Britavoice

I am the Zimbabwean woman
silenced through gang rape,
silenced through a beating on my buttock, salt inserted in my vagina, my breast cut into pieces.
Silenced...........Silenced……

I am the Zimbabwean woman
whose dignity they stole,
whose personality they stole,
my womanhood stolen.
Silenced………..Silenced.

But I remain,
the warm hearted mama of Zimbabwe,
the real true mama,
the peace loving mama,
to embrace Zimbabwe on my chest.
Zimbabwe…….Zimbabwe……

Listen to the poem:

A special dedication to the Zimbabwean women opposition political activists, who because of their weaker sex, face increased torture by the notorious Mugabe ruling Zanu pf regime.

Ik ben de zwarte Zimbabwe vrouw
door verkrachting het zwijgen opgelegd
door kastijding het zwijgen opgelegd,
zout in mijn vagina gebracht,
mijn borsten werden in stukken gesneden.
Tot zwijgen gebracht …Tot zwijgen gebracht

Ik ben de zwarte Zimbabwe vrouw
Wiens waardigheid men stal
Wiens persoonlijkheid men stal
Mijn vrouw zijn werd me ontnomen.
Tot zwijgen gebracht … Tot zwijgen gebracht

Maar ik blijf
De goedhartige mama van Zimbabwe,
De échte mama,
De vredelievende mama,
Zij die Zimbabwe koestert aan haar borst.
Zimbabwe … Zimbabwe …

Een eerbetoon aan de Zimbabwaanse vrouwelijke politieke activisten, wegens hun vrouw zijn gemarteld door het door Mugabe geleide Zanu regime.

I am thinking

Where is my mama?
Where is my papa?
Who bore me?

I am thinking.

When will I get something to eat?
When will I get something to drink?
Who will feed me?

I am thinking.

Why they go to school and not me?
Why they dress well and not me?
Who to explain the difference?

I am thinking.

Why I am always sick?
Why I cannot get medicine?
Whom to nurse me?

I am thinking.

Why the street is my home?
Why they live in golden mansions?
Whom to shelter me?

Tired of thinking
in the middle of the night,
i lie out in the rain,
reeling in pain.
I strongly sniff in my glue
to steal away my thoughts.

To the street kids of Zimbabwe. Innocent kids of Zimbabwe who are supposed to be the Zimbabwean leaders of tomorrow, have fallen victim of the Zanu pf slovenliness and have flooded the streets of Zimbabwe and the neighboring South Africa.

Brief background -
The cries of a Zimbabwean 80 year old immensely burdened grandmother ‘ugogo/mbuya’ who has lived through the periods of pre-independence and post independent Zimbabwe; cries her heart unto God for solace; for His intervention as she lives in a period of turmoil. In her mind she juxtaposes the two all very different periods. Whilst in no uncertain terms, it is not pleasant to live under colonialism, and yet still, her heart is torn apart as she cannot escape the reality that prior to independence she could at least have a basic plate of food in front of her. She has lived to see the once breadbasket of Africa; ‘the once Switzerland of Africa’, deteriorate and disintegrate into hips of stones. She is weary and her only hope lies in God.

NB. The poet; Tapuwa has chosen the representation of an old grandmother because old as she is, she poses a significant part of the Zimbabwean population today; in the light of the extremely high HIV/AIDS death toll which has extensively mowed down the young couples (the productive age group); and also due to the high rates of migration by the young couples from Zimbabwe, who leave their children under the care of the old; as they cross boarders to escape violence and seek refuge in neighbouring South Africa, Mozambique, Botswana and also in the Western World.

Ten of them I bore.
Out of which only two live. Eight all mowed away by this disease, AIDS.
A disease no one has helped me conceptualise.
When to rest my 83 year old broken bones?
When I am now Zimbabwe’s newest ‘mama’, wrecked, old boned, old brained.
And yet to live and function the life of the vivacious, vibrant young.
Here, my 12 grandchildren to fend for.
I am weary!

Where to source for food when my barn is dry? And;
Where to get the energy to work in the field, when my bones are all wrecked?
I watch my grandchildren who have dropped out of school.
I watch my two jobless sons of 40 and 45.
Back with me in this dilapidated small round hut. In vain it was, that they risked,
Crossing the crocodile infested Limpopo River into South Africa.
My heart is weary.
I am weary!

Two of my granddaughters are often sick having never been fit since birth.
I have not the money to seek medical attention; And yet still,
Where to find that clinic and health institution which is not dysfunctional?
Where to find a dispensary? Empty dispensaries I now see.
Where to source a mere panadol, to ease the pain my granddaughter is enduring?
To now resort to traditional herbal plants; it is preached.
Whose use and validity they used to dispute; so strongly so.
But where to even get the herbal roots; when drought knocks endlessly so?
I am weary!

My God; still fresh and vivid are memories of the long time war.
That brought with it the joyous independence in 1980.
A war, during which I lost my husband.
Now what is this war again in our midst?
For how long will you watch oh my God as your sons and daughters are tortured?
I am scared; I can run no more; my legs and feet ache.
My arms I can raise no more.
I can sing no more; my mouth quivers and this, my voice shakes and I stammer.
I am weary!

I am weary;
I am heartbroken;
I am full of fear;
Your loving heart I search for;
Your solace I seek;
And eagerly I await for your answer;
For your love is endless. For your ear is ever opened.

Why the broken promises?
The health for all privileges;
The education for all?
The land for all?
The jobs for our children?
The peace?
The joy; the laughter?
I am weary!

A mere piece of soap requires that I carry a load of cash in my bag;
Where to get the cash? I have not the bag but a broken sack?
A clean soapy bath I long for; But I have neither the soap nor the water.
Food on my table I long for; But my bones and brains are weak.
Cold, yet I have not the blanket save a torn skin from our last goat my late husband slaughtered.
And I understand not the much talked about game of ‘deals and cuts’;
Out of which they survive. I am no ‘dealer.’
Peace I desire; But I am tormented by the dozen footsteps on my doorstep every night.
I am weary!

Who owns Zimbabwe save but a ‘chosen’ few?
The much talked about diamond?
The much talked about foreign currency?
The much talked about big farms?
The much talked about farm machinery?
The free maize seeds; the free fertilizer?
I know not what is required of me that I may have access to these.
I am a lost sheep.
I am weary!

The only grocery shop in the vicinity;
Which belongs to the Chief.
Has but empty shelves.
Save for a few candles and the match sticks.
My taste buds long for the sweetness of the sugar;
Which has become a rare commodity.
My grandchildren ask for bread.
My ailing crawling grandchild asks for milk.
I am weary!

I am weary;
I am heartbroken;
I am full of fear;
Your loving heart I search for;
Your solace I seek;
And eagerly I await for your answer;
For your love is endless. For your ear is ever opened.

The only mealie meal grinding machine in the vicinity;
Which is owned by the Kraal Head;
Has not been running for two months.
They say that it is because there is no foreign currency;
To buy the paraffin or the petrol.
And the only bus that is supposed to come our way;
Was last seen three months back.
I am weary!

The youths; the leaders of tomorrow.
Is now But a lost generation.
Thugs they have become.
I cry unto you God.
To come to their rescue.
Before they perish.
For your hand is forever stretched.
I am weary!

Oh My God I cry unto thee.
I seek your shoulder. I seek your warmth.
I seek your intervention. I seek your solace.
Tranquil; tranquil; tranquil; oh where are you?
‘You are my light and salvation; Who shall frighten me?
Who shall make me tremble when you are the defender of my life?
I will praise you, Lord, you have rescued me.’

I am weary and eagerly I await an answer my God!