Charles Mwewa's Online Articles

Charles Mwewa Sings about Africa!

dreams of africa

  

I

I dream of Africa, the smells of early rains 

I long for the beaches heaving with swamps and fens;

I yearn for the dark long free worms, food for fishes

And I hunger for breams and all native dishes.


II

I miss the songs when new virgins’ rites are over

With every step a rare chance to live in clover;

I wish to stand all day watching their curvatures,

When they emerge with tight chonches and fine cultures!


III

I long for your tender bosom, Oh Africa,

I remember busking inside your bright Spica

As I milked in the zephyr of your youthful dawn,

And your Nshima maize mixture I had always gnawn.


IV

Oh the rhythms of Rumba, pleasure of your drum,

In this young and old, day and night, shindig and swam

To the sounds of mirth my ancestors bragged about

Oh how soundly the children slept after the bout!


V

I often dream of the wastes lying on Cairo Road

Of graffiti and filth garbage across the board,

Of smut of compacted town-centre boulevards

Of the uncouth conduct in courtrooms and churchyards.


VI

I didn’t enter the portal of the living dead

Nor tasted sweet love in a darkly flowing bed,

Yet, I dream of the best potential of all kids

Of women who dance with opened legs in all nudes.


VII

I have been to the river banks of flowing blood,

To tears spilling over with a weeping flood;

In Africa they teach, “Life once given, it’s gone!”

Oh land, without you it feels like I was not born.


VIII

These nights are memorable when I dream of you

These lights are horrible when I forget what you do;

These rights are fallible when I flout the offspring; 

These fights are agreeable when I speak your feeling!


IX

The streets of raw Africa are littered with dirt,

The central banks are going to war with yawning debt;

The roads are thwarted with problems of a pothole;

The fields have graves but the sound of music makes whole.


X

I stand at the edge of the rising waterfall

And watch able adventurers drive, dive and free-fall

On the waves of high splashing flurry and glory

Where they burry their heart and mind with no worry.


XI

When I saw the smiling girls at their first instance,

When the bare-breasted women took their early chance,

Their thighs strong and their arms hardened through toil, 

Their diamond hands and golden tongues drip silver oil.


XII

The politics of the land are lovely as flute

The speeches of Parliament sound like awful fruit;

The decisions of courts are lithe like a Danseuse

And the banks lend only to those they can abuse.


XIII

The beauty of Africa is a fantasy, 

Women keep their pubic gardens smartly fussy;

Men find it in parody of foreign accents

And presidents pride in signing stately assents.


XIV

The dreams of my homeland are many and intense,

The visions fill my beliefs with divine incense; 

The fine blessings and the curse on the savannas

Are shaped like the anxious tendons near the anus.


XV

I dream of your never changing magnificence,

In avant-gardism and now I see your presence.

Your vowel-ended surnames I love to pronounce

And your pure kind-heartedness I like to announce.


  

Tear of God


They lash junkets of donor support

On the pained daughters of the soil

All in the hope to redeem a race

Of a people mired in blood

The grim image of black Africa

Illuminated by an over-shined sun

Lamps its toxins of artificial gems

On a land deep in solstice shadows

This aid that always comes late

Given by greased governments

Is only a drop in a gigantean ocean?

As kids and women in tears bask

A tear of God lazily dropped

And who for Africa shall mourn

Who, for broken and forsaken land

Who, for stricken and afflicted band?


Investment Principle


There is nothing that may happen

That people will hasty to say

That it was done without purpose

Since nothing happens for nothing

For everything, awful or lawful

Has an underlying meaning

This may not be now apparent

But will reveal itself in time

The law of life is take and give

So that in every circumstances

There is one gift that will offend

And its value grows in silence

So in whatever you are involved

Where your time and energy are

There is also your future and reward

And greatness in time it will award


The City


Oh, the City; tentacles it spreads like a pregnant octopus; 

Women in legs long and spacious coil; 

As down the city-centres busy and ness mesh; 

Here I walk, Toronto; 

Splendous your restaurants; 

Missed calls, you mock!" 


  

Heartcry


Perfection, to you is a garment

That fits my soul;

You’re an epitome of beauty infantile

And grace admixed in perfect measure;

Oh, this windily figure who moves hearts

With every step she moves heavens

And in every absence, oh my soul you crash;

Each day I live in the shadow of 

Your fond remembrances;

Your heart, that fleshly gem in crimson,

Crafted from marble sinews,

Tender like angels’ wings,

And lovely as a queen’s chamber;

In your bosom mind and matter consent,

My untrained voice sings a song,

And my hands scribble lover’s lines;

You stand as a mighty tower 

And those legs taste like honey to behold,

To brag about your love is in order,

To say, “I feel you good” is bolder;

Oh, Heartcry, its poetry, lovely and true

Oh, Heartcry, like a woman, I love.


  

Change with Change


They claim they will bring change

When all they do is preach the old message

And their people don’t find this strange;

You don’t grow through the old passage.

The people stare in mesmerizement and wonder

They have the same lines all their life

And they are confused and can’t ponder;

They feel like they’ve been cut with a knife. 


No Fundamentalist


I am not a Christian fundamentalist; I am a Christian,

There is a difference;

I believe in grace as Paul preached it to the Ephesians,

And I love the inference;

But there are those who use the Bible woefully amiss,

Such I avoid;

They pick this and for what does not, they dismiss,

That leaves a void;

God truly loves the world and does not exclude,

The good or the bad;

Yet, modern fundamentalists know whom to include,

And that is sad;

I don’t use my faith as a weapon of condemnation,

I use it to help;

Everyone who is human fits into my combination,

And they don’t yelp;

There is commonality in every extremity,

Christianity or Marxism;

Every act of love and care for the needy builds amity,

It mortifies separatism;

Embrace and accept all as composite brotherhood,

Which is veracious;

One world guided by one love and not hatred would

Be very precious.


  

Africa, I Love


Oh Africa, my Africa, don’t you amaze me

In all wise, you’re poor and sometimes even evil

Other times, you disappoint, especially when children you neglect

Your roads are full of potholes, some of your housing dilapidated

You keep enjoying other nations things

And you don’t pay attention to your own potential

You spend more time copying other people

Than you do trying to improve yourself

BUT I still love you

I am dead in your rhythms, especially your Rhumba

Your girls are lovely – as tender as the feathers of a peacock

Your music – oh my God – I can indulge in day and night

And your beauty – is true beauty – the nature, the people

Oh Africa, although you’re neglected, my thoughts are all you

Africa, my Africa, no matter what, our love is forever

Africa, till I die, we are two roads that met

And have promised never to part

Oh Africa, my Africa, God shine upon you!

i miss home

In these gardens of the North, a splendid summer sun shines

And all the dirt of snowy erosion brought to a clashing cleansing

As the nimbus now grey canopy the silky skies with pines

Here, the Scarlet macaw flies higher to gyrating frequency sensing

The streets now look free of pelting murky of flossing wintries;

The greens all littered with aroma from coffee plantations

And the sounds of hip-hop filter through the singing countries,

And hope and laughter undergo semi-surgical implantations.

I hear the news of the failing super icon, Mandela Madiba

In my heart of minds, I offer him a fervent prayer

From abroad, I see the rising and falling rainbow over the Kariba

And from the heavens, his stars align for a sigh of fresh air.

I miss home, the innocent terrains of sculpting red sand

Where in broad day-light, kids frolic from street to street

And the waves of heated violet rays foment the entire land

But with stamina and simplicity, the eve-drums, cheerfully beat


QUNU


The route to time-warmed freedom is still long

And is a thousand Mandela’s resilience strong

The aura of the splendid Cape Mountains

Just lay few metres away from Qunu’s fountains

For here, the great’s remains have been buried

And here, his scepter of freedom’s mantle is carried

In these terrains of bigoted Apartheid, he walked

And here, the towering figure of history has talked

To a people, but all the people of his homelands

For to one brother as to one sister all make bands

And here forever the light of the night has risen

In his long walk to freedom, injustice has fallen

Mourn all nations, if not this peace we butcher

For yourselves, not the dead, and your new future!


  

Money


Learn thee to appreciate money

And change thee thy money attitudes

For thy confusions regardeth money

Breedeth twisted facts of wealth

Know thee that money is existence

Understandeth freedom’s next of kin

For as thousands lacketh its power

In poverty countless doth succumb

Educate thyself in providence’s drill

Coach thyself in shortages’ tricks

For in hard times knowledge winneth

And in thy ignorance death loometh

People ought to hold money in bounty

Every purse boometh with laughter 

And in thy plethora hold thee thy pass

To wander the earth till Doomsday


Four Messengers


They may come from anywhere

The four messenger from hell

In their path and from nowhere

They arrive without a bell

AIDS makes her nest in Africa

H1N1 lays her young in America

SARS leases her spores in Asia

CANCER rests her head in Austrasia

Dig up mass graves in a desert

Deny Hitler a noon dessert

For all race as all colour he refuses

Jews and blacks he kills with gas fuses

No-one is innocent in Europe

None, when discriminations gallop

America pleads “not guilty” to blood

And Africa is submerged by a flood


No Author of Tragedy


I am not an author of tragedy

I write what happens in reality

But I will not at all be rigid

When so much lead to cruelty

I am not a critic of mass industry

Nor do I see souls labour like machinery

And I will not keep my mouth dry

Nor only make advocacies summary

I am for humanitarianism

But in the poor name of the victims

Money is collected for many an ism

While kids pair in miserable teams

I am not an opponent of aid

I only tell of hypocrisy as a fact

In the name of butter and bread,

Poverty and profit make a pact


Didn’t Feel Like Writing


I didn’t feel like writing poetry

For my darling Muse be asleep

To awake a drowsing mind

Takes more skill than rhyming

And the hand that draws and paints

Is more sane than an idle clock

I didn’t want to draft a narrative

For the senses be off and dull

To design an end-rhyme epigram

Takes more skill than prosing

And the length of the work itself

Doesn’t account for real genius


Shakespeare Unedited


Thou in thy dream saw Shakespeare

In the dead of night saw thou a spear

For the wife of that venerable Macbeth

This lady of vice and untimely birth

Thee in thy dream also saw Portia

In kind and mind as Obama’s Sasha

Yet in thy wake watches Sinatra

The nard which played Cleopatra

Whence that night Julius Caesar

In battles trekked he with no visa

To surpass the spoils of Richmond

And to the Senate be gave diamond

Thou wrote on thy knee: Elizabethan

Which thou recanted to biblical Nathan

Who in predictions of David or Pharaoh

Who the priming looks of Romeo

Would dare not crown Richard the Third

For who wore bloody gowns unaided.


  

City of Livingstone


City of Livingstone, Zambia

Many memories embedded here

In sands so loose and terrains so quiet

By Maramba, sounds of shining colours

The progeny of mixed races;

By Helen Britel, music glows to disco.

Here the route treks to Victoria Falls

The locals called Smokes with Thunder:

The waters boil at ephemeral speed

The winters warmed by rising fumes;

The monkeys sing to tangled thickets

Draining their natural call

On heads of state’s bored-head!

City of Livingstone, Zambia

Canopy of Chief Mukuni

Who alone knows the riddle

Of Nyami-nyami, a lady-snake

Who guards the river and waves!

Here civilizations meet nudely

On rapids, kayaks sea-saw freely

Women under trees sit nakedly

While men watch so drily

The sun shines briskly at Sun Inn

Here prostitutes meet their match

With sticks that sing, shoes that talk

Business takes on a twist

And a window to the future

Opens widely over Hillcrest skies

Semi broken; semi whole

So we dingo to kapentas partly rotten

To beans with skimmed insects

And meats that are scarce like frost

City of Livingstone, Zambia

No place much better

No season much sweeter!


  

Dying While Black


They die brutal deaths, these kids

Just for being Black kids.

They are gathered in these prisons

Like chicken packed in small prisons.

They are readied for a mass slaughter,

A deep, dirty, Black slaughter.

Their only crime, because of colour

Just because they wear Black colour.

They lie in wait, these Blue policemen

And it pleases every policeman.

These prisons are full of human sorrow

Creating creatures that bring sorrow.

When Black goes in saintly and dark

It comes out Whitened, motives dark.

When justice opens its eyes, 

Law becomes a whip against Brown eyes.


  

Why Not Me?


As I walk alone, along this busy street

Even in this silence on top of summer’s heat

Thoughts torture my poor soul from within,

Frightful punches in my heart begin, 

And I sob: “Why not me?”

I see those who live in elevated mansions,

Who drive elegantly and wear lurid blouses,

Who tint their cars and possess lots of money,

Who are followed by everyone like after honey.

And within me I glob: “Why without me?”

I watch men as they play on technology’s best,

Women as they strut streets in angelic majesty,

I hear the winds blow at great force to the west,

And all it leaves behind is me browny and dusty.

In anger I ask: “Why not them?”

I am jealousy of those who seem happy with life,

They are accompanied by pomp so splendid

In their path they leave feasts of pride and strife

And have others wipe where they have fended.

With a banger I ask: “Why only them?”


Dreams of Poverty


I wake, tears rolling, in deep sweats,

Dreaming of days gone with big debts,

In pain of worry and harsh nights

When sleep climbs over higher heights.

Dreams of poverty stir my soul,

I fear the day lack will befall

When gloom as a frightful shadow

Becomes a close and common foe.

I run from my footsteps all day,

All my plans have wondered at bay,

Poverty’s shame does threaten me

And from my own heartbeats I flee.

The thoughts of days of want do haunt

The feelings of great need also taunt,

I see the pangs of struggle’s past

I run and away very fast!

song of a slave

A slave, a man, for that is what they have called him

From ancient civilization, the drums have beat

And from the depth of the abyss, their gong have gone

Here, she was born a daughter from a man and wife

And there, they knew her as a fountain of calm waters

But for how long, the chants arise and the waves fall

And again, how long should we dance, to nothing

As their progeny, we carry their humiliation, their pain

For in shame they bore mixed heritages, and for nothing

Oh laugh aloud, our own peril we chartered across oceans

How shall I sing, when all nations frown upon the race

And as days old truths have been massacred in masses

So that when they needed booty, these ancestors died

So that when times of danger where done, they perished

But for them, these old lines will perpetually speak up

In the name of God, haven’t men transgressed divine order

In the name of sacred scriptures, like stray dogs, they toiled

Even so they flogged them with whips and strings

They considered them property, while quoting the Bible

For to them, they were nothing but piece of property

Oh cry sacrilegious, mourn, shame and hide your face

For now pets receive more honour than they did

They were not humans, only expendable indecencies

No vet would dare pock their noses, no justice found

As for their women, their bodies abused for wantonness

Should we dance, laugh or pretend all this did not be

Should we close our eyes to history as if we didn’t see

Nay, for now and then, Black is not a thing but dark

And on the pillars of begotten statesmen is a mark

Only endurance, only poesy, only us can change us!


Not Just a Number


In this land of many chances

And opportunities

I still feel like just a number

Nay, am not just a number, a colour

Nay, have a clan, a tribe, a culture

Nay, says I am not just a number

The medium is the peace

They pander like others are events

And they announce to exclude us

Nay, am not just existing

Nay, I have a talent, a habit

Nay, I have character and manners

The West is colour-blind, let them say

The East has people who are persons

And the South is not an island

Let the people of colour emerge

And let them be a people, no a number

Aren’t just a number

Am a human being


Oh, My God


Oh, my God, wow!

What wows is an owl

An owl lives in the trees

The trees grow in a forest

The forest in which birds hide

Hiding from slings and stones

Stones of lime and marbles

Marbles which built the city

The city is Ottawa

Ottawa is in Ontario

Ontario is a province

A province is in Canada

Canada is a country

Country is a kind of music

Music may be hip-hop

Hip-hop is an art

Art is made by brush and paint

Paint is of many colours

Colours may be in orange

Orange is a citrus fruit

Fruit may be sour or sweet

Sweet is like sugar

Sugar is from sugarcane

Sugarcane is grown in Brazil

Brazil won the 2002 World Cup

World Cup was in South Africa

South Africa is in Africa

Africa is a continent

A continent has nations

Nations may be Zambia

Zambia has 13 million people

People have different names

Names like John or Mwewa

Mwewa is in Bemba

Bemba is a tribe

A tribe consists of nationals

Nationals have races

Races may be white or black

Black absorbs light

Light comes from the sun

The sun is in the sky

The sky is in heaven

Heaven is, oh my God,

God’s holy throne!


Bemba Tales


This bird looks like

My own mother

Even the eyes look like

My own mother

The mouth looks like

My own mother

Even the ears look like

My own mother

Pounded groundnuts 

Do you look like

Your mother or father?

For your mother is beautiful

Though you may look like

Your own father,

Resemble your mother

For she is beautiful

This stick is mine

I saw it at Katenta

This stick resembles my own

I got it at Katenta

This stick of mine has spots

This stick of mine has dots

This stick of mine is speckled

This stick of mine is 

Black and white

This stick is dappled 

Like a leopard

This stick is stippled 

Like a tiger

This stick is freckled 

Like a giraffe

This stick is speckled 

Like a zebra


Music in Zambia


Nerves are cold, sullen and unexecuted

Energy is sour, squalid and inundated

Memory plays against views

All that is seen are souls without spirit

Miss the rhythm that skins ooze

Hear the sounds of tar-marked drums

Speak with a waist and a hand

And brace awake to pure ecstasy

Music in Zambia is our brew

The sun showers with delight

Shades dance and smug

White flowers gather to cheer

Places are bumpy and brown

Mountains laugh with their chests

Valleys whisper within spaces

And in Zambia music speaks

Louder than echoes


Free Soil


People, people begin to make room

To let the white-shadowed groom

Pass through to his fated doom

To gain shape after one zoom

They are not ashamed to brag

About the newly-scented rag

On which the Queen of hip-hop lags

Followed by boys carrying bags

It is a land where fools carry wallets

And the wisely-born hold mallets

To shape effigies and chisel wood

In order to gain a penny for food

The snake winds lazily in rush hour

As tolled-cars small and large cower

In the heat of slowly-burning oil

Where hearts curse costs of free soil.


  

Musonda


This love, that my wings be cast on the sea

This love, the brightest in your eyes I see,

In your hand melts love’s melodies at best,

Every morn, I awoke to your palms’ first, 

You carried a heart of a true mother

And cared for me more than several other,

Yet, you were a silent lover of skins;

When you came under unlike many kins,

I knew you’d carry me through the gravel

To Mibenge where we meant to travel.


Insulted in America


They gather around media phones and shades

And insult me because I am not six feet tall.

They gossip of high art, music or movie trades

While me and others petite are left to fall.

They recite them in plots of love novels

And describe their figures of great beauty

But in all my experience and travels

I have found no one as Clarice as fluty.

My daughters say that I am handsome

And my wife knows I have great looks,

But in America they think I am not ransom

And they can’t narrate me in books.

In America they think all others are not good

They will say no-one from China and Japan is

They gang around basketball for their food

And wouldn’t admit others can be fizz.

future of africa

coming soon

developing africa, a theory

coming soon

what is not known about africa

coming soon