikise ikhanda lakho lapha kumina esifubeni ,sengilufakile ucingo eminweni.
Ngikuhlebela ;sihleka izinto ezingatheni nje emoyeni …umomotheke kufacake izihlathi..
Sibukane emehlweni,ingabe yimina ngedwa osemanzi emadolweni? uyawuzwa yini logesi ohamba kumina emzimbeni?

Azikulingene inkomo enginazo esibayeni.

Kodwa usuyozwa ngabakhongi ekuseni.

Yimina osemathandweni.
Owakusasa Umyeni.



….bite at her neck and gain territory, melt the sleet on her cold heart in sparking chemistry… Make her inhibitions evaporate with heated intimacy ,weaken her knees and compel her instinctive guards to join your infantry…

Sink the tip of your fingers on her flesh delicately,nibble on her earlobes and whisper erotic absurdity…

Twerk her nipples ,till sensation ripples and trembles her entire physicality…

Quell her internal itching, make her squirm ,till she claw and evoke her Felinity,

Demarcate her neck with embroidery of hickies and seed her fertility with a love legacy.

Broody Hen.

A Narrative.

©copyright reserved -Afrika Zwelibanzi.

A Sonnet And More.

Up all night trying to squeeze you into a sonnet,

To measure your personality with the metre of iambic pentameter.

To emphasize your sense of attitude with paired couplets,

Divide your striking attributes in rhyming quatrains, a prosody parameter.

In fourteen lines,I would canvas your astounding humor,

With seven rhymes I’d paint the innocence in your eyes,

And how your abrupt mood swing is a harsh volta.

I would praise the feline hip sway in your strides,

The beauty you fail to hide even when you’re angered,

The poetry your being recites when you dance,

The resonance of your voice when your laughter is triggered,

The innate inclinations you convey by a simple glance.

All night I squeeze you into a Sonnet my Love,

Fourteen lines,seven rhymes and yet it is not enough.
Picture📷: Black Poetry
A Broody Hen

The Narrative

© copyright reserved.


It is Mbongi Village’s most anticipated night we sat in rows of semicircles.

Young and old from all neighboring compounds and clans assembling in Gogo Shangu’s roofless mud house ,sitting quietly around the Hearth . The moon complimenting the beautiful scatter of constellations.

Even stars were out to indulge on the unfolding art of storytelling, the narrative art bridging the gaps of cultural divides,linguistics and trampling the notion of age segregation.

“An oil lamp is proud to give light although it wears itself off” Gogo will begin inbetween gulps of her sorghum beer,like most of her wisdom oozing stories began with a proverb .

Studying patiently our awe struck faces sweat puddling on her wrinkles. Her sudden silence thickening the apprehension from one face to another her eyes darted, the mud room steaming with anticipation ,bare;unconcealed.

We could feel it brush against our skins shrouding our curiosities with warmth,settling among us like a fog of a charged vapor mist.

Then she will smile ,slowly moving to rekindle the fire,patiently poking at the crackling logs to evoke the strength of the flames. Sitting back to quietly admire the power of oxygen in combustion. As if her passion of expressing is fueled by the glow of the embers, her lenses flicker a familiar glisten.
Refilling her Ukhamba in a slow ,careful manner.

As if to prolong the anticipation now smothering us,then.. she will continue ,teleporting our inquisitive minds in a cockpit psyche of a Griot.

The tides of passion visibly pulsing in her arteries,her oratory gestures and facial expressions cloaking her every phrase with emphasis

,ethics, values and articulated wisdom. Carried effortlessly on the echoes of her bold resonant voice,

Now forever embedded deep in our subconsciousness to echo in our lives long when she is no longer there to teach us,

..gifting us an eternal aptitude to heal with a universal remedy rooted solely in memories.

Long ,deep in the depths of the artistic sorcery..

We’d sit there with our mouths hanging agape, eyes protruding.

Our diaphragms heaving with loud palpitations,

…quietly resurfacing from the heightening climax as it finally reaches the peak. Slowly sloping down the inclined resolution, enchanted by the sorcery in her conveying. Caught in both the suspense and the embellish world of our Oracle narrator, respectively fitting ourselves in the shoes of the protagonist,taking chimerical steps down to our personally preferred predicted denouement…


Broody Hen

The Narrative

Poetry Anthology

© Copyright Reserved 2018