Better Than Starbucks!

BROKE-BUTTOCK BLUES

They beat me with branches wrapped up in barb-wire,

they beat me with branches wrapped up in barb-wire;

my baby she crying, her face is on fire.

They say you are sell-out, you vote Tsvangirai,

they say you are sell-out, you vote Tsvangirai;

my baby, she dying, please God, tell me why?

They beat first my head then my back then my bums,

they beat first my head then my back then my bums;

they laugh and they say is like playing the drums.

I beg them for water, they say go ask Blair,

I beg them for water, they say go ask Blair.

Please, put out the fire in Mucheche’s hair?

My bottom is broken, can not sit or stand,

my bottom is broken, can not sit or stand;

Mucheche can’t breathe with her mouth in the sand.

They burned all our mealies, our chickens, our dog,

they burned all our mealies, our chickens, our dog;

my uncle, they hit him to death with a log.

For hours they beat me, for hours I cry,

for hours they beat me, for hours I cry;

please God, save my baby, do not let her die?

When they leave, like a tortoise I crawl very slow,

when they leave, like a tortoise I crawl very slow;

but my baby stopped crying a long time ago,

mwanawangu stopped crying a long time ago.

                                          BORDER JUMPING

                                    Once all set about with fever trees

                                    where hippos squeaked like rubber toys

                                    and crocs gave rides to girls and boys:

                                    the Limpopo River, if you please.

                                    Now the banks are greasy with leftovers:

                                    a doek, a hair extension, a knitted

                                    bootie (pink for girls), a broken sandal.

                                    In the high and far-off times, the croc

                                    he lengthened the elephant’s nose,

                                    vamped it from a boot to a hose, 

                                    stretched it to a stocking from a sock

                                    Now a decayed, half-eaten corpse, grey-green,

                                    lies unidentified near the bottly

tree with eight leaves only, and twisty roots.

Once long ago in colonial times

they lied to us in clever rhymes;

now the truth is the biggest lie,

so we cross the Limpopo, and die.

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John Eppel is one of Zimbabwe’s most celebrated writers/poets with over 18 books published. He has won several awards. His latest book is Absent: The English Teacher.

Bye-bye

​

Should you want to say goodbye

Trudge to the hills

Standing on a cliff

Hold your lover’s hand

Point to them rocks and broken glasses

Lurking in the smallness of distance on land

Whisper into their ear the sweetness of

Running in the gardens with butterflies  

Yellow, green and cream white hovering

Above your heads in a mile of laughter

Then, let go                               the hand

and

fall.

Transition

​

On a boat on West Lake

I met a man who asked me

If we were really meant to grow

Old and tired — wearied by pilgrimages

To temples lost in snow and fogs.

I said I did not know

Because young as a budding flower

I had seen green leaves turn yellow

Falling off leaving the tree in nakedness

And many more had died as I grew

And hoped from mountain to mountain

In my pursuit for happiness.   

They had all waited for the sun to go

Then disappeared one by one

Each falling off into waters

To freeze along with the lake

When winter came hitting hard.

Strangers

​

Civilization welcomed us on arrival

First, he spun the carousels to test our sight

Then he dragged the bags into the tramway

Before leading us to a cab driver who spat and laughed

Before ferrying us to where he had wanted us to be

In the years of great learning that were to come.

First night there was a fight in the sky

Between sleep and the joy of living closer to the moon

After flights on long winding routes hidden in blueness.

We all wanted to sit at the balcony and recount details of

How we had outswam other sperms into the bowl of rice.

In the end there was a stalemate.

We agreed to go back to our beds and sleep happily.

We did not hear civilization again that night

That we thought driving back to the train station

He had crashed into another cab or the tall buildings

That towered above us as we made our way to greatness.

But we met him again in the morning

Just outside the apartment we had been crowded in

Floors piled on floors to save space

In this land of a billion stars in the galaxy

Which at first was as abstract as origins of the first man.

Civilization did not tell us that hiding exhaustion

In our electric blankets on a bed far from home,

We would miss the stillness of night and the beauty of loneliness.

Every night we walked out and placed our heads on the road

To be run over by wailing sirens and cars trudging to nowhere.

That is how we became strangers

When one morning he knocked right on our door and —

Not even smiling as he had done when the plane touched down

Told us it was time. 

​

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Beaton Galafa is a Malawian writer. He currently lives in Jinhua, China where he is studying for a Master’s in Comparative Education at Zhejiang Normal University. His work is forthcoming in Best New African Poets 2017 Anthology.