Knock Knees (Belladona II)

I let her pass then pace up my stroll,admiring the below her thighs part of her limbs where knees bend in for a quick kiss when she walks; like collapsing pillars under the weight of her beauty.
I grasp hold of her chubby wrist,
…the connection of our epidermis igniting electric sparks with audible clicks,a gasp escape my lips…
My skinny frame feels suddenly too heavy for my knees,as my throbbing heart threatens to rupture my ribs.
Time take a knee for a moment, while my rationality abscond with my ability of speech.
Numb and mute, i let her free…and watch her leave.

Poetry Monarch.

: Africa Zwelibanzi ’18


Unfinished Piece November (Sguru)

Dambe – A form of boxing associated with the Hausa people of West Africa. Historically, Dambe included a wrestling component, known as Kokawa , but today it is essentially a striking art. The tradition is dominated by Hausa butcher caste groups, and over the last century evolved from clans of butchers traveling to farm villages at harvest time, integrating a fighting challenge by the outsiders into local harvest festival entertainment. It was also traditionally practiced as a way for men to get ready for war, and many of the techniques and terminology allude to warfare. Today, companies of boxers travel performing outdoor matches accompanied by ceremony and drumming , throughout the traditional Hausa homelands of northern Nigeria, southern
Niger and southwestern Chad . [1] The name “Dambe” derives from the Hausa word for “boxe”, and appears in languages like Bole as Dembe .

Sguru – A Fight.


“sguruu!! sguruu!! sguruu!! sguruuu….”

It was within a chanting circle where i got my first fist beating. First we stood there striking our best Kung Fu stances ,
Long before he clenched them into solid knuckles……..i could almost feel my tiny bones snap under the force of those solid rods ,four times the size of my puny fists .
Maintaining my most ‘menacing’ posture, with my diminutive stature ,the aftermath mock went that i
looked like a timid giraffe ,a wobbly calf…a cornered prey.

Unfinished Piece November.

Poetry Monarch.

Unfinished Piece November (Curtain )

Curtain – piece of cloth intended to block or obscure light.

My Grandmother’s Definition – The face of a home,the representative of the interior, the first and only thing from the inside that anyone can see from the outside.

Hood/Slums Definition – A tavern regular (always there)

This piece has been around since i was in grade 9.


The first time visiting my cousins for summer holidays,we went to this local alcohol den, a decrepit slum that looked like it survived years of consecutive tsunamis,
Before we sat down and enjoyed our strong black label lager,they looked at me with their piercing dagger eyes and demanded my full attention, they made me swear i would never stray from their very precise warning. When i finally agreed, i was warned to stay away from a certain ‘curtain’
That being my first time in place of that sort,not familiar with the jargon, i thought it was probably because she was the most prettiest person in that Tavern,
No inhibitions, no luxury,she wore her excessive confidence as an expensive fragrance. Her routines were short and intriguing whenever she decided to dance,she could twirl her waist as if it was mounted on a socket ,those luring occasional jerks and seductive twerks, that seemed to ignite sparks and exude a magnetic energy that captured the eye of naive admirer ,and of course, the prying eyes of the husbands who left their wives to seek pleasure where it is served without commitment.
Every time her body bent to the ridiculously fast music,it charged the air around her..
I realised after some time of indulging on her agile and smooth dance moves,that it was not how less she wore that i found appealing,but how much she kept hidden behind that bibulous state she gave a bit of herself every night to maintain .

Ufinished Piece November.

Poetry Monarch.

Unfinished Pieces November (Rudo)

Rudo – Love (Shona).

This could’ve been a very great short story,love in the ‘new’ South Africa. Where Africans are called foreigners and amaKwerekwere . How do you express love in a place where hate is the official language?


Built like a sacred Mayan figurine, toned like over ripe pears ,
dun rings circling her eyes like boundary marks ,cautioning of the dangers of being lost in those naturally protruding windows of her soul.
Her chunky,dainty cheeks are sculptured delicately with inflated beauty..
Her hair sprouts out her head like a natural diadem .


However much she tried to ignore him,she could feel his stare burn little hearts on her skin, embroidery of love totems engraved to forever ignite a memory she so wish to erase..
Around him,her body erupts with goosebumps and itch for an embrace,
She chastise herself and feels betrayed by the pace with which her blood would race.

Unfinished Pieces November .

Poetry Monarch.

Her gait.

As if tired of carrying all that voluptuous beauty on herself..
She moves,
Slumberous …
.. with clumsy finesse ,
Her thigh long locks adorned with colourful beads moves in accordance with her every hip sway.
Her limbs carry her body like obedient lackeys…

….the rhythm of her strides, a nature choreographed gait.
As graceful as a well fed feline.

Poetry Monarch.

Chronicles Of A Petrol Attendant.

The Broody Hen (A Narrative )

Conversations With The Notepad.


Picture : Courtesy Of Chesterfield Sofas.

Just yesterday a very great friend asked me a question and i quote : “If there were no destinations and you could travel forever, what form of traveling would you take and to where?”
I said First Class Armchair traveling through a creative soul’s rich imagination ,exploring and sightseeing places beyond touch ,fuelled by the inspiration fanned smoulders of passion,the love for written arts and of course; the silencing of the nagging voice of scepticism . What there a better way to travel or place to travel to ??

Than through the path made of threaded words and within the minds and bodies of fictional characters that can take you as deep as the past and as far as the future , or the vivid narration that can dangle you just above the presence,with buoyant prophecy ; as if you were a superior being with the power of foreknowledge only without the ability of altering fate (and yes, the thrilling pleasures of suspense to constantly incite and intensify the anticipation ).
But then comes the most loathed and quite inevitable part of Armchair traveling for every avid reader . The Destination. Those little words often written in bold italics : “THE END” as if to forcefully yank you off the cockpit of fantasy. You dread turning the last page and wish for a sequel, however satisfying the resolution or denouement might have been . More so because you know that reality is impatiently waiting for you to digest and sober up from the stupor of the utopia . Panting like a tortured bull ready to pounce ,swollen and inflated with even more tragedies because every book you read makes you conscious of at least one more human error . The legendary Mark Twain was spot on when he said : “Books are for people who want to be somewhere else” .
My greatest respect to the fictionate sculptors for creating a place of refuge and refill .

The Poetry Monarch

Chronicles Of A Petrol Attendant.

The Broody Hen (A Narrative )

Conversations With The Notepad