Kitwe Poetry Corner – 12 November, 2011

Here are a few poems from last reading at Kitwe Little Theatre.  Tonight's poetry was supposed to be combined with a jazz night but has been cancelled because there will be a play from Lusaka at the theatre.



Leonard Koloko


My lost African girl,

When I don’t kiss your lips

And hold you by your golden hips

You call me ignorant

Ignorant of modern love.

When I don’t touch your breasts

And attend to your expensive tastes

You call me selfish

Selfish in the game of love.

Because I can’t use forks and knives

And take you on romantic jives

You call me anti-social

Anti-social in a world of change.

Because I am not dressed in style

You keep me waiting for a while.

I have to chase you for a mile,

While you shoot me a treacherous smile.


You paint your finger nails,

And do your hair in curls

You paint your lips

An always swing your golden hips.

Your dressing is a scare,

And you don’t seem to care,

Truly you are a lost African girl.

You’ve ignored the wisdom of the chisungu drums,

You say they are just noise to your eardrum.

You’ve discarded the chitenge from your waist

Exposing your thighs on no request.

See the way your aging mother cries,

Can’t you pity her swollen tearful eyes?

You are not like her in her prime.

So she cries for you all the time.

My lost African girl

You know my love for you so well,

But cursed be that vulture,

That devours our culture,

A culture lost through ‘Euro-Americanemia’.




Read by Moddy Muponisi


Meaningless, meaningless, says the Teacher

Utterly meaningless. Everything is meaningless

What does man gain from his labour

At which he toils under the sun?

Generations come and go but the earth remains


The sun rises and the sun sets and hurries back to

where it rises.

The wind blows to the south and turns to the north,

Round and round it goes, ever returning on its course.

All streams flow into the sea, yet the sea never gets


The place the streams come from there they return


All things are wearisome more than one can say.

The eyes never have enough seeing, nor the ear its

fill of hearing

What has been will be again

What has been done will be one again.

Nothing is new under the sun.

Is there anything of which one can say,

Look this is something new?

It was here already, long ago, it was here before our


What is twisted cannot be straightened and what is

lacking cannot be counted.

There is no remembrance of men of old, not even

those to come.

Much wisdom brings more sorrow of men of old

Not even those to come.

Much knowledge brings more grief.

Really, does life have a purpose?

I believe so! I don’t know about ‘you’.




Read by Barney Kanjela


This is the one I read on radio. It's complicated being

in the middle, both black and white

Green eyes and pale skin but curly hair and that

THING that make me black.

I can relax my hair and have black friends

But still I have a complex of whether I fit in with my

loose ends

My White ends my Black beginning

Of Africans beating drums and singling

Speaking a vernacular that my almost white tongue

can't pronounce

And just like that 'I'm not black' I announce

Almost embarrassed till I remember I'm half white, if

that counts.

After all I'm English yeah?

But in Cape Town 'no you bushy neh?'

I'm not bushy, yellow, black, white or mixed

I'm not a race or colour that's fixed.

And you know it's complicated being in the middle

The middle of a battle of acceptance and conformity

And xenophobia has become an Africa reality

And me with my half Zambian, half English, South

Africanized family

I don't know whether living in this country suits me.

However I will salute inter-racial couples I see around

Now maybe I won't have such a complexity and my

peace of mind can be found.

You know it complicated being in the middle

In a rocky boat that sways between the black sea and

white sand

Deciding whether to do the 'booty hop' or be in a rock

band haha

But sometimes I don't give a * and I'm not so bleak

After all my colour makes me unique.

My identity and were I belong may still be a question

But till I know who I am I don't have a better


Than to speak my mind until I find not WHAT but

WHO I really am



Bwalya Kazungo


As the earth turns over

The clocks are ticking

Sun is shining

People too are moving

And life keeps on living


Look at you

Nice looks

Bright smile

Sweet voice



How nice it is for me to know you

But there is something we all have to know

People like you

Do not grow on trees


They hang from them

And every eye see and cherish


How marvelous!


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