By Mbizo CHIRASHA, World BEYOND War, July 23, 2020
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 seep 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 Ndombolo and 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!
