INTANGA POETRY CORNER

Blindness has her own set of eyes that glitter only at the invisible shadows strutting up and down the treacherous corridors of our enslaved lives in pitch darkness.

Every time blasphemous lightning strikes the prison surrounding our hopes shakes from angry farts and accompanying bloody groans issued from our tormented beings.

Had father lived long enough after the war to witness the miseries of pot-holed Harare as publicly displayed today,

His patriotic being would have shriveled in pain before swelling in great anger at the great betrayal thus unfolding.

The angry shadow of the gun he carried at war is the faded art that adorns the scowling walls of his melancholic bedroom down at Mkwananzi village in perpetually droughtstricken rural Bikita.

The image of him on his jubilant return from war mists our miserable eyes now tired of looking far into the empty distance for the improbable sign of what he fought for so resolutely.

Whenever mother sleep-talks the long wandering stories she tells are gory tales of a shameless war that mangled peace and gang-raped innocence.

Whenever uncle Taivekuhondo sleep-walks, the roads he traverses are rugged and fraught with a fervent anger wrought of betrayed peace and unfulfilled promises.

Sister Chamakafira's now ancient young eyes are narrow slits of burning anger that look at the world with a stern glare that glitters with ambers of mistrust. The razor-wired prison walls that house this home of mayhem have a sinister aura and countenance that glowers down at peace and shrivels her visage into thin membranes of wilting courage. Truth, trust, honesty, ubuntu, humanity, dignity and hope stared in open-mouthed disgust at the illegal trial of innocent peace that eventually sentenced her to a lifetime in chained solitary confinement.