(June 2006)

Smiling in self-defense, we get through our days
by pretending we are alone...
and so we are alone.

But I have been to where people smile...
and mean it. Smile so warmly, and have so little...
while we have so much, and Dance only to get away.

And now I have heard that those genuine smiles
have been bulldozed...
by one they were meant to trust.

It happens there as here. But they do not let it beat them.
While we here have so long forgotten our smiles,
in our struggle...

I am sure there they still smile every morning
and dance...
holding out their hands to dance with us.
***

Marimba is an INCREDIBLE musical form I first encountered in Zimbabwe...
Unless you've heard it, you have NO idea what can be done with small hammers
and wood over gourds. It's just incredible. The bass especially; you can feel
that buzzing in your bones at some subsonic level... And the soprano is so CUTE,
pattering over everything...

But it was bittersweet; I was so happy to be hearing marimba again (I danced
for three hours straight, very fast, and then couldn't walk for two days)...but
there I heard that the foremost marimba artist/innovator in the world, Dumi,
passed away the year after I went to Zim (I never knew that the first time I
heard him there at U-Zed would be the the last!), and that the high density
neighbourhoods of Zim have been bulldozed and so many people that I loved have
been made homeless...by their own PRESIDENT! I was already worried about Mr.
Mugabe, and the news of that last 'election' was frightening, but this... So
much promise, being betrayed...

What's weird is, now, finally--when I've found I might never get to go back to
Zim, and after so long out of contact with all things Zim--I've also been informed
that the northwest coast is the mecca in this continent for Zimbabwean music; the
Zim music Fest is held in one of the cities here every year. Hell, if I woulda known
that, I'd've moved here YEARS ago!!! I don't care that it interferes with my travel
plans next month; I'm going to ZimFest in Eugene!!! Even if it hurts to hear what's
happening to a place I think of as a Soul-Home.

www.zimfest.org
http://nyamuziwa.com
http://www.dandemutande.org/Catalog/?cat=Music&artist=NyamuziwaMarimbaEnsemble

(click on Sekuru Joe (listen button) to hear some good marimba; Nyamuziwa is
one of the best I've ever heard on any continent...better than some IN Zim.
Course, nothing's like hearing it live, but...)

Tags: africa, events, news, poetry, zimbabwe
Currently Living In...: Olympia, WA
Fuzzy or Emo?: shocked
Brought To You By:: "Nyamuziwa!"

(August 1998/April 2006)

The other Night, I just kept walking...
I didn't stop at the gate-road thing.
I walk on into darkness and follow the Drum-beats...
they call to me, out here; and I am possessed.
they call out to me evenings here like a Heartbeat...
like the Heartbeat of Earth waiting while home I rest...
I surrender to destiny, called out of my pallet
Forgetting the rules; hypnotized by the zest...
and the need for the sounds and the Songs of MY people.
for I've felt that the ones I live with here are Lost...
Lost in a daymare of Goddessless seeking...
for something cast out when they sought more than this.
Lost to the Sensations of Earth and of Fire...
Untamed by the hearth; and of rattles at wrists;
of Drums under Skies and not trapped inside buildings...
Lost to the Seasons of sensual bliss.
but the Earth-Mother here is now calling me Home...
here in this place where She first came to be.
and I am no longer Lost to Her in silence!
I am no longer cut off from Her Children we see...
sometimes out by iNyanga's house off of the roadway...
behind of the village, beyond the church road...
Im told I must stay and be like these tame Children
of God; but out here Im no longer alone.
"And as a token that ye are not a slave slaving..."
She told me; "ye shall Dance that ye know ye are Free."
and I know now within my Soul I must be Dancing...
'Tween Drumming and Firelight something's waiting for me.
as I walk toward the beat and my feet know the road.
I know and knew always, my Heart's tied to Hers...
and now that I've taken the Risk, uninvited...
my Heartbeat Her Heartbeat now; I am reassured.
the drums are Speaking...a language Forgotten...
for me Born so far from the Umbilicus here...
can you Hear them? I wonder if I'll be accepted...
and Welcomed by those who have reason to Fear.
can hear that the Drums are Souls; calling out for me...
I could no more stay 'way and lay wond'ring in bed
than I could turn my back on my Mother in silence...
and join a Belief that would make of Her Dead.
and the Drums of my cousins are dreaming my Soul now...
and they make my Soul call out for someone to see...
that here is a Sister of Nighttime approaching...
to join in long-needed, foresworn Revelry!
the drums Speaking Tongues and my Soul is replying...
in the Ancient Language without any Words.
one needed when Drums are calling out Spirits...
the answer in every Heartbeat that is heard.
and in every sweet drop of my Blood I will answer...
my feet driven on down the road, my Fears dimmed
my misgivings Forgotten as I forge on northward
toward the centre of town and then on toward the Hills.
and as I come closer I feel all the Spirits
of the Earth coming out too, to answer the Call.
they come out of the Trees, peep past the great boulders...
the places where they've hidden, been chased by new Law.
the Ancestral presences no longer Slaves tonight
no longer marginalized by new Fears...
in this, their Nighttime, they know they are Free; coming out...
answer the Call as if buried for years.
though I know I have heard the Drums echo by Nightfall
through Midnight till Dawn each Night that I've been here...
I wonder how long it's been since they've braved the cold...
of the new Law to answer and appear.
they step out of the hummocks of brush and the miti-
Tree copses by Moonlight; emerge from their rest...
Awakening from their uneasy sleep; safest...
by Twilight; they rustle from grass to the west.
from the Farms and the Fields, they gather on roadsides...
step out from among the Matombo-stone Graves...
they listen; caught Dreaming, from far yon Rain Mountain...
made of Blood and of Bone where the Ancestors stay.
Ancestors forgotten, where once they climbed daily...
to call for the Rain where their Rites long held sway.
they coalesce all around from the shadows and gather...
and guide me by Moonlight, along the long way.
and I am no longer alone on this Road...
that once seemed so lonely in Moonlight and Wind.
that once seemed so haunted by Spirits un-called-for...
in their presence forget those who'll think I have sinned.
the shadows of Wind-twisted Trees hold no terror;
Old Friends in the Earth hold no terror for me.
it is Good, it is Good to be no more resentful...
it is Healing and calming to my Spirit here.
and all around me the Spirits are touching and Smiling...
Joining me, walking and Laughing with Mirth.
"We are Free! We are Free! We together Rejoice!"
"there are still some Ones out there who remember our worth!"
and out on the edge of the Hills and the town...
far behind the new houses and close to the Land...
where the Nyanga and all of her family live quiet and still
as they've done for years far from the hands
of those who would like to raise their hands against the Old
Ways that she keeps by her herbs and her right
as a grandchild of the last N'angas of Old Days...
by the Wisdom of Age and red Fire-light...
at the Crossroads between the new town and Old Hills...
like the Bones of the Earth rearing out of red clay...
between Old and the New; between Moonlight and shadow...
a Bonfire burns, and the Drum-players play.
they play to call out the Ancestors of Ages...
to chase away Curses and to bring on Good Luck...
with the Power of Old and the Wisdom of Sages...
and all that the family I joined have no truck with.
I step from the bush, hoping they won't think I'm one...
who'll take what I've Seen, or Deny what I've Felt.
will they Welcome me? Fear me? Accept me or send me
back to the family down there in the veld?
I step out from the Crossroads to the Joy of the Firelight...
coursing through veins quickened by the Drums' beating!
escorted by cousins, the Spirits of Twilight;
drawn on the way with the Drum-language fleeting...
and joined by the Ancestral Spirits they're calling;
We are not one, but Many in One on the Road...
the Nymphs and the Dryads of this Land I've come to...
which is truly the first Land to rise from the Sea.
at first they are startled to see an Intruder
of different aspect where they try to raise Power...
but there by the Fire the iNyanga sees me
and knows me to be one called by the hour.
"Ndiri kurwara," I tell her with pleading
and need in my eyes as I look at the Fire;
the Drummers; the Dancers; "my Heart will expire...
if I cannot Join you here out of the Night!"
she sees my hand over my Heart where the Pain is;
brought on by the Drums in the Night I was kept
away from by worries and Fears of those others
below, and she nods as if knowing I've Wept.
"Titambire," she says, and turns back to the Drummers...
back to the man for whom they have Gathered to save...
and the Drummers start Drumming, the Dancers to Dancing...
and Welcomed, Embraced, I ride on the wave.
and soon the Drums call me; I'm urged to join in with the
Dance that they've made or been called to by Souls;
and I pass by the boundary into the Circle;
the spice of the Trees and the smoke in me rolls...
Intoxicated by the Wind in the Leaves and Moonlight
that Shines through the Clouds to the ground where the Firelight
mixes with Moonlight and gray Soil is red again...
where the Drumbeat drives on and lithe bodies ignite.
the voices of Family here ring on the Hillsides;
a cadence as old as the Birth of mankind...
I know not the words; but the sound stirs my Blood so that
I must drink it in, let it enter my mind.
as I move Dreaming to bonfire, Join with my folk...
they are holding hands all around and embracing the heat...
the Night and each other. Ancestors denied...
are now in the Circle; and I am Replete;
here among them; I care not the Ritual, reason...
salving my Soul with the sound of their Song.
they come here for Healing of one of their Brothers...
they come here to make right a long-standing Wrong.
they come here to Honour the past and the Dead.
I come here to Join them and Celebrate Life!
and the remnants of old Ways that somehow hang on!
to Heal what the new Ways bring here with their Strife!
after months of repression, I've found my flock waiting!
and here at the Crossroads, no longer alone.
they are walking with me through the brush and the Grasses...
the Breeze and the Night come and enter my Soul.
the Peace of the Twilight now enters by body...
along with the Drumbeat that drunkens my brain...
the heat of the Fire that quickens my pulses...
and the Song that assures I'll be ne'er the same.
in my mouth I can taste the Blood-iron-red Soil.
I stand at the Crossroads 'tween Drumbeats and Fire...
Air in my hair and the Moon in my bloodstream...
my body moves faster, Drums urging me Higher!
and forward! my feet pound the Earth; and the Drumming
is calling me on to Forget my regrets.
they Thrum in the soles of my now shoe-less tsoka...
my shoes have been lost so that now I am met
with each Dancing step by the Earth in Her splendor!
Feeling clay in my toes and the Drums in my veins!
my feet in red powder; the dust in my teeth, and
the cold in my bones gone; the Fires heat reigns.
I am leaping now suddenly, drunk with the Heartbeat!
leaping and drunk with the Mother-Peace here!
Drunk with the Moonlight and heat of the Fire! and
lost to the worries that brought me to Fear.
I need no chibuku or drugs for this Dancing...
my body is one with the Mother tonight.
while the on-lookers share their drink and the iNyanga
Heals her petitioner, I lend of my Sight.
I lend of the power I raise with my Dancing...
no inhibitions here to hold back what I've Raised;
Join it together with what they've been calling...
Raise my hands to the Skies! Let the Moonlight be praised!
I am leaping again! I am ONE, with Tawanda!
I am ONE with that power that calls me here Home!
I am spinning; I'm Many! I'm one with Tawanda!
Know wherever I go now, Ill not be alone.
I enter into the Dream we are weaving;
a Dream where the Old Ways return with the New...
so that both may rejoice here together in Daylight!
and the Healing take place in all things that we do!
a place where our lives are but Dreams of Joy lived...
where there's no exploitation and no Holy War!
where the Fire half-tamed is our Friend again!
where the Soil is heard and degraded no more!
the Earth calls me down and within Her now dancing...
Moon, Mwedzi above in Her Sky calls me away...
I am ONE! I am Many! Here in my own body;
and Inside the Earth where I someday will stay.
the Soul in the Soil accepts my Dance-Drumming...
I am here giving thanks to the One that Provides...
I am here giving thanks through the Drum and the Dance.
for I've tried to give thanks in the buildings in Silence...
that may work for others; not in my circumstance.
the Fire accepts me as the Moon and the Drums do...
the Heartbeat accepts me as the celebrants did...
here in the Drums and the Moon and the Fire;
I'm ONE; with the Dancers I'm Many amid.
Vision now altered, I dance with all Souls, and my
Consciousness altered, I dance the Earths beat...
no more but ONE; Tawa... I begin to see patterns...
no more but this; iTawa... with Lessons to Seek.
the Soul in the Soil wants no sacrifice from us;
but this is enough; that I've come to pay Tribute...
to those who once had it from all that exist, but now
Seek it from those who remember their roots.
I begin to take root, now, between Drumming and Fire...
between Heavens and Earth; between Wind and red iron.
my toes sink down deeply, now; drink of the River...
the Beasts at the wading pool stare in amaze.
I take root for a moment, commune with my Mother...
She is All-Mother too; and She welcomes me Home.
She has called me to where I can feel Her Heart beating...
She knew that I needed to Feel not alone.
to feel Her again; to be Home where the Heart is...
the Embrace of the Mother welcomes me Home...
the Night goes on forever in Oneness and Plenty...
when it finally ends I'll no longer need roam.
She calls me to Dance in the Heart that Rejoices...
and I must Dance within Her now, 'tween the Fire and Her.
yes, I must find that Balance and Oneness She gives me...
so that when I return I can stand before All.
I am Home! I am ONE! I am Many! Tawanda!
I must be one with the spice and the herbaceous Breeze...
that floats by on the Wind under Moon in the Starlight!
I must give my sweat to Tawa to be Free!
And it comes to me now, as Ive come to Her dancing...
That I've lost part of Oneness by seeking away;
By denying some part of Her Children to come here...
My heart turned against those who seek other ways.
As I dance for Her here, rediscover the WE...
Must remember the Secret; they're a part of it too...
Those down below now asleep in their beds, in the
Town where the ways and the Paths seemed too few.
Tucked in with their prayers and their visions of hellfire...
We deny them when we turn our backs to come here.
seek Salvation from knowing the Old Truths still out there...
and then meet them halfway, knowing nothing to Fear.
I must stop my resenting, and bend like the Willow...
that lives at the Shore by the edge of the swale...
where the spring-Waters gather, and children fetch Mana...
to clean a house blessed with the power of Prayer.
Each Day is a lesson; and Night is a gift;
to remind us the Old Ways live on after Dark...
and I find Her calm comfort here helps me to Focus...
on what I must know to continue Her Work.
the WE that lies at the root of our BE-ing...
I must learn to accept so we All can return.
re-Accept, and bend firmly tomorrow; but now I can
leap with the Heart-beat; recharge with the Earth!
and so 'tween the Fires I leap in the Night...
so high that the Stars in the Skies might accept me...
these alien Stars with their strange numerology...
their horoscopes teach me to bend and not fight.
the Pregnant Moon hanging above reaches down from Her
nest in the Stars to embrace me halfway...
She knows me no matter which Earth I now Dance upon;
Feels me no matter which Drums I now play.
Her belly is gravid and facing an old way...
that is different from my way far north in the Snows...
and I must re-accept this as part of my Lesson;
this is the same Moon, by whichever way that it goes.
She waits there above us for me to Accept this...
"I can be God's Light like they told you today,
and still be the First Light that you knew at your Birthing,
half a World north, but not so far away."
and now it's not just Her Light that surrounds me...
but an acceptance of God's light returning with Day...
surrounding me both; Mother-Wise there to learn me;
Father to test my resolve the same way.
but that is tomorrow, the Lesson too brazen...
before; I could not accept without Grief...
that is why I need come here tonight by the Fire;
so that Drums and Earth-Mother could help me to see.
so that Grandmother Moon that I've trusted for lifetimes...
could show me what God in His Sky wants to share...
because I wasn't ready to hear it so boldly...
but with Night to translate, find I'm already there.
that I need both a Mother to nurture my Child
within, and a Father to protect me in Days...
Grandmother to Teach me, Grandfather for stories;
an Aunt to accept me, not changing my ways.
an Uncle to help me to see when its needed
that I can change slowly when times call for change.
a Sister to Hold me, a Brother to nudge me
a teasing but loving voice leading the way.
a Daughter someday born in fact to remind me...
we Live not for us only but for those who will come...
a Son to remind me to Love every child...
and person that's born on the Earth, not just some.
a Friend and another to stand here beside me...
no matter if I turn to them now or away.
never Surrendering, never Forsaking;
neither leave us adrift as we seek our own Way.
and now by the Fire, gold Light dances faster!
reminding me that there is Joy to be had!
Dance to be Danced and drumbeats to be taken
with Wind, in the blood; the first drug, not the bad.
and behind us the silver Moonlight makes the Soil...
turn Silver with Gold meshing here where we stand...
and Red Soil is brown by the Light of the Fire,
and the Light of the Moon where they lick at the Land.
Red-Blood of our Birthing; the Earth in Her staining
in places like this show us where we came from...
not just our folk or your folk but every folk Living;
not just us but God too, and each Beast and each Song.
and now that I realize we're all in this together;
and 'religion' won't matter as long as I know.
now out from the Firelight, Shadows come leaping!
they dance by my side and show they see it so.
the Ancestors circling and dancing and Be-ing;
Ancestors of all of us show they arent dead...
the Earth freeing rhythms we thought lost forever!
the Sky with both gifts freeing thoughts we once dread.
and I find myself One now with all of that Power!
that comes from releasing resentment and Fear...
before hate can become of it; finally know Freedom...
I thought I had had but was only this near.
and we, all these Children of Earth and Sun dancing
are Dancing to Free both these things all together!
and to shake free our own chains; Hearts beating in unison!
Feet pounding the Earth as we stomp out ill weather.
we are Freeing the Heart of all Life with this Joyousness...
Celebrate Love and the Healing that comes...
with the Movement and shade of the bodies of Drummers
by Fire- and Moonlight and Gods in and above.
and Dawn now approaching shades bodies to gloaming...
the Fire burns down and the Drummers go slack...
Eyes closed, bodies straining we drink the last Nectar...
and the last of the Lesson fills up for our lack.
we are one with the Mother and Father here Balanced
on the knife-edge between both the new and old Ways...
and now I can go back to that house by the steeple
and live without fear that my Faith be replaced.
and so now I can bid farewell to the Nyanga...
to those who have Welcomed me where they come to embrace...
I step out with eyes blinking to embrace the Homecoming
of Sun...the first time since I came to this place.
***

(When I first came to Zim, the toughest thing for me was hearing those drums out there in the hills and being unable to go out and see what was happening...because the family i was placed with in the rural homestay was a Salvation Army family, and i had to act like one of their children who wouldn't even CONSIDER checking out one of the OLD rituals. Being placed with an evangelical family wouldn't have been so tough for me if I'd had some kind of pagan outlet; but I'd just found my spirituality, and without any way to express it I felt so repressed and stifled I thought I'd die. Thus I came up with 'Howard Homestay Rule 1: When drums are beating in the dayScary Army! Run away! When drums are pounding in the nightfollow them! The time is right!'...and began to daydream about sneaking out to follow the drums after everyone had gone to bed. I never actually did it--making this poem more of a wishful daydream on paper at the time--and my resentment made the original ending of this poem a great deal more angry. I've since come to terms with Christianity...and know more of what might have actually been going on over there with those drums and that fire...thus a different ending and a much
different outlook. It was still a tough time for me, LOL)

"Ndiri kurwara": "I have a pain"

"N'anga": the traditional spelling/pronunciation of the modern 'Nyanga'

"Titambire": We welcome you. Part of the traditional round when you ask to enter someone's living space or kraal: "Tishikewo!" (May I enter?)
"Titambire! Pindai!" (Welcome! Enter!)

"tsoka": feet

"Mwedzi": the Moon

"miti": tree

"Matombo": giant stones/stone formations

"Rain Mountain": a huge mountain outside of town to the southwest that stands all alone and was once climbed for rites to the Ancestors, and to call for Rain. It is white sandstone under red soil, and so the places where the soil has worn off or been washed away look like huge Earth-bones sticking up from the red...like a sleeping giant.

"veld": a Rhodie/Afrikaaner term for the grasslands of southern Africa (a Rhodie is a Rhodesian; a white person who refuses to accept the restructuring of the former colonial to a representative one. Though the current administration isn't doing a whole lot better, it must be said!

"chibuku": a Zimbabwean beer made in the traditional manner; ie without straining out the grain. It's like drinking a loaf of bread. It's bitter, malty, tasting almost like dark chocolate. Street people can live on this stuff; it being cheap enough, nutritious enough, and voluminous
enough--it comes in these huge plastic half-gallon barrel things. an essential part of the Zimbabwe experience, Chibuku; preferably from a local still.

"Tawanda/Tawa!": this was my battle cry; still is. Together as One/Many in One...basically 'Unity'.

"Mana/Manna": energy, from the Earth. as in the Mana Pools in the game parks, where the elephants hang out; considered wellsprings of Earth energy.

Tags: africa, poetry, spirituality, zimbabwe
Currently Living In...: Olympia, WA
Fuzzy or Emo?: content
Brought To You By:: Patricia Majalisa

(Fall, 1999)

What is it about time? It was a year today
that we were sitting in Mbizi, getting pissed,
facing our last week as one before the crisis;
the operation, the horror of surgical removal…
we, who had once lived in packedness; high-density...
fanana, in our several skins, as we could be
and will never be again, without.
And how could we be pulled apart,
after such intensity? After the lives lived as one
lifetimes in weeks... After sharing our very
Essence of being? You know; we never really knew
if it was the core of each other we were knowing, or
the selves we had invented for the lyrical land of self-
excavation we had entered… Only a year!
My god, a year; since we sat around the table,
with the bottle, and those lessons Julie gave
where once we had sat around one talking Shona
like babies, stumbling over words like tii
shuga ne bhata ne pamusoroi…
and the way Luke walked away, hands raised
for Julie was his; was in his group…
and declined to put in advisement. A year!
to the day, since we crawled and writhed against the cage
and got lessons on bottles and tampons; a year
since we drank the hotel bar to dessication; a year
to the minute, since the smell of raw garlic
entered my fingertips and refused to leave
for weeks; like the scent, on your hands, of a lover
and since I was lost alone on the streets
of the town, they say, “he doesn’t sleep”...
in the Muslim section, trying to barter
mangoes in Arab-accented Shonglish.
Later on there would be other wonders;
elephant shits the size of soccer balls,
and my first Pepsi in months at Nyamandhlovu
the kind in the heavy, heavy can,
in a world of international King Coke and McDonalds
the rich, sweet, oily, oily taste...
of Cornish pasties as a fast food item...
a Harare stand that I’d always go to;
English Imports; and our mass feasting
of Indian food, and my first samosa
Luke playing sax at that old cotton club in the city;
the old men wreathed in blue smoke, sitting there.
that carpet-picnic for thanksgiving
where I burst out over sadza , “Girls, I am in LOVE!”
and their toast; and the men at the bar in Masvingo...
hotel wondering if they’d take us to bed;
the white-girl invasion; American women
are s’posed to be loose and easy; and then...
so much like when Captain Frank tried to get us
that drunk after rafting the Zambezi that day
the last day we were all together at Hwange
before we were torn all apart for homestays
UZed and the dancing trees; the students there so smart
they made us feel that we should just go home;
when we all came together again there in Bulawayo
at that big auditorium with the snack bar
and the Masvingo suburb school where all the children
played “chitty chitty bang bang” on old-time marimba
the odd combination of ancient and new, like the
touches of Britain in all of the cities.
Mbizi was the turning point between all these things;
together and altered; all before and all after;
when we all came together, then went our own ways,
lost each other then found our way back, but betrayed.
We had premonitions of what it would mean
the loneliness, fear of this parting of friends;
of being cut off; make the most of the now!
Cut off; of being left behind the Family
we had made of our tiny white tribe in the vastness
of things not yet or but half-understood;
the Group! in that poverty-stricken shell, sky-scraped
with gray sooty teeming life-filled stronghold
that once belonged to those like us
and not like us; and the workers came
in from out of town to work;
and that is why the slums are outside
where you cannot see them. Open to the sky
and where bananas in dovi was the treat of choice
where rice for the rich, and freezits on every corner
with the ears of roasted, salted corn…
a year past since we were closeted in
the Jailmobile, like the kids on the roadside...
with the bars closed and checkered
to the view of matopos of sandstone like
globulated dolmens, shat by the loins of a
giant rock-god... where we climbed the high hills
with their rocky foundations; where there is nothing
between you and the Sky. where we took that bare-breasted photo
of us in the sun. twenty-four sets of breasts flashing gaily
while Luke and Chad frowned, and tried to sneak-see.
Two twenty year old men in with twenty-four women...
while the blue-balled monkeys around us chanted
imprecations, and threw at us brainfruit and nuts
like the ones we spit from the train going southward
later, when we returned from the park...
threw nuts at us from the red-dusted acacias;
and the cramped discomfort of the Howard Thirteen...
of us in our packedness; and concern were our bywords...
just a symptom or symbol of how we lived
in each other’s pockets, emoted in a communal skin...
and the schizophrenia of seeing our other half…
we had not seen since the first days
screaming, “Hi! Hi Hi! God! Where are you going?!”
Us shouting back, teary; “HI! God! We don’t know!”
It was an agonized wail from the incontinence-stricken
and there in that car, these AMAZING women...
I’ll always love them for changing my life!
Someday, ladies, we’ll find our way...
in the meantime I’ll give you a line or two
about the Toyota from hell and the chicken legs
"I WILL SURVIVE!" and "Closer to Fine!"
chicken-gifts from the children on the White plantation
cool bathrooms and sweaty outhouses, and unfed mothers
the brake-light is out, and it flickers; FANANA!
as the feeling when knowing you’ve had too much salt.
Top-ten lists and listening to Toto’s “Africa”
we’ve come a long way from the ZESA-classes
and we’re free enough now to take off our clothes
and jump in the pool at the first hotel we’ve seen
get drunk in the bar without being in danger
(‘cause in villages only the prostitutes drink
and religion rules all); but here in the city
we can drink gin and Schweppes, and then bathe together
a bathtub of five, and memories of Rachel
“when I get out of here, I’m gonna shave
my legs; get drunk and have SEX!” Though she’d never
shaved her legs for months before that.
And in a town where people bathe daily
or twice a day, but the red dust is everywhere
under our skins; coating our muscles
when I shaved, I removed a month’s worth of dust
saw it red, running all down the drain
I’d never felt cleaner than in that moment...
washing the musangana away.
But how to do that, and keep the Village?
Keep each other, and the separation at bay?
A year since I realized in Masvingo, I wanted
to study the traditional healers, the way
they work with the Westerners, healing the ailing
and yet kept on keeping on with their Ancient Beliefs
And that old iNyanga there in Great Zim, and
the one at the model village, Mashonaland North
both of them telling me; man first, then woman
my grandmother likes that I follow her trail.
Where my eyes marveled at walls growing like bushes
out of the rocks, with the dancing monkeys
the Doctor Seuss bushes of aloe that climbed
up to the sky; maroon with red soil
drawn up through their roots, and living for Ages.
and the way the potters added graphite
from old pencils to mark their wares
and fired them in an open-air kiln
round the edge of a bonfire, and sold to tourists
“this is just like the sherds that they’ve found”
“ehe, ehe,” and the dancers in Hwange and Ndebele
who sold us recordings, where I found my Drum
that old man who told me the Drum calls the Seeker
when I found out later I’d got the last one
when the young man, that dancer, took me aside
and told me the old man was dying, and soon
me and the troupe there would have the last ngoma
that sang, vukuvuku, here in this land.
and that place in Bulawayo, after the cockroach
walked on my face, and magnificent spiders;
where we met every day to partake of the new
language and culture of the Matabele
when we’d only just gotten the hang of before.
Why do we put ourselves though such changes
for the sake of experience, bury our ways?
Why do I want to go back; why I faltered...
when it was time for me to return to my home?
Because I had come, we, to love all the chaos;
the corn-fed, cane-coated lives we were living
enjoined to learn from because we had chosen it;
what makes us choose these tortures from which
we learn so much? I’d never trade it! Is it an instinct?
Knowing the torment may and will give new lease
on a stultified, stratified, hemmed-in existence?
We broke free from that here to wide-open skies.
Saved ourselves from stagnation in one Point of View...
for it was no one’s but ours, this choice we had taken...
no one else’s context but ours, never be;
not the Shona, the Ndebele, not the FTs and Rhodies;
not the assistants, the Gweshes who gave us their homes...
and not even each other of us, or the new that come
and not even them, now it’s ours all alone.
Ours alone, and together; only together
Pamwe chete we might somehow recover that feeling...
Understand fully, recover that context;
‘cause context is the people and the Movement of things...
that we place ourselves in or by choice we are placed...
and we choose our lives in comparative heaven
or hell; here where we hide from the world
heaven for all of us, if the song is right
the air is sweet, and the friends are true...
and whether the brakes work or not!
We are here to make love, not war; and in revelry!
Learn! Make the most of our chances and choices!
and then, in Zimbabwe, that is all that we did.
No wonder we all of us felt so Alive!
Lord, wrong, and Heaven are all over-rated
an over-cooked concept, hidden in skin...
but hell, much more interesting in theory
can actually be moved out of like a rotten
old house; and why so attractive to remain
as we do in this country, in a slump of self-loathing
and mutual congratulation for planting
our flag all over the rest of the world?
Why wait, when the world is out there for seeking?
to be loved; and the transfer is not loathe to loathe
nor from interior hate to exterior ranting!
but from loathe to Love to Love again!
Say it! I am the place in which Something Has Happened!
of little merit or of All.
Merit is measured by the badge-wearer...
and all life is a badge; not displayed
but held within, to inform future choices...
and remind us of every all we can be.
Read forward after its final making
and solidification not yet, while we’re free
to choose; the idea is still in formation!
Like the fluidity with which we donned our skirts here
and became chameleons, forgetting our Whiteness
till we forgot how to live ‘the American Dream’...
(just a dream, it really means nothing:
to us here, where we learned Real Living)
liking better the challenge of simple day-living
and the wonders of seeking the things not yet seen;
the oneness of humanity-kind, and the wildness...
of differences made better by appreciation;
But we cannot understand what we read until we
look back at the place where reclamation is forged;
and the process that took us from learning to leaving...
the sorrow of sadness and the wonder of hope!
If you cannot all Love the incontinence of you;
the corn-fedness, the cane-coated packedness too;
the jam-laden, jam-packed, sweet-tea meat-salted
bloating mass of core self and stripped packaging
if you cannot face who you really are then
when adversity has stripped all your illusions away
then you don’t know yourself, and you fear to know it;
if you want to change the wrapper, you must first understand
why you donned it in the first place; the patterns it wears
that decorate your mind and texturize your behaviours;
all that you’ve worn and might wish to wear...
then you can never love you, and that means never loving
the world! and those amazing people you meet on the way!
Like the amazing women I met in Zimbabwe
never know your world, their world, Our world!
If even through your own eyes; or for god’s sake!
What are you doing here? Take all the chances!
You dursen’t pass over the events that come calling;
the soap on the shelves and the empty holes
the Cadbury wrappers and those felt tip pockets
the Arab-Shonglish and other compromises;
learn to ride the ETs and buy freezits from strangers...
but study and reap the you out of the wilds;
the infinitely pleasing pain of we
and her, and I, and you and me;
and us, and all this we save and destroy
with each breath of our bodies and tongue of our mouth
each hug and each moment of tender undignified
joining, or the attempt to be so;
it is these attempts at joining that make
the we we are hoping for, while the world atrophies
from too much experience lost; so I welcome
the Incontinence; all the Allergic Bananas!
BRING ON THE MANGOES! WITH THEIR SEXY LESSONS!
the cane-violence; FANANA! IWEWE! the brainfruit! the Lovers!
and those Tender Indignities that we all crave!
The Lovers we love and the Haters we fight for;
and the almost-Lovers we’d like to hold.
Bring on the Jailmobiles and songs sung by brake-lights!
Bring on the fat and the skinny-dip moonlight!
the alone-ness and packedness, and the reunions!
and savour even the “I don’t know” wail!
For it all too soon will be gone and you’ll spend
forever looking back and wondering what might have been!
I tell you, no trade-ins; for every regret
there’s moments like these; enough riches for lifetimes!
So call me greedy, that I’m going back...
I’ll pray for you here, where I’m living Alive!
Fambai Yakanaka, all ye doubters! and handei!
We do enough of that already, anyway.

Tags: africa, poetry, zimbabwe
Currently Living In...: Olympia, WA
Fuzzy or Emo?: energetic
Brought To You By:: "Closer To Fine" by the Indigo Girls

(upon finding my Drum at Kalanga Village, 1998)

“Every person has THEIR drum. It beats the hearbeat of their Soul. Listen.
When you hear YOUR drum, you will know; and it will call you Home.”
(the old man of Kalanga Village)

If these two could dance together,
If these two could dance in twain…
Oh! If these two could dance together…
What magic it would be!

The flashing of the stone and iron…
The beating of two kinds of drums…
The heartbeat sound of feet thump-thumping…
Their joy for us to see!

Though one use stick, the other hands…
One shod in leather and the other barefoot…
Though one’s drum held, while the other stands…
Their dance is to the Earth!

One’s drum a Tree, with rattle of gourd,
One’s drum a ring, and rattle of hide…
One’s song a hum, and the other’s a cry!
Their muscles gleam rebirth!

Round the circle, or groups of two…
Both sounding the ancient ululate…
Both of their women crying out…
And clapping all as one!

Though one has shield of long cowhide,
And the other a buckler of bison-hump…
Though this side clouted, the other aproned…
Their bodies alive are sung!

While one, he hunts with a buffalo-spear,
The other hunts with the spear again.
And both make raids, but never war…
Both hunt, and love, and fight!

Across distances of Land and Sea…
‘Cross prairies, mountains, s’vannah grass…
‘Cross waves of serpentine and salt…
Their songs are so alike!

If I had my way, then they,
My two most ancient Loves and Joys…
I’d have them dancing, side by side…
In joining two such worlds together…
Our world, it could unite.
***

(I found a lot of similarity between my grandmother's Native American culture
and that of pre-Christian Africa while I was in Zim. I wish I could post the
artwork that went with these poems... Someday, when I have a scanner...)

Tags: africa, poetry, zimbabwe
Currently Living In...: Olympia, WA
Fuzzy or Emo?: peaceful
Brought To You By:: "Siyuwe", from 'The Innovaters"

(after rafting the Zambezi with Captain Frank and the Howard 13, 1998)

Down and down and down and in…
And dark and greay and white and green…
And foam and bubbles and pummelling fists…
And muscles and might of greater than i…
A mote, a mote, over under and through…
And down and down and down and in…
And struggling and up, relax; stay calm…
And keep and up and struggle to float…
Dark and dark and break and breathe…
And splash and crash and spun and spin…
Down and helpless and sinking pulled…
And pummelled and spun and pushed and shoved…
And twist and shout and down and in…
And out and up, just barely above…
And splash and face and eyes and mouth…
And ears and nose and throat, above…
Just barely above, just barely air…
And water in throat and mouth and nose…
And eyes and ears and face and down…
And up and down and in and out…
To calm cast out spat out of crush…
The hands now nice, caress caress…
Say sleep say sleep say rest, go down…
In our embrace; in my embrace…
And NO! and fight! Strike out and stroke…
Clumsy and stumbling, blind, deaf, dumb…
Mouth closed to chin by vest and eyes…
Closed up, made blind, and wet helmet…
Slipping down and slipping down…
And watching the shore just slipping by…
And crocs are waiting and rocks are coming…
Go down again and not return…
Useless stroke and useless stretching…
And current catch and reach about…
Or reach a ‘yak, or reach the shore…
And saved! Hold on, hang off; drowned rat…
Get breath and burp, and water from nose…
And river and snot, and retch and cough…
And hands and hands and holding here…
You’ll be alright; you’re fine, you’re fine…
Get air to yodel, and shriek; and SHOUT!
Oh YEAH! Oh YEAH! You roar, you laugh!
Let’s do it AGAIN! Let’s do it AGAIN!
I am a WOMAN! I’ll take you ON!
That was the BEST! The Greatest! And I…
And I Survived! I’m feral and WILD!
I’m Power! And Madness! And River! And Life!

Tags: africa, poetry, zimbabwe
Currently Living In...: Olympia, WA
Fuzzy or Emo?: exultant!
Brought To You By:: "Siyuwe", from 'The Innovaters"

“Mangwanani, Baby…”

My son…I know you, though I’ve never seen you…
Your face looks back upon me at every street that I remember.
In the smile or wondering eyes of every child on the ETs, from a sling of zambia,
Cheek turned to the side and smothered by a loving, sweating back.
From scores of children playing games with sticks on the street below ZINATHA;
From wire-caged trucks that deposited you outside city limits, on the edge of town.
From those places where the red dirt became puddles from long ago rains,
The straggling grass, and then concrete; I saw you there…
You were selling bananas to me from a crate between the broken lamp,
The killer cars, and the next desperate seller.
Your eyes looking up at me each time, and pleading for more
Than a freezit, or the wealth of coins I carried there.
You needed a home; and I without one yet myself, wanted to give it.
And I swore to you then, as I swear to you now, I’ll not forget.
Someday, my son, I’ll bring you back away from all of this;
Will fight to have you, and to keep you safe, as only a Mother can!
I’ll be your warrior to the bureaucrats who try to take you;
Try to keep you from me, because I was not born in your same Land!
I’ll be the lioness with teeth who holds the lawyers and the migramen at bay
In Harare offices and Western airports!
And when you’re home with me, with loving arms and food in plenty all around you…
You’ll call me Amai, and I will wrap you up and sling you upon my back.
I can already feel your small hands and legs as they wrap around me, clinging trustingly…
Your face against my back, cheek pressed to a strange-smelling fabric from far away…
And though I take you from all that you once knew, do not fear that I will forget to teach you
Where you came from, the language and the way of life you once held dear.
For I, too, loved my time in the land of pamusoroi.
And I know someday you will return; in your own time.
But until then you will come with me and be my child, mwana…
Your smiling face, four years old and speaking of all my hopes and dreams for this world.
And your name will be Tawanda, sha’a; I always knew it.
And later brothers and sisters this world to share.
But until that day I tie you to my back and loving, keep you,
I’ll be loving you afar, and hold you here beneath my heart.

“Mangwanani, my baby. Wamuka sei?”
***

(The MOMENT I first set foot in Harare, capital of Zimbabwe, I KNEW I would adopt my first child from there. It is terrifically difficult from a non-African to adopt from Zimbabwe; especially an American, as they consider Western/American culture to be degraded. From their POV they have good reason. Beside the cost, you have to be a two-year resident to even be considered; so that they know you will not let the child forget his language and culture). My hope is that when I go back in the Peace Corps, that will suffice; and that they'll allow it because I am and will continue to be familiar with and in awe of the beautiful Shona language and culture. One of the things that truly blows my mind about that culture can be understood from only two or three lines of pamusoro--courtesy--in the daily greeting.

"Masikati. Maswera sei?" (Good afternoon, are you well?)
"Ndaswera kana maswerawo." (I am well if you are well.)
"Ndaswera." (Then I am well.)

In this, you can see the interconnectedness of a village, a people. Unspoken is this dialogue that exposes so much of the Shona culture:
"If you are not well, then I cannot be well; because then our village is not well if one of us has trouble. We must help you with your trouble!" /
"I do not say that I am not well, even if I have great trouble; for if I am not well, and I spread that trouble, the village will suffer. They are my neighbors. They will know if I have trouble. They will come to my home, and help me with my un-plowed fields/ sick child/ broken roof."

I've never experienced anything so incredible in my life as I did in a few short introductions, and the waves of love and welcome, comfort and gentility I recieved in my first days in that Village...and I will pass that on to my child; along with a view of a world where EVERYONE is Shamwari; friend and neighbor.)
***
"ETs": Emergency Transports. White vans that are the 20-person or more capacity taxis/buses of Harare and other Zimbabwaen cities.

"ZINATHA": the Zimbabwe Traditional Healers' Association, attempting to maintain a good and respectful relationship between ZTH and Western Medicine, while keeping the traditions alive. Dr. Peter Mutandi Sibanda, PR Director of Zinatha, was a great help to me during my independent study, as were any number of practising ZINATHA members.

"freezit": the street-sold Zimbabwean confection; a frozen popsicle with syrup in a number of flavours. my favourite by far was the orange one, which tasted somewhere between nectarine and mango, and was a terrific boost on a hot day. a freezit and a hot roasted, salted ear of corn was STAPLE to my diet once I left the sadza ne nyama ne muriwo (cornmeal, meat, and collard greens) Villages. My mouth still waters for those; you can get nothing like a freezit here; not even in Mexico, where such things are common, in another form.

"Amai": Mother

"Mwana": (my) child.

"Sha'a": short for 'Shamwari'. A dear, close Friend.

"Pamusoroi": courtesy, manners.

"Tawanda": Many in One, or Unity. My FAVOURITE Shona name, though others may recognise it in other Bantu form from the 'Towanda' of "Fried Green Tomatoes". No hardship. That is one of my all-time fave movies. But Zimbabwaen/Bantu names are seldom gender-proscribed, and an A-ending name does not mean 'unsuitable for boys'. In fact, I only met one girl with that name in Zim; most were boys.

Tags: africa, poetry, zimbabwe
Currently Living In...: Olympia, WA
Fuzzy or Emo?: good
Brought To You By:: "Kachembere: Zimbabwaen Children's Songs"

(upon my first trip to the Great Zimbabwe Ruins, Masvingo, 09/98)

Oh, your Glory, when you were new!
gray rising ‘gainst the green…
Your towers, on your verdant hills!
all painted with the living…
Ten thousand folk were at your breast!
their houses pole and slee…
Down, within your encircling walls!
as round as Harmony.
And oh! The cattle riches too!
as many as grains for meal…
The hill could see from vale to lake!
surveying mambo’s rule.
So long an age, when you stood proud…
beneath the wind-blown sun!
And traders from afar would come…
to barter the Chevrons!
Your wives and daughters, and your sons…
that lived to spread your name…
‘Mid endless, waving golden plains…
red Trees, no two the same.
Where monkeys chattered there between
the ground, and roof of Sky…
That endless blue arch filled with Sun…
and diving Waters by.
The Rain-soaked mountains of the King…
where Ancestors once stood…
on Blood-red soil striped with Bone…
and called the yearly flood.
And over all, this priceless mark…
the Symbol of your wealth;
from Endless Plain to Falls of Mist
Stone Houses drink your health.
A granary against the sky?
or the symbol of a King?
And eagle-birds to soar on high!
Rain’s blessings for to bring.

We now can only wonder at…
the mysteries it hides…
Was it a temple? First-Wife’s house?
Initiation rites?
Now we can only come to see…
the shadows of your might…
‘Mid crumbling walls, you still stand tall!
displaying ageless right.
Such movement here, from stone to stone…
was never built by those…
That ignorants say came from north…
and had nowhere to go!
Oh, no! You see, when such folk built…
their thought was dull and square.
But beautiful; you use the land…
weave curves ‘tween trees; and there…
You show the mind of those who were!
work with Earth, and alter not!
And sprawl to show the awesome sway!
so Life’s Cycle there were taught.
Embrace; curve in; flow space to space!
instead of lines that end…
Narini; and when others came…
their ways were alien.
But in the end, of your own weight…
collapsed, and moved away.
The Legend stays through all the days!
tales told at Fires’ bay.
And if you go, you still can hear…
the ringing blacksmith’s tones!
The lowing of the cattle herds!
See watchers on their rounds!
Smell scents of fire and sweat and smoke!
and wind and rain and veld!
And hunters out upon the flats!
for nzou, mutopo, behold!
The tower reaching out to view
the visitors it calls!
And birds of stone, on spires high!
and set atop the walls!
Tho’ mortarless, through ages last…
so that your children know!
Against all odds and enemies
of pride, you yet Live On.
***

(what a place THAT was!!! You'd have to see it...the way the walls curve inward in spirals; walking between walls so tall that even under that blazing sun, the space between was cool as a pantry...the way every block fitted together without mortar, still standing after hundreds of years of neglect and treasure-hunting; the way the 'hill-fortress' clung to every rock and curve of the hill, and *incorporated* the features of the land rather than changing them... and the view; the sense of lives lived, of history so different from the dry list of dates we learn on the Western end (the end that completely ignores amazing achievements like this one). InCREDible.)

http://poydenot.online.fr/Fra/Travels/Africa97/Zimbabwe/GreatZim.htm
http://www.questconnect.org/africa_gr_zim.htm
http://www.andygilham.com/zimbabwe.htm
http://www.peterlanger.com/Countries/Africa/Zimbabwe/index.htm
http://www.scholars.nus.edu.sg/post/zimbabwe/art/greatzim/gz10.html
http://www.cultures.com/features/Africa/zimbabwe/zimbabwe.html
http://www.picturesofplaces.com/Africa/zimbabwe.html

(by the way; "Narini" means "Forever", and "nzou" is elephant, "mutopo" is buffalo; "mambo" means 'king'/high chief.)

Tags: africa, poetry, zimbabwe
Currently Living In...: Olympia, WA
Fuzzy or Emo?: enthralled
Brought To You By:: "maNgoma!"

(Bulwayo, 1998)

I miss the green of my beloved Forests
A darker green; a smoky green
I miss the smell of my beloved Forests
Pungent, piney; gum and granite.
I miss the feel of my beloved Forests
Cool; though the Land is beautiful here.
Beyond compare; and Sun-warmed.
It is not my Land, but I could easily love it, for its strangeness
The rolling grasses, going on Golden; Forever. Narini.
The individual Trees like exclamations of Personality
Each one reaching to the Clouds with arthritic hands
Grasping for water. The jewel-like insects darting over standing ponds
The unique character of twist-horned Beasts and pregnant Waters.
Mana-pools; boiling brown and placid beneath the Sun, reed-filled
The vast endlessness; the blazing stretch of bluest Sky
And the Nights! Those wonders of colour; maroon and orange and dusky gold!
That tangerine Moon! That mango Sky! The Sun and dust reflected
And yet I miss my Sky; hemmed in by feathered firs!
I miss my Beasts and Rivers, my purling shaded Streams!
The grass glowing green in spring; dew-laden
Not gold; and waving more like fur or Sea.
Unlike savannah; velvet, not shag
And low; not tall enough to brush the eyebrows of a walking man.
The Land here, it is a land of Sun; Sun-lands
My Lands are ruled by the Groves of the Moon.
Pillar-like, the monolithic Pines stand gray guard
The Moons silver hair touches hidden Groves, Temple-lit.
They light the Northern Night with green fire, and Day lives, shortly conquered
When the cool Winds bring a caress from polar countries above and behind Neyeredzi, Stars.
Here, in the South, Sun rules over the grasses
Here, the Sun; it conquers the Trees, wind-wizened.
Here, the Winds are like Fire! And the Stars are different
Together they blow humans, scrawny mewling folk, about
Brush men away like the hand of a god
Not caressing; but angry; a vengeful god.
The Moon is a gentler mistress, Goddess
Her demands are gentler demands
I miss a pregnant Moon, side-facing, ever Changing
For here the pagan Moon smiles down far distant, ever gravid
Upon a land Sun-favoured.
Sun is King! Son is God!
And Old Ways falter.
The old Dances beneath the Moon are stilled
Cowed by the fear of man, and fear of Day
Days punishing, exacting, roving hand; all-seeing burning Eye
Well I know how He became a God; here, far south of the Eye of Ra.
Zuva! He rules here unbowed, save in the Rains
The Moon sends; but She is losing ground
Mwedzi sends them, but jitis are scarce and scattered
As are informal songs in the Heart of Night, without religious cause.
And Drums that beat no more outside of churches;
Where once you could hear them up in the Hills, calling to the Rain
Or chasing out the bad juju of a witchs curse at the iNyanga
Now hear only silence under Mwedzi's rule.
The Earth is losing credibility, Mai'Nyika
Strange, as the life here so dependant upon Grass and Cattle and Fertility
That they look to the Sky for hope beyond the Sun and Rain; Kunaya!
And instead see Mwedzi's silver turning gold, obscured
By the blowing golden dusts of Day.
And stained by Suns jealous grasp and tentacled grip of Zuva
Mai'Nyika is stricken by the slap of the patriarchal Sun, unrelenting.
In Her face; stricken by rays, and their progeny, veld-fire
Striving against droughts agony; skin crackling.
The Earth is drier; heating, here.
The Stars are further from us; uninvolved.
They turn their faces to their own worlds; in Golden Hosts, not Silver
And leave us alone with Day and someday Night in the grasp of Zuva; Sol.
The Nights are short and shorter; sun chasing them over the endless horizon
The Sky so large in the Day that it threatens to swallow the Land
So filled with heat that the coolth of the Moon can barely touch it
Jealous, Zuva, of His time and sway.
Taking what it can of the hours
What it can of the Day.
And beneath Him, all the people are confused and running
For shelter, beneath a new tent called the Kingdom Way
Forgetting that Old Balance that once made the Summer Days unending
But the other half of Nights spent dancing the heat and hardship away.
The Sun is chasing the Breath of Wind, Me'po
Chasing him off the high Mountains of the Rain
And whipping it to a frenzied roar over fleeing grasses
A frothing ravage, trimming the tortured maMiti; Trees, bending their hands
With the cat-o-nine-tails arms of Baal; fingers striving.
And Tanith, His Lover, is far from the Sea, here;
Tethys, Her sister, who once kept her cool and gave her succor from the Sun.
But yet the Land here is a Sea; the Sea of Grasses
And Beautiful! As Summer is to Spring, and Noon to Twilight.
More so than I can say, this Land is lovely
But in such a strange and different, alien way.
I cannot describe its bold, disheveled loveliness
I have not the vocabulary for a place I came to so late in my life.
My lexicon was built upon gray granite and cool green pines and firs
On shallow placid rivers, and fast rapids, and Mountains blue with endless Trees
Beneath a Sky caged in by Forests
Seen only from those tiny vales like teardrops in the Land
A Sky forced to know its limits as well as its powers.
I was not trained to live here where the Sky is King; to understand.
This country, strong in a way that mine is not
Or perhaps both strong; but this one less subtle in its strength
Made by its harsh extremes of climate more extreme
Than we could ever be; made hard by the struggle of Ages beneath the changing Sun.
And changing Fortune, such as we have never seen
For we, who have seen Glaciers advance and then retreat
Still have not seen such struggle in an Age of Earth
As Africa has seen each Day, in this that does not cease.
We, who compromise, and know the patient, dignified lasting of the Groves
To those who live so boldly, seen as weak and bloodless in compare.
The life there is new; its speed the speed of the frosty kill in Winter
The sharpness of Snowy breath upon the edges of the air.
Where to us the heat and unending Days here seem languorous
We think there is no struggle where the growing goes on apace four Seasons long.
But the life here is fast and furious in endless Summers struggle
And the Days are as Ancient as the Earth, and ours but Old.
We may fight for one Season or be caught by another
But in between we rest; and here they never do.
I will use my time here to learn this Secret
How to be old and Wise, and yet not jaded by the years.
A different kind of patience than the one that survives short Summers and cold, crackling Winters
Learn to fight! To be hard enough to live no matter what life brings!
And when I go to my Home there in the Woods that birthed me
I'll teach my waiting kin that lasting Strength
And when I return, I'll know it more as welcome than as threat
Throw wide my arms and cry out with triumph to have known both extremes;
Land of Balance; Land of Moon and Sun
And all this I saw and learned, in the Lands of Zuva.
***

(I was really starting to have a clash between my spirituality and the evangelism there by this time... Add that to a bit of confusion over my homesickness--i LOVED it there, and it was BEAUTIFUL...but that starkness and flatness and big-sky were so alien to my forest-bred eyes--and you've got a very all over the place set of impressions.

Sometimes when I go back over my notes from my first months there, I realize I was just getting the hang of it when I had to leave...and now I can't wait to go back. Weird, how that happens. I've been in reverse culture shock since I returned!)
***
"Zuva": Sun
"Mwedzi": Moon
"Neyeredzi": Stars
"kuNaya": to Rain
"Me'po": the Wind
"maMiti": Trees
"jitis": nighttime dances; the old pre-Christian celebratory musangana (meeting).

Tags: africa, poetry, zimbabwe
Currently Living In...: Olympia, WA
Fuzzy or Emo?: confused
Brought To You By:: "Land of Anaka", by Geoffrey Oryema

(from airport to ZESA, August 19)

Remember the fans, remember the fans
“Out of Africa”, on the big screen of my mind
In the twentieth century; uniformed men
Checking our bags for contraband
They are fighting life for a living.

The woman carries a worn ADIDAS on her head
As they all walk to where they are going
Pushing carts, and a few driving oxen
The long dusty road from out to Town
They are selling life for a living

A box of greens, balanced with care
On the head, for the street
Street-vending; while children
Chase each other through the unnamed glop
Between dust and dust to cross the street
Unseen hands seek unnamed fruit
They are stealing life for a living

An orphaned child sits, selling papers
On the dusty verge
My son will someday sit there, waiting
Selling the news for a nickel, less
Where the asphalt scars an Ancient Land;
Selling his eyes for a living.

A child’s eyes, full of sorrow
Most will try not to see him there
Street-vending
Where asphalt scars the most
Ancient Land…
Trees! Different than any I’ve seen!
Smile at the sun in the morning
Here at the verge between old life and new death…
They are struggling in the dust for a living

Red dust, like that of the Mother’s body
On the edge of the street, soil-clinging
Like to her thighs, when the sacrifice done
The moment over
And here is where they scrape out their homes
Whole families set up at the roadside, selling
Drums and soapstone sculptures for pennies
Selling their souls for a living

A month’s work for a day’s food, if they’re lucky
And walking the line, the First World hawkers
Steal food from their mouths and turn around
Bring a hundred drums to Pier One imports
A single drum; for that family a year
Of food; here nothing, half a paycheck
While they struggle to eat tomorrow, the importers
Selling starvation for a killing

Whole families together on the roadside
Selling vegetables that could feed them instead for the money
For schooling; or sculptures
The first awaiting the average buyer
Like the men selling ears of corn, roasted while you wait
Or freezits, to cool a dusty mouth
Selling whatever’s living

The others, awaiting greedy Westerners
Like me, with my wealth-lined pockets…
White face speaking of dough; we mean
A bitter kind of life to them
Who must wait for us to bring it
Maybe I’ll send a child to school, when I’m
Spending against my future, I’m
Buying memories for their living

Old cars, straining on the roadside
Furious zipping, trying to pick off
People who herd across streets in hundreds
Trying to get into the centre; safest
When the outsides get picked out first
In new industry they’re
Rushing to make a white man’s living

Compact insect-jalopies, all
Just missing the passers-by, the car-less
So many; and pedestrians run for their lives
Here safe in the centre of the pile
Sharing their anxious lives for a moment
I can breath easy; maybe tomorrow
I’ll get out of an ET and be picked off
So someone can make a living

Signs say, ‘no condoms, no sex’
And ‘Welcome to Harare’
Both together
Both are meant; neither is noticed
Where women have to, and men taught to
Sell this death for a living

Harare, where the air is sharp and Alive
And spiced…with the smells of
Food and folk; sun and sweat
Smoke and diesel; they say
The city’s name is ‘he doesn’t sleep’
You cannot sleep, or you may die;
Living life, hard and hearty
Living fast, this close to the slow countryside
Selling peace for a living

A Land and folk no more slumbering
Beneath the old mountains where once the rain-makers
Danced for a living; now they stampede
Selling; seeking; never finding
Ready to fight or die; and striding
Until the moment they stop on their feet
Hearts no more beating; they live more in a day
Than we do in a year
Selling each moment for living

Zimbabwe; a land of tomorrow, but where
The Past is not forgotten, for it
Is everywhere; just outside
The city limits; where here the people are Awake
Out there still sleeping, and lucky in it
Will not go down again!
If they must sell themselves for a living, they will
Buying each moment dearly

Zvakare! The old blood is rising!
Zvakare! The new blood is calling!
Challenges waiting, under the blistering
Pewter sky
Tonight it will be tangerine
Grapefruit juice and mango sunset
Time to rest, until tomorrow’s
Selling of life for a living

Folk rooted deep in red soil
Clinging to their toes
Like the blood of a birthing Mother
Which the new tide tries to wash away;
Clinging, as to the leaves…
Clinging to life for a living

The people are now moving
Uprooted, they are ever-walking
The new flow; the displaced people
Seeking a new living beyond small gardens
In a place where cattle refuse to go
Learning new ways for a living

But the soil stays yet on t heir toes
The old ways; the Ancestors…
The Homelands stay yet in their eyes
An Ancient people, feeling now…
The Ancient Dream unfolding
Selling the dream for a living

Unfolding before it can fall away
Into a new dream; into the Future
Struggling; holding back, look forward
Looking forward, their eyes shining
Selling their Hope for a living

Looking ahead, with shining faces
Looking ready, looking worn
Weary, wary; so much to struggle
Against; they are working; wanting, needing
Fighting hard for the Future
Grappling with Hope for a living

Smiling at the old trees, growing
The trees that, gnarled, still cling to life
Toes in the soil, battered arms outstretched
To the sky, and living
Life for a reason; looking back
From Forever; looking forward
To Tomorrow…
Selling the Past for a Future of living
Never forgetting
To smile at the Sun in the morning
***

(I was SO impressed with those people. Never have I seen so many people smile so much and have so little...and be so friendly and welcoming to those they'd have cause to hate; a practice that is part of pamusoro, or courtesy. It was breathtaking.)

Tags: africa, poetry, zimbabwe
Currently Living In...: Olympia, WA
Fuzzy or Emo?: nostalgic
Brought To You By:: "Makambo" by Geoffrey Oryema

(8/98...the first days)

Unconscious babies, blanket-wrapped,
heads lolling on their mothers’ backs
The spice of the air, the red of the soil
the richest of laughter
The sound of Shona, Nina, naughty Nina
says it is sensual (and she is so right)
The taste of the air, the Zim sky of sunset
the Zim sky at sunrise
Funky Zim music, flea-market voices
"Fambai Zvakanaka"
South African English, soft intonation
sensual vowels
Diesel in the city, and cars mad as insects
people dodging for their lives,
Crossing in masses; safe in the centre
outskirts picked off; cars without pity
No regard for the signs
White teeth flashing in dark faces,
Beautiful smiles
knowing they are many and powerful
Sleeping children, running children
children laughing at the sun
Beautiful print cloth, zambias
that drum that made my Soul weep
(my heart’s still throbbing from it)
The patterns in the baskets, basket-woven secrets
jade chesspieces featuring...King Mwenemutapa
Streetmarket people, little boy-men
orphaned children, selling papers
Amai-teachers laughing, Mai Ruasengade greeting
Mai-Somebody carrying...a worn Adidas on her head
Warmth and genuine smiles, the kind that touch the eyes
warm and genuine people, real enthusiasm
In the air, in the City
Life.
***
A man takes money on the taxi
but he is not the driver
The sky is very large
with no trees or hills to hem it in
It feels really good to shave
and wearing pants makes me taller
I am sick of church
I want to go pagan here
It’s bound to be different
in such a different place
Customs of the Ancestors;
why the Mother is so muted…
She is all around me!
the soil is red; Birth red…
ropaZvarwa mu Mai’Nyika
Birth-blood of the Earth-Mother
a sacrifice un-spoken
I am very cloudy
my head is full of cotton; donje
In my dreams I’m not yet here
I never get to the airport.
Time is and is not an issue
but watches are so important
I’ve noticed we still keep our ‘race’-groups
but it is fading since the ZESA
We are all disoriented, for all of us;
euphoria departed all at once.
The boys learn less life skills than girls
they’ll get along just fine with wives…
Even the baby girls know how to cook!
Older boys totally practice the Baba thing…
I wonder; how will they both be cheated by this?
Bathing is a bore, but then
it cleans out the chimbuzi.
And church is becoming a hassle…
hosho and a big bass drum; but god is still White.
They call Amai “Ma”
whether she is theirs or not.
I’m not allowed to help as much as I’d like
When I tried carrying the bucket of water
on my head, it was an occasion for mirth.
They just laughed when I asked to go to the drumming…
I can hear it all around me
the hills’ heartbeat, in the fragrant night.
I think soon this will drive me mad…
calling me on; but forced to stay.
***
The baby speaks better than I do…
she always wants me to answer.
The baby can cook like the Mais already
she already fetches water.
She was afraid of me at first…
I forget how strange I look here
But now I am "Si’kati"…
and I’m a lot of fun!
The guys don’t like to talk to me…
unless I have a gameboy, walkman, camera
They’re all so good-natured, these people
I wonder if they ever feel restricted.
I wonder if they ever want to listen to the radio…
or if Tafadz has thought of going anywhere.
She has such a narrow existence…
I’m glad that isn’t me!
One week, and I’m already craving difference, excitement;
she’s had the same routine for years.
Get up, dress, work, fetch, carry, cook
clean, sleep, get up again
No school; no money for school for girls…
no other way out of this endless round.
And the boys are done with all that at fourteen…
but at least they got to go at all.
She is younger than the boys…
but she speaks better English.
And may never get to use this gift;
while for them, it is something to squander.
The clothes, two changes each
and one for Sunday
Light dust climbing dark legs, instead
of dark on light.
Golden palms touch my hair, pat my leg
as I learn to do what I need to do
And I am glad I’m not like the others here…
no water, power; but I grew up like this.
People eat in groups here;
instead of eating alone.
People sing all day here;
instead of talking of nothing
The sound of voices in song…
it makes me calm for sleeping
So many people promoted to heaven
but kids depend on relations
Yesterday Tishe asked me
if I use chemicals in my hair
This lovely straightened hair of mine
that here means salon or illness; AIDS
The ever–present, unspoken spectre
Yesterday a girl at the school said
I’m tired of eating sadza!
Someday I will be ‘bourgeoisie’
and eat rice with my nyama every day!
The smallest children hang off fences
behind which at roadsides, mangoes grow
And bananas for dipping in homemade peanut
butter that mr. carver ‘invented’
This staple recipe from grandmothers past, dovi
that was such a revelation to our slave-owning forefathers
The small children, half hidden by the safety of fence
call to us as we walk by, “Murungu! Moo!’”
Because whites, when they visit, walk round in herds
like cattle being driven to market-town.
Even smaller, these children greet us
in English; calling “Hallo! Hallo!”
Vaseline-bright faces shining
in the sun, bright eyes exclaiming
‘How wonderful to have them here!
these new relatives from America to help us!’
Holding little dark hands, comparing
their life-lines have many schisms already
And desperate families, thinking we are rich
because if we’ve travelled, then we must be
Ask us to visit, share their tea
say “Do you see our poverty here?
can you help us live out of poverty?”
We who are poor ourselves, back home
here are held to different standards
Here we are rich; I do not like
being rich, and never will.
But who will I help if I renounce it?
Still I think I’ll grow some dreds
stay in this village; but live alone
Maybe then I’ll go to iNyanga
maybe then I’ll find the drums.
***
White teeth, dark cheeks, and flashing smiles
that I think, my predominant impression
Someday far gone, though I think I’ll remember
every moment of this place
Will I remember this more than ever;
those flashing smiles and cherub cheeks?
White eyes, dark faces; and not a pimple
for complexion alone I could get very jealous
Seems churlish to be jealous of what
little can be gotten, on simple diet
Living as man ought, in some ways…
but then I was already jealous
I’ve always wanted to be less White.
but these ones are trying to save my soul…
I tell them my soul is in no need of saving.
They think I am rich in body but poor
in spirit; I think it’s the other way.
In that human sea that was musangana
listening to the sermon on the mount
Watching new soldiers, knighted for Christ
and swords and salutes worn all around me
Another uniform, in the scary army
vows to the Army before vows to each other
Even in marriage! everyone here
is raised a soldier.
If they don’t care to continue, they’re ‘forsaking God’.
and yet I love singing, ‘uchema uShe’…
And soldiers can marry outside the Army
in me they seek another goat
To free from sin, and make a sheep
I’m called to testify, speak my piece
then while the commissioning going on
I become breathless, smothered
by the endless masses of constricting flesh
Ran away to the rocks, touched the Earth
while thousands sang hymnals all around me
Got back in touch with my sacred profanity;
I guess I’m already lost, unSaved
but I promise You, Mother; what I could not seek
And find this time; someday I’ll return,
come back here first, to where You began
And back at Your Breast, I’ll find You too…
existing quite happily as the Mother of Christ.
Always and Forever Abundant
"Tawanda mu Mai’Nyika, muPasi; Tawanda muMwana…"
***
And so, once freed, I sought iNyanga
she who heals with a horsehair broom
And wears her grandmother’s necklaces, chinking
and sells the poisons to seek bad juju;
Heals families with the touch of her art
passing down the line unbroken
Threatened but it will never die…
this pulsing cord that runs beneath…All
I sat, cross-legged; absorbed the wisdom
of the other side, behind the Cross
An older Wisdom; and felt much heartened
what I thought was here, not lost.
The drums still have hair here;
the spirit-mediums
Still sing the songs of ancient past
Ancestors answer; bad witches flee…
the old man says my grandmother pleased
I yet follow her path; and walk her Road
Ten thousand miles, a continent away
no plane could outrun Gramma Allie
And I’ll honour the Black Turtle matrilineage.
I’ll wear my necklaces, sing my songs
continue to learn from the Old Ones and seek
My Truth and path, behind the ways
where Goddess and Cross, and Earth and blood
Can meet as one; behind crooked Tree
gnarled fingers holding Sky together
With Earth as red as forbidden rains
and maroon clouds, and green-red dust
Here beneath the tangerine Moon
I am home in the bosom of SHE, in Her first Place
here where the Sun first learned to rise, and drum…
Her heart; where my Moon will refuse to set.
***

(The completed version; from the ZESA--Zimbabwe Educational Services Association--in Harare in our orientation week, to the last week in the Rural Homestay, after my rather frightening experience at the Salvation Army 'musangana' (mass-meeting), and my first realisation that what I wanted to study in my Independent Study at the end of my time there was the interface/relationship between the Traditional Healers and the Western Medical Institution there...hence the reference to going to the Nyanga, which is a local traditional healer/shaman, what the Brits once called a 'witch-doctor'. She was badass, that chick; and TOUGH, to keep on with something from the old ways despite the local Christian persecution.

I went through a month or so of wide-eyed wonder in my first days in Zim; crossed with a lot of frustration over having been placed in an evangelical family. now that I look back...both experiences were necessary to my growth. oh, Zim...I MISS YOU!!!)
***

"Fambai Zvakanaka": Walk well. A farewell and blessing.

"zambia": a wraparound cloth of colourfully printed fabric to cover the dress and keep the one set of clothing clean until wash day every third day.

"Mai": a respectful address to any woman.

"ropaZvarwa mu Mai’Nyika": Birth-blood of the Earth Mother

"donje": cotton

"chimbuzi": outhouse

"hosho": gourd rattles

"sadza": sticky cornmeal mush that is the main staple of food in the poor villages. replaced with rice by the 'bourgeousie', or rich/middle class in the cities.

"nyama": meat, stewed in its own juices, served with "muriwo" or collard greens, over sadza. The nightly meal.

"dovi": thin peanut butter served in "bota", or porridge. George Washington Carver didn't 'invent' peanut butter; it was just the first time the whites in the new USA took notice that those former slaves were eatin' somethin' good over there.

"iNyanga": traditional healer and shaman(ess)

"musangana": a large meeting; often used to describe a church revival.

"uchema uShe": "Someone's crying, my Lord!" Part of a line from the Shona version of 'Kumbaya'. Isn't that interesting; an American slave song, translated to American slave pidgin, then translated back to an African language by missionaries. Blows your mind, don't it? "Uye nePa!" "Come by here!"

"Tawanda mu Mai'Nyika, muPasi. Tawanda muMwana": my mantra while I was trapped at the Salvation Army musangana. "Together as one in Mother Earth. Unity for Her Children."

Tags: africa, poetry, zimbabwe
Currently Living In...: Olympia, WA
Fuzzy or Emo?: Wondering...
Brought To You By:: "Respect", by Patricia Majalisa