Today the sun rose with tear marks.The rays are crippled by the deadly virulent monster of a disease. Lab scientists named this demon COVID 19. Supreme powers burrowed the earth into bunkers escaping from the newly born Goliath . Conspiracy theorists nicknamed many dark names and totems .Soothsayers say , he is the great grand son of INFLUENZA.Others think otherwise . Mothers are beating their heaving bosoms and grieving heart-cages. They named him POLITICAL . Fathers ran out of words . Overzealous zealots and theorists name tagged VENDETTA . Last night, our silver moon wept and lost its color, the beauty got washed away into unmarked , marked and shallow graves. We release this Journal during these tumultuous times of the ravaging COVID 19 pandemic.


#BREAKING CHAINS marks the beginning of a new literary arts revolution .Its birthmarks are resistance and resilience. We sling words of resistance to dictatorship , super-power arrogance and to cantankerous cancerous autocratic systems. Wielding pens of resilience to crude-corrupt governments and unrepentant cash barons and war-lords in Africa and beyond. We have remarkable writings , an essay on poetry by Michael Mwangi Macharia . A beautiful feature story by Nancy Ndeke . An eye-opening book review by Prof Uche Akunebu and off course Brave Voices Poetry from around the globe. The struggles Continues . Aluta Continua!!!


So the end will not come

With a  whimper or bang

But with scarred humanity 

Dashing in a mad panic

Closeted filled with fear 

Shedding a silent tear

As darkness covers the land? 

Instutions of knowledge closed

Places of worship emptied

The inns where tired souls 

Seek a momentary reprieve

No longer allowed to operate… 

The meek humbled lot

Seeking for divine intervention 

The drums of war silenced

Without conceited egoistic lot

Of illusory poets and philosophers. 

Tis moment of introspection

For earthlings to retrace step

From where they missed the way

Back from reckless pastime

To straight and narrow paths. 


The writer is a poet based in the Rift Valley region of Kenya. He currently works in Laikipia. He is a graduate of Moi University. He has been involved in poetry for long and contributed to Echoes Across the Valley published by EAEP in the year 2000.He also contributed literary and educational articles in Saturday Nation. He is a contributing Writer and Poet with the Brave Voices online journal.



We are the unheard and unsolicited voices.

Oh! No, sometimes to you we sound like always nagging beggars.

We come from the land of green grass,

With faces of colors, dark, brown and black,

Uncivilized, ill-mannered poor creatures!

Sometimes you listen with pretense and laugh later.

We promise, we would be gentle.

Please! Listen,

If you don’t, who is going to lend the ear to our misery?

You show compassion and you forget when TV camera lights are gone.

Sometimes you give us a look as we are unwanted burden.

To you we only beg and beg, to you we have big mouths to fill, your eyes only see naked beggars.

Have you ever heard of our silent cry?

We lament and lament on our misery only in vein.

Have your hearts ever heard our clamoring?

Alas! you only see naked beggars driven away from home.

You talk about humanity when countless are slaughtered in the genocide.

Driven away from home, raped, slaughtered, torched, dismembered and mutilated,

You speak in the podium with such passion,

But to our cries and appeal for justice, your ears become deaf.

Queens, celebrities, noble laureates come, hug and go,

All in vein.

Our loved ones are missing never to be returned again.

But they have left their cries and screams in the air, to be echoed again and again.

Their cries with our cries, all in one living in the shelter of another land.

Sometimes we cry without civility, sometimes we fight, we fight for donations like dogs fighting over bones.

Sometimes we do illegal but only to survive.

Our women are sold off to unknown lands.

We sell ourselves to vices and violence.

Yet we look forward to your charities.

We live on your charities.

We live in the camp surrounded by fences,

We want to go out, just to breath as we

are tired of waiting,

To go back to our land.

Note: This poem is written on the 10 million Rohingya (From Myanmar) refugees living in Bangladesh.

COMMENTARY : More than 10 million Rohingya (From Myanmar)

 refugees living in Bangladesh. We talk in the international forums, there are

concerns from media, help and aid from international agencies. Political debate,

high speech support going on. Celebrities come, flashlight, clicking photos going

 on. But we forget to feel what they are going through. They fight, they create

 chaos. We start debate again what should be done. But their fate remains

uncertain for eternity due to geo political context and super global powers invested

interest. We forget they are in cages also known as camps. They have no home to

 return to when birds have their nests to return. This identity less, stateless

people are just the pawn in the bigger game.

(2020)International Fellow of the International Human Rights Art Festival,
Free-lance Writer, Poet, Columnist & Resource Person.Former Head of Training, HR DivisionBank Asia Limited.Ex Faculty, Dept of English, Daffodil International University, State University of Bangladesh,South East University.Ex Feature Writer – The Daily Kaler KonthoEx News Presenter-NTV, Bangladesh”Appetitus Rationi Pareat” CiceroI don’t support any kindofterrorism,violence,racism,discrimination,inequality,unfair ness, injustice, Animal Cruelty & anything against Human Rights,Secularism & Humanity.


Say my country is this two legs of a ladder 

with which to mount the Everest of glories,

Her wrung are all wrong like the four 

silvery cables stretch from pole to pole 

which feed the transformers in the morning 

& starve them all day long.

My country turns you her ill ear,

Unperturbed by the cacophonies 

the house-hold generators sing in the nights 

like unrehearsed lines of lullabies.

My country is deadened,

& there’s no current to jolt her to life –

the flailing national grid rises & 






in megawatts like mercury in experiment thermometers.

They say my country is all water 

saunters round the crevices of the Niger,

That she’s all sun & 

would never set in her northern skies,

That the belly of her water body

reeks of fossil energy. & the wind loves 

to wind round her dark, broken skin.

Yet the turbines & pipelines,

Paint her dark colours of erratic electricity,

& her sun lavishes away on the scarce

faces of her solar panels.

& with unceasing piles of Naira gulped into 

an electricity 

unstable as an epileptic who runs out of pills,

What charm holds my country in this scam,

& keeps her dear people this calm?


Shares his time between treating sick children and creative writing. His works have featured in Writers Space Africa, The Wild Word, The Quills, Featiler Rays, Eboquills, AFAS Review and elsewhere. He was co-winner TSWF Writers Prize (2018), the recipient of Freedom Voices Poetry Writing Prize (2019), Co-winner Monus Anthology Top 7 Entries (2019), and winner Splendors of Dawn Poetry Foundation (January, 2020).


Lucy mulled over continents of infractions,

witnessing unjust juries in each vista as

she surfed on a safety net of bravery.

She pulled a blanket of succorance

around the tormenting unexplainable,

a tank of tears the fuel driving her.

She stepped back into the dark box

where god’s black dressed monster

was still decorating children’s futures

and exchanged turmoil for inner peace,

guilt for the gift of punishment,

self-esteem for years of torment.

She placed liability deep into his heart,

etched an appropriateness of guilt and regret

deep into his mind and replanted shame.

A tsunami of happiness etching itself

into a once broken fragmented heart as she

stepped into a peaceful cheerful future.

A dissemination of isolation was scattered

into his future and a HERO was born.

 GENE BARRY is an Irish Poet, Art Therapist, Counsellor, Hypnotherapist and Psychotherapist. He has been published widely both at home and internationally and his poems have been translated into Arabic, Irish, Hindi, Albanian and Italian. Gene has read in Australia, Holland, Kosovo, England, St Lucia, Scotland, The Seychelles, South Africa, France, Belgium and Texas, Oklahoma, Rhode Island, Arkansas, Florida, NY, Michigan and Massachusetts. Barry’s chapbook Stones in their Shoes was published in 2008. In 2010 Gene was editor of the anthology Silent Voices, a collection of poems written by asylum seekers living in Ireland. He additionally edited the 2012, 2013 and 2014 editions of The Blue Max Review and Inclusion as part of the Blackwater International Poetry Festival. To date Barry has edited over 20 anthologies and poetry collections.

In 2013 his collection Unfinished Business was published by Doghouse Books, a collection that has been critically acclaimed. His third collection Working Days was published by Authors Press in 2016 and his fourth collection, Flaking the Rope was published by Nixesmate in the US in January 2019.


Tears trimming down their pale dry cheeks

Hopelessness straining the little energy left in their hunger stricken bodies

Betrayed by their own liberators turned oppressors

Listen to the oracle of the oppressed

Let the lamentations of the people of Zimbabwe be heard from the mountains of Vumba

The shackles and chains of oppression holding the young  hostage incommunicado

Zimbabwe! Zimbabwe! Zimbabwe

I fear the future and doubt the present.

My heart is bleeding profusely

A beautiful flower with a scent which attracted all the bees in 1980

Is what you inherited from the settlers

Today it stands dry and dead

Chimurenga! Chimurenga!

What a dream deferred?

Now the revolution is devouring its own

A beautiful country hijacked by a gangster

Listen to the oracle of the oppressed

Lamentations of a betrayed Comrade

(Extracted from Psalms of Resistance; Poetry of Emancipation)

 NKOSILATHI EMMANUEL MOYO , SR is a poet and a writer based in Kwekwe in the Republic of Zimbabwe.He use poetry to advocate for the respect of human rights and the rule of law.He penned an anthology titled Psalms of Resistance,a poetry collection which speaks to the daily struggles of Zimbabweans and he is also the author of a non-fiction book titled Dismantling Mugabeism.He stays in Kwekwe,Zimbabwe.


A voice of a freedom warrior
Freedom is built from with in
You don’t have to be a militant to be a freedom warrior
Neither do you have to come from a so called rebellious nation
Freedom fighting is a product of an empathetic heart
You don’t have to have suffered brutality to echo your voice for freedom
Don’t wait to be a victim to take action
because you are already a victim as your neighbor suffer the shackles
I tell you, you don’t have to be black to understand what a cry for liberation means
Resilience is a master mind resilience is the key!

To all human rights activists
I urge you the power of your voices is massive
Distance is never a barrier
Together we can
United we stand divided we fall
We shall swim in hot soup together
wear glitters of hellholes and
We shall sail oceans climb mountains and gaze at stars together when light shine upon us
Resilience is a master mind resilience is the key!
Aluta Continua!


 She is an author of an English poetry book “Exploring the Roots Poetry my Heritage, Living Arts self published in 2016.Gorata holds a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Social Sciences with majors in Sociology and Psychology from Central University of Technology Free State in South Africa and a Post Graduate Diploma in Education in African Languages and Literature from the University of Botswana.
A member of Maruping Poetry Organisation, had an opportunity to mentor young upcoming artists Tlhale jwa Phala Entertainment Group, potential youth leaders for the African Women Leadership Academy and young Karatekas for Botswana Defence Force Thebephatshwa Air Base Karate Club and some individual youth poets


       Breast fed from a savaged nipple

       which secreted dry milk…

       Suckling in turns of bitter truth;

Yet Escatology claimed most all that matter

And left me holding on a patched reality.

I never knew her cuddle,

       But memories of those whom knew her

       Gave sweet sensation

       of a mother keen like an eagle.

A resemblance of a diva I longed to perceive,

Beauty that failed man from the West and East.

Told of her glorious maze in vain

       How even the Queen could claim her own

       But her demise came too soon,

       too early as a catastrophe, devoid of love

I never knew her caress, coerced by the foster

And raised as a bastard in her courtyard.

I believe in her sepulcher she mourn

       Crying dry tears from my groan

       Finding this life an itch, yet she will never 

       resurect unlike Jesus she was a mortal…

Three decades past longing for liberty

To be fred from these chains, enslaved by sire.

TINOTENDA WAISON WILSON , an aspiring poet, human rights activists, page poet, flash fictionist as well as an editor of the ( Deem literature organization ). Born on the seventh of January 1998 at a local clinic in Chitungwiza of great svikiro, Tsuro Chaminuka. A Zimbabwean by birth and originates from Malawian tribe. The son of one Godwell Waison and Angeline Mandimika, being the first in a family of two, Annah Waison, little sister .Popularly known as the Lowlifediarist, has archived to compile and publicize two great ebooks entitled, THE STREET WHISPERS and the other one PAGES OF THE DIARY. He contributed to many journals online, The Kofi Annan tribute, African boy child campaign, The Ghetto Symphony Orchestra, and has been published in several episodes of the Zimbabwe we want campaign. He is also a brave voice under Miombopublishers. An active and ardent follower of the Harare Literature Festival founded by Chirikure Chirikure and other Poets in Zimbabwe .


Gather around the pedestal that I built for you,

Just below your majestically decorated castle,

Guarded closely with your golden keys,

And those in deluge with sister slander,

Absence of justice in your courts of chaos,

Comes the fury of prejudice and pride,

Sly manipulation lies pretending purpose,

Much as your judgement deems worthy,

I falter to the ground and by vision I blurry,

Dealing in doubt and uncertainty,

I gather my confusion and stutter my truths,

And you unleash your lightning bolt into the thicket,

Crashing into the night with a raging fire,

I dance with the embers ‘till morning light,

And you devise an avalanche to extinguish the fire,

You dropped your mask and it stumbled to the ground,

In the dust of the avalanche, beneath the rubble of your pedestal,

I will leave you there to mind your mazes,

Thank you for the lessons in pride and greed,

But I have much more to learn,

I will be riding the winds of hope to better days,

Searching for the unconditional love,

That will put an end to your war on peace,

In that fire, I forged myself a key of resiliency.

 TRACY YVONNE BREAZILE  has been granted the opportunity to serve as the 2020 Brave Voices Journal, Mentor in Residence.She would like to help people voice their feelings and attitudes about their conflicts and dilemmas through poetry.It is her hope that freedoms of speech encompass the entire globe.Her work has been published on and off the internet, in anthologies and interactive platforms.She served as EDITORAL CONSULTANT, Writers Mentorship and Skills Development, for the 2019 BRAVE VOICES POETRY JOURNAL.She is currently serving as GUEST EDITOR for WOMAWORDS LITERARY PRESS.She served as the 2018-2019 WRITERS MENTOR IN RESIDENCE as a Writer/Copy Specialist, with the ZIMBABWE WE WANT POETRY CAMPAIGN. She developed a handbook for use in FACEBOOK interactive platforms.She has always wanted to be a Writer.  She would like to help people voice their feelings and attitudes about their conflicts and dilemmas through writing.She has earned a B.A. in Language and Literature with an emphasis in Professional Writing, from COLUMBUS STATE (CSU, a member of the University System of Georgia, USA.)She is currently working on her first novel.Peace is her passion.


I am the future 

The future is mine 

The future is young 

The future is now

Now is my time to shine 

This is my stage 

This is my platform 

Let me do it 

Let me be present 

Let me listen and make contribution

To my future 

To what my life will be 

And when I have risen

Do not pull me down 

Quiet me down

Or shut me up

Hear me

Even if I am young

See me

I do have strength 

Listen to me

I have wisdom

Understand me

And help me built

A better nation

As someone once said:

Something for us without us is not for us

Help us built our future 

For us by us 

May our cries be heard 

Even when some are busy 

Listening to the sound of their own voices

While their earlobes are saturated by the trending tunes

How shall we be heard? 

When there are no platforms for growth 

A social hub to inspire the  aspiring leader

A platform to nurture a gift in governance 

Yet nothing will by any chance

Discourage us

We shall not be disheartened 

We shall take great strides forward 

Towards our goal

Towards our destiny

Towards our future 

For we are the future

The future is ours 

The future is young

The future is now 

Now is our time to shine 

This is our stage 

This is our platform!

LINGIWE PATIENCE GUMBO is an Administrator and Secretary by profession and a Church Volunteer Teacher & advisor for adolescents.  Her strong belief in encouraging and inspiring others has brought about the name Mukoma Barna, taking the role of big brother (Mukoma) and encouraging (Barnabas –  meaning Son of Encouragement). Gumbo is a singer | songwriter with one album (2017) and 2 singles. (2018, 2019) to her name, she self published her first poems anthology titled Words of Life (2019) She is currently working on more poem collections, fiction and motivational literature to be published very soon. Lingiwe is married to Gerald Gumbo, are blessed with two children and stay in Chitungwiza, Zimbabwe.  She enjoys nature walks and spending time with friends and her writings are inspired by love, her faith in God and life experiences. 



Edging towards a Rennaisance:poetry as a tool for freedom* A FEATURE STORY* by MICHAEL MWANGI MACHARIA Song of Lawino & Song of Ocol (9781478604723): Okot p ...

Poetry has always been a tool for self – expression on issues of the day that need to be addressed urgently. Songs and verses have been an essential aspect during the liberation struggles in the continent. 

This is well portrayed in verse of poets like Dennis Brutus and the collection When Bullets Begin to Flower. 

However in East Africa, the growth of written poetry especially in English was rather slow. The first-generation postindependence poets had been exposed to western tradition poets like W. B Yeats, Shakespeare and Wordsworth. 

Taban lo Liyong, a native of S. Sudan, decried what he termed literary barreness in the region. Consequently, the educated elite were inspired to write their own work. The early poets echoed what they had studied. For instance, Timothy Wangusa wrote a poem titled A Taxi Driver on his Death. This free verse was inspired by the rhyming poem by W. B. Yeats An Irish Air an Foresees his Death. 

Another poet Okot p’Bitek wrote verses based on the Acoli song tradition. Song of Lawino and Song of Ocol reflected the conflict between African and western culture. The poet drew his imagery directly from the local environment as an expression of freedom. 

Through the person of Lawino, Okot clearly indicated the need to maintain the traditions. This was because”the pumpkin in the old homestead must not be uprooted”. 

After independence of many countries in the world 9jsixties, there was blossoming of literary expression. However, the elite that had taken over from colonialists were also eager to condolidate power. The period was poets turbulent with civil wars, coups, counter-coups and assassination. 

In the seventies, writers began to voice the prevailing air of disillusionment. Several wee hounded off to jail or detention for exercising their freedom of expression. 

A need for a collection to introduce high school learners saw the publication of Poems From East Africa 

After countries like Kenya, legalized singe party rules and outlawed opposition, poets found space in cultural centers such as FCC, Goethe Institute and British Council in the city

 Poets would meet and horne their skill there.

The end of communism, fall of the Berlin wall and the wind of change that swept through many countries led to agitation for a “second liberation”. 

The second major anthology was published by EAEP. It was titled Boundless voices.The poems by emerging poets voiced concern about oppression, exploitation and tyranny. 

In the year 2000,there was need for another anthology to reflect the rapid changes that were taking place. Echoes Across the Valley was published. It was edited by Kwamchesti Makhoha and Arthur Luvai. 

In the recent years, the advent of the digital age has been a boon to budding and established poets. Poets do not have to wait for mainstream publishers to publish their work. They simply send their verses and receive instant feedback. 

The poets have made their contribution through online journals. Their voices have been heard in addressing the oppression in countries such as Cameroon. The curator of Brave Voices, Thousand poets for Zimbambwe Mbizo Chirasha was critical of the misrule during the Mugabe regime. He signaled that it was dying through verses such as Grace is a Disgrace. 

Some of the fruits of seeds sowed earlier have spoken word events such as Poetry Upgrade, Fatuma’s Voice and One Night Stand. These are mainly organized and attended by youthful lovers of poetry. 

The end of 2019 has been a Season of Harvest in Kenya. Prolific poets have gone ahead to self publish and market individual collections. This include Evelyne Ongogo’s Dichol, Oyoo Mboya’s Maiden Melodies, wafula P’Khisa’s A Cock’s Seduction and Gichimu Njeri’s Whitened Black. 

Poetry is useful in creating awareness about the ills in society such as corruption, tribalism, clanism, classism, terrorism and violence. 

Poets should lead the way towards a cultural and artistic renaissance. This will rebuild confidence after years of slavery, colonialism, tyranny and neocolonialism.

MICHAEL MWANGI MACHARIA is our Contributing Writer in Brave Voices Poetry Journal and long standing Contributor to the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign.


The Cape tints a breath-taking backdrop to the carnage of vain babble and stanch entitlement

a cogent parade of artistic supremacy and influence

Let’s apply our minds;

What would be the nature of life If the explorers ignored our shores.

Foreigners who whipped our descendants into submission;

into building citadels behind wild almond hedges whose giant spikes mocked our legacy and lineage;

prohibiting and punishing the desperately hungry.

A leader’s pleas drowned out by bloody battles.

Dexterity undermined and dulled by personal gain,

aspirations of allies and opulence caged inside no-man’s land.

Plans decimated by the settler’s greed.

There is a phantom that governs the plains of our majestic Cape;

rides upon the panoramic brilliance of South Africa’s crags, foothills and high seas

A white elephant to which we are forever attached;

It circles our inheritance like a bird of prey

The Almond Hedge – the thorn in our flesh   

The aide-mémoire of unscrupulous contests  

From Bishopscourt to Bridgetown

Milnerton to Mitchells Plan

Lansdowne to Langa

Kirstenbosch to Kewtown

Claremont to Crawford –

we continue to bargain for our freedom

Trying to banish the echo of the slave-masters whip.

The Almond Hedge spooks the slopes of Table Mountain

A symbol of division – a badge pinned to a lesser man

The stigma bagged upon our backs

Here we still draw swords in our quest for self

and the Almond Hedge stands colossal, poised like a statue of Liberty –

taunting the very essence of who we are;

our blood

our Africanism

our heritage

Our Freedom.

We are the executioners of a restless history

wandering across scenic phenomena and through valleys of whines.

We are the restorers of the African renaissance

The modern dispensation of cultural pride.

We are the assassins of the Almond Hedge.

Beulah Kleinveldt  AKA JAMBIYA KAI

(officially Beulah Kleinveldt AKA Beulah Kay)
Is an emotive South African Short Story Songstress and Poet. Jambiya Kai’s formula is fairly consistent – driven by raconteurs who challenge unjust systems and find themselves drawn into a web of deceit and abuse – the reality of love and loss.
Kai authentically weaves the tragedy and victory of the human experience into a tapestry of memorable imagery and metaphor – vivid multi-ethnic stories; provocative verse and song.Her works have appeared in -Sir Ricky McGentleman’s, Live Life: The Daydreamers Journal (Barnes and Noble) “For the Love of a Queen – alongside the works of British Novelist Gwyneth Jones; American poet Judith Skillman and Stuart Dybek; Best New African Poets Anthology 2017 – (The Amstel Breeze – now, A Monarchs Migration);The 2008 Good News London Publishers Contest earned her The UK Overall Winner’s Award for her poem When Freedom Reigned (Ode to Africa).She is an avid writer and supporter for and of the Tuck Magazine (Canada); 100 Thousand Poets for Peace Campaign – (Zimbabwe); Miombo Publishing; Poetry in the Blood, and other online Journals. Her works are also read on The Dear John Show.Currently Jambiya Kai is working on “4 Seasons in a Day” – an artistic collection of short stories, prose and poetry


DAUGHTER OF MAU MAU *(  Afeature story)* by NANCY NDEKE

There are people who thrive in controversy by their very nature even with their best of intentions. There are people, who despite controversy dogging their every breath and move, somehow, their star remains intact and shines through it all. Such was Virginia Edith Wambui Waiyaki, born in present Kiambu County of Kenya on the 21st of June of 1936.  She passed on at the age of 75 on the 30th of August 2011. Her life and times were a multicolored mosaic of adventure often gone wrong, a daring that set her up for conflict with family and the law, human rights and workers union activities that saw her marked as a trouble shooter, a woman whose choices she lived with regardless of who was against it, a doting wife to the love  of her life and a wonderful mother to fifteen children, six of whom were adopted. Her memoirs, in the book ‘ Daughter of Mau Mau’  detail her life’s journey. The book received as much controversy as she did in real life.

This article does not seek to unravel the source of Wambuis controversial life. Its purpose is to high light the resilience of a woman in a society not yet ready for the voice of a woman in leadership, to show case her bold stand against rape which by the time it happened to her, the topic was not just a taboo but a subject that spelt doom for the victim and the child resulting from it.

Wambuis brush with rape came during the stint at detention in Lamu, an island off the Coast of Kenya for her involvement in the Mau Mau politics against land grabbing in former central province, a location that was highly favored by British colonialist for its growth of priced cash crops.

She had taken the oath of allegiance to help the Mau Mau in recruiting domestic workers in Nairobi to join the movement. That in the process, she contested the ‘color bar rule’ that segregated meeting places for the different races, mainly white or European sections, Asian places and the African unsettled the colonial administration. That she defied the system when she was declared a persona non granta in Nairobi irked the system more, for she would be sent off to Kiambu her native village, only for her to trudge back to the city the next day.

As if not her activist life was not challenging enough, Wambui had another family drama going. She was cohabiting with a lover from a tribe different from her own and her family would not give her blessings to wed the man of her choice despite them having three children.

At detention in Lamu, she was constantly raped by a British officer who is quoted as telling her that the purpose of the rape was to have her pregnant. Having understood the animosities of the Kenyan tribes against intermarriages, the system was sure upon release with a half caste child, Wambui would loose faith and trust not just with the family but with the Mau Mau movement that she had spied for all along.

Wrong woman! Yes, she got pregnant. Yes, she got released. Yes, she give birth to a half caste child. BUT! She didn’t hide the facts of her situation. She refused the victimhood visited upon her and she chose to look at the resulting child as a blessing in revealing the rot of the master colonialist against a woman. And long before rape became an NGO affair and laws passed against it, Wambuis personal experience became the barrier breaker against a vice the world is still grappling with. That was Wambui and the British colonial masters of the day. Did she win when she sued that institution later for its crime? No. But the truth of rape as a tool of war and warring showed its ugly face. Intimidation and dehumanization among women in conflict zones came out. That it’s happening cannot be denied. Lesson.

The father of Wambuis first three children bolted after her incarceration in Lamu. A rumor that he sold her out still floats out in the clouds. Now, a single mother of four with the last one clearly bearing a different color orientation cannot have been flattering to interested suitors. But it did. She met and married one lawyer by the name of Silvanus Otieno who went on to adopt her four children. That he was a Luo and she Kikuyu, an unheard of thing at the time was inconsequential. They went on to have five more children and adopt another six, making a brood of fifteen children. That tells a lot about their relationship as a couple. They were tight, made decisions together and were kind people who shared their much with the lesser fortunate members of the society,

Come the death of Otieno, and the mother of all controversies hit Wambui.

She had mouthed her intentions to bury her late husband at their upper Matasia farm. The Luo clan would not hear of it. To them Wambui was not even legally married to their son since they had not done a traditional ceremony opting for the Christian wedding. A court battle ensued that lasted several months with daily newspapers sitting it out in court for the daily drama as lawyers shined their biased torches on gaps that ensured Otieno was finally buried in his rural home against the wishes of his wife.

What came out was that a woman had no say in the affairs of a man who had died, his clan had a upper hand. According to the judgment at the time, ‘a spouses( read Wambui) wishes were not sufficient to determine a dispute between opposed parties’ so Wambui lost and the clan won. For such a fight and lorded over by the best legal minds in the Country, something was lost to the patriarchal brains. That of the extensive estate of Silvanus Otieno, most of it was jointly held by him and his wife, hence, had the brouhaha abroad then was centered on property, then by a large margin Otieno had secured his wife in this case.  What has changed since the eighties when Wambui was battling in courts for her rights over her spouse to make the lot of women in such circumstances? Sadly, the answer is fairly dismal. At least Wambui had resources to take the case to court. Most women are quietly bundled out of their matrimonial homes onto the nearest street upon the death of their spouse. A few have faced death.  Disinheritance is as real as it was then. The difference is there are a few institutions scratching the hard backs of these monstrous societal biases. It took Wambui to start the documentation.

Wambuis widowhood led to the next big controversy of her life that read like a movie. She fell in love with a young man whose name she bore to the end. She married the young man named Mbugua at the age of 67.  Mbugua was 25 then.  The animosity Wambui was to experience was as sad as it was funny with her own children vocalizing their disgust and intimating that the young man was after their mother’s property, a view shared by many who added their voice to this saga.  Media played the incident to the full gallery. A video of Wambui kissing the groom outside Sheria house after tying the knot went viral.  Men had theirs views and, less than palatable by and large. Youths too, but to this group there was the element of jest, pettiness and outright mirth.  Women gossiped in groups with sly smiles playing at the corners of their mouths as they recounted the story. Those with sons Mbuguas age shuddered just thinking about it.  That Mbuguas mother died shortly afterwards from what was presumed from shock only fuelled the fantasy of this story of love of a woman to a younger man to wild accusations of a curse over the young man for letting down the mother.

The lesson can’t be missed here. A wedding in daylight took place. No one could accuse the two of living in sin or eloping, which leaves hundreds of thousands of men and women living lies in shady affairs that only come up after one spouse dies.

Not even in the constitution of the land does it say anything against consenting adults entering the institution of marriage on mutual agreement. When two agree and act within the moral and penal code of a country, the rest are stories that people entertain themselves with.

Wambui passed at the age of 75 having lived with her Mbugua in a blissful marital state for 8 years. Her story is that love is not defined by tribe or clan. That personal choices matter. And one has to stand on what one believes in within the boundaries of truth that can stand the test of time.

Brave voices celebrates the life of Virginia Edith Wambui Waiyaki Otieno Mbugua as a woman of resilience.

 NANCY NDEKE  is a Poet of international acclaim and a reputable literary arts consultant.Her writings , profiles , press clips and poetry are featured in several collections, anthologies and publications around the globe including the American magazine Wild Fire, Save Africa Anthology. World Federation of Poets in Mexico. Ndeke is a Resident Contributor of the Brave Voices Poetry Journal since mid-2018. African Contributor to the DIFFERENT TRUTHS, a publication that sensitizes the world on the plight of Autism edited by Aridham Roy. SAVE AFRCA ANTHOLOGY edited by Prof. Dave Gretch of Canada and reviewed by Joseph Spence Jr has featured her poetry and a paper on issues afflicting Africa and Africans. Ndeke’s poetry and other literatures in WILD FIRE PUBLICATION in America published by Susan Joyner Stumpf and Susan Brooke Langdon. ARCS MAGAZINE in New York Edited by DR. Anwer Ghani. Her women Arts Presentation was recently published by WOMEN OF ART (WOA) in Cape Coast in Ghana. Soy Poesia, in Peru, Claudette V pg 11 featured her writings with great reception.AZAHAR from Mexico, with the initiative from Josep Juarez has also featured her poetry. She is also featured in WORLD FESTIVAL OF POTRY (WFP) from Mexico under the able editorial team comprising Luz Maria Lopez .INTERNATIONAL AFRICAN WRITERS from Nigeria, under the able hands of Munyal Markus Manunyi .Patricia Amundsen from Australia featured her poetry on this year’s international women’s day at Messenger of Love, Radio Station. Esteemed poetess Jolly Bhattacharjee featured my works on her greatly acclaimed awareness anthology for 2019, India.Nancy Ndeke is a Poet of international acclaim and a reputable literary arts consultant. She brings along vast experience in literatures and other arts. She will preside on the Liberated Voices Journal, the heartbeat of WOMAWORDS LITERARY PRESS.



Rain drops beating against the window

first with short intervals,then a steady-

down pour, a storm is a deafening roar

voices drowned, subdued will be raised

again, will  rise and  soar for the needy

humanity, half naked, soaked in pain

enchained in spirit, starved in poverty

‘Do not throw pebbles at any color, for it

is strong, true, permanent, natural –

bonded with water, glass will not shatter

do not think me as different, I may be

similar in thought action and love,I may

be braver, but I have a heart, I know how

to play fair, and care, and share, I stare

at the world with surprise, I am tender

I am a person but through other people’

I know how to be human through other

humans,  desert  dark at night is gold

in daylight, serpents slither in rocks too

unseen unknown, black is gold and gold

black and I am a person only through

other people’-I am like the moon, lit

only by the sun, I am dark too, bonded

with Earth, inseparable, I shine for others

‘I am a person only through other people’

Do not throw pebbles…


ANJUM WASIM DAR ,born in Srinagar (Indian Occupied )Kashmir,Migrant Pakistani.Educated at St Anne’s Presentation Convent Rawalpindi. MA in English . Writing poems articles and stories since 1980.Published  Poet.Awarded Poet of Merit Bronze Medal  2000 USA .Worked as Creative Writer Teacher Trainer.  Educational Consultant by Profession



TITLE:                            Hungry Nipples

AUTHOR:                      Peace Okon

GENRE:                          Poetry (Collection of Poems)

PUBLISHER:                   Cyphograph Production

PAGES:                          48

REVIEWER:                              Uche Akunebu

It was professor Charles Nnolim a world acclaimed literary critic and scholar who while delivering a lecture at the 2005 annual convention of the Imo state chapter of the Association of Nigerian Authors accused emerging Nigerian literary voices of “empty devotion to things of the flesh” with their work mostly “hovering between the sleazy room and debauchery” from Nnolim we became conscious of what has been described as “literature of the flesh”.

While man is made up of body and soul, some other literary scholars have no problem with writers smuggling in sexual scenes in their works as a way of showing reality of life, as can be gleaned in the works of masters of the craft like, John Donne, English poet and cleric, Pablo Neruda, Chilean poet known for his passionate love poems or Andre Lorde, an American writer and feminist known for her emotional expressions.

Not minding the lampooning of “literature of the flesh” by professor Nnolim and some others silent voices, this young Nigerian poet, Peace Okon with bias for erotic and love poetry has decided to unlock the secrets of the romance room, the journey to sexual ecstasy and the compelling need to be immersed in the message of love, by coming out with “Hungry Nipples” a 48 page e-book.

Having followed the budding poet and her many poetic posts on different online platforms, the writer is not surprise that this engaging poet with a natural calling in erotic and love poetry has finally made her debut, with “Hungry Nipples” and I have no modicum of doubt that readers would be hungry for more of the lines in the book.

Hungry for sexual experience or exploration one should not fail to look for “burning soul” where the poet lectured thus:

                   Kiss her lips and light her fire

                            Hold her close to feel your breath

                            Hold her breast and kiss her lips

let her thights ache for you

Kiss her deep and grip her waist

Part her legs and find your way

let her moan the night to sleep

let your love soar till dawn

To a neophyte in the “bedroom business” this could be super tutorial coming from somebody who desire sexual satisfaction for the partners.

From the poem “Hungry Nipples” which the collection was named after, is one that eulogizes one of the erogenous zones of the female anatomy. With the poet saying:

Plumpy breast, like a cluster of

fruit in ripeful season

A voluptuous breast that stands

with power

Soft and succulent enticing the eyes

of a breaking heart yearning for

a manly touch

A pointed breast is fond to cuddle

But angry nipples disrupt the heart beat

Pointed and harden it cries in silence

like the pendulum of a hidden clock

Confusion is set upon the heart of men.

Moving out of poems that create the kind of feeling the song of late Mavin Gaye “sexual healing” have on those listening to it are poems that resonate with the message of love. In the poem “my love, my pride” a man in love idolizes his wife thus:

My love pride

Truly you are the bone of my rib

The one that makes my being complete

my love, the wife of my youth

you stood by me and watered my little beginning

you ‘re the key to unlock my doors of wealth

                   The woman of my dream

The mother of my kids

I bless the day I set my eyes on you.

My love, my pride apart from being a poem of pure love is also one that celebrates an enduring tie. A relationship that is difficult to find.

Another poem that exudes love and relationship is the poem “A thought of you” as the poet wrote:

Thinking of you……

Is a simple magic that opens my mind

Through a gentle walk upon the mountains

To whisper your name below the valley

Thinking of you…..

Surrounds me with graceful lilies

of lowly water that flows with peace

Bathed in the gloriously mild rays of warm affection

          To enchant your name ……

Amongst the whispering pines of the mountain

With closed eyes that sees your face

And eyes that shines to lead my way.

To write a poem about love or sex without the deployment of imagery is like cooking a soup without a salt, and that the poet fully realized, by making sure imageries that appeal to the sense and those that invokes mental picture are use in good measure.

Personification, metaphor, simile and repetition are used more in the work, making the collection not to be bereft of relevant figures of speech that makes poetry an irresistible damsel that lovers of art desire to woo.

In a society where freedom of expression is circumscribed when it comes to discussing sex, the poet has come as iconoclast to open the lid and activate discussions around it. She has equally raised the bar through her poetry as to how love and relationships should be approached.

This Accounting Education graduate from the University of Uyo in Akwa Ibom state with collection “Hungry Nipples” has shown a lot of promise as a poet and has proved that she is not in the “wasted generation” of professor Wole Soyinka once spoke about, but among the people who professor Chukwuemeka Ike visualized in his literary mind when came out with the optimistic book “Our Children are Coming”.

Nigeria and the literary world should watch out for this young poet that has given us “Hungry Nipples” to be hungry for.

UCHE AKUNEBU  is a teacher of journalism at the international institute of journalism Abuja and the Open University. Immediate Vice chairman of Association of Nigerian authors, Abuja chapter. A public scholar, poet and prolific writer.



I walked the day out tiring
myself into a fever, sing
the same lullaby my mother used
to appease me, but now peace
regains sich to debase it again.

Philosophers cry wolf – we should
never perceive a thing
too rigidly. Free the perception!
My fever in all its sensation
is not delirium but a swamp then.
My feet fly in perfect V in
the azure of the day. Against its firmament
pines of my skin stands erect
and catch the sunset.


  KUSHAL PODDAR Edited the online magazine ‘Words Surfacing’.Authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’ (Spare Change Press, Ohio), A Place For Your Ghost Animals (Ripple Effect Publishing, Colorado Springs), Understanding The Neighborhood (BRP, Australia), Scratches Within (Barbara Maat, Florida), Kleptomaniac’s Book of Unoriginal Poems  (BRP, Australia) and Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems (Hawakal Publishers, India) and now Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel (Alien Buddha Press).


Hark O Tree, O Flyaway Eastern Sky !
I am Shelly’s greenbul,  Sharpe’s greenbul
a mountain greenbul or a ulugulu greenbul
I am your very own bare-faced-go-away bird
a papyrus gonolek;

East coast boubou, zanzibar red bishop,
I sail on your wind,  I cry on your tree-tops,
I sing of dawn, well before dawn while it is still dark
and you are restive, you are worn,
I sing !

I sing to you of vast green Lake Nakuru
where primates swing and people dance
in joy unbound !
Masai Mara, O Masai Mara, 
Do you hear me, O Masai Mara?

I fly the oceans and sail the skies
in search of that ephemeral stillnes
almost divine :
a sameness on the other side!
O Enchanted Eastern Sky, I am home.

SMEETHA BHOUMIK is a poet, editor, artist and founder of Women Empowered-India (WE). Smeetha’s poetry features in national & international journals & anthologies including a recent Sahitya Akademi anthology ‘Modern Indian Poetry’. She is editor of the WE Poetry Series, the first of which is ‘REVERIE -Into the Light’ by Neha Mishra Jha, (Notion, June 2019). She is a member of APWT.In 2019 Smeetha has earned Mindvalley’s ‘Habit of Ferocity’ Quest certificate conducted by Steven Kotler, the leading global expert on ‘Peak Performance’ and ‘States of Flow’.Her art has exhibited in ten solo and forty five group shows in India & abroad, showcasing her main theme of work ‘ The Universe Series’. Her poetry collection ‘Where I Belong -Moments, Mist & Song, has been published in 2019 (Mwanaka Publishers in 2019, WE-Mwanaka at Notion Press India Nov 2019). She is Chief Editor of ‘EquiVerse Space – A Sound Home in Words’, the inaugural creative writing anthology from WE. WE started in Sept 2016 with poetry at its heart, and is a creative forum for equality, addressing the inherent sense of empowerment & justice in every person. WE is received the MAP Leadership Award in 2018 in recognition of WE events created by the women, for the women.


Beneath the African night

Relaxed for a night in the wild

The twinkling star winking

Night angels in a salsa

Melodious breeze so mellow

Caressing the moon

Night and day hugging in mystery

Dawn , on a throttle with sprays of dew

A quencher welcoming the sun

As it cascades on a long hot day

Carefree installing freedom

Breeze,wind on the prowl

Life living lovely souls

Mysterious ,awesome and glorious

Puzzle of living a chessboard

They say the sun is a Spy,By Omwa Ombara

They say the sun is a spy

She disappears on us every night

And recklessly hands us over to darkness

That the moon is now a man

They say the sun is a spy

Who lets us bathe in her warmest rays?

And leaves her DNA to mess our days

As she leads the enemies through her trail

They say the sun is a spy

She scorches the earth with the fury of a Savanna hurricane

Kills our animals, dries up our lakes and riverbeds

Before she starves us to death

They say the sun is a spy

That she deceives us to worship her face

Every morning as she sends angry spirits

To destroy the moon

That the moon is now a man

They say the sun is a spy

That she deceives us by her warm flirty shape

And welcomes the enemy with her smile

But the pit of her stomach is full of bile.

They say the sun is a spy

She sneaks out of her aboard in quarts and halves

Never opens her arms in full embrace

Except to spread her cancerous rays

That moon is now a man?

Oh! To think of the big quarrel in the sky –

Or of those days when the sun denies the rains a visit to the earth

When we dwell in the land without waters and our wells run dry

As we die of thirst and the sun laughs at us –

Harsh in her golden crown as she terrorizes the world!

They say the sun is a spy

Who dims the moon’s light and hides her breast?

That when the rain escapes her wrath

She falls fast and furious through the clouds

And washes everything away

The moon turns and shows half “his” face and turns away

They say the sun is a spy with scorns and a scorch

That tear the heart away

But what do you say?


 CHRISPAH MUNYORO  is currently a graduate of Applied Art and Design, Graphics and Website Programming. at Kwekwe Polytechnic College in Zimbabwe . Munyoro is a talented writer, journalist and a dedicated Design Artist. She is natural linguist, fluent in many languages among them English, Shona, Esperanto, Setswana, Swahili, Italiana and Yoruba. She began as a columnist writing feature articles in the Gweru Times in Midlands Province Capital of Zimbabwe. She has worked as a Midlands Chapter Chairperson of the Zimbabwe Association of Freelance Journalists. Munyoro was once a Zimbabwe Representative at Zone IV Regional Youth Games in 2014 Bulawayo in the boxing discipline. The multi-disciplinary artist is registered under AIBA the international body of boxing. The Writer, Artist, Poet, Journalist and athlete has been writing poetry since her tender years and she has participated in various writers, poetry, journalism and sports



My bed creaks as I turn to face the wall of my room.  It is 2:00 a.m on a Sunday.  These days I don’t sleep, there’s too much to do and I don’t have long to live.  My candle of life is burning furiously.  Kago seems to sense this dark dawn I am chasing.  He looks at me through a squint and shakes his head as he rolls back to sleep.  I lean to touch him but he folds himself like a blanket and  swallows a sigh. 

‘Do you think perhaps we could take a road-trip to the Free State this afternoon, KG?’

The thing with dying is that suddenly I have no fear to  live.

 ‘Or maybe we can go to the wasteland and be surrounded by birds and freedom, what do you think, huh?’  

I try not to look at him, as I listen to his silence.

It is 9:00 a.m.  Kago’s old  Nissan  jerks  us towards Ventersburg, a  pitstop town where no-one  misses us, where our memories do not exist. As we approach the town, the Free State sky is wide open and kisses the shining blades reflected on the moist grasses. (In Limpopo, where our journey started, donkeys and goats owned village streets, before they lay mangled on their edges the next day).

 As I drive through this parched land I remember that I am dying.   We breathe each other’s air as I cough…  I gasp for air as I wind down the wailing window at Kroonvaal Toll Plaza to pay a toll fee.  My cotton shirt is clinging to my  sweat.  We saunter through  this  desolate  land,  as a  faint rainbow perches on the horizon.

We arrive at Ventersburg at dusk, and drive towards a hill overlooking the dumping site near Mamahabane Township.  Seagulls   hover over us, tweeting this spectacle to the rest of the world.  We hop out of  the rattling car and flutter towards a heap of rubbish like moths, towards the silence of  heaps of dirt.  Only the dying have wings to fly away, and only the living have feet to run.  So I lend him my wings. We pant together like people who could have loved each other if there was time…but now all we have is silence.  I cling to the coldness of his shirt, to the love whose absence has been endless.  

Kago’s eyes are glued to the early moon on the horizon.  Like him, it is distant but intimate.  I see rare moments of him just being, and not being frozen like he often is.   It is impossible to love this man, but easy to fall for him.  I do not even bother to embrace his presence, for it is an absence in my future.

Trucks  cough as they slice through  a highway  nearby, muffling  the whirring birds above our heads,  in a cycle of time being wasted.   I feel a coldness slap my damp face as I struggle to breathe.   In death I want to be with him, for in life I could not.


A day  earlier…

“You said you loved me!”

“Lerato, how can you expect love from someone who struggles to make it in life?  It has been said that people like you, who’ve not been in need, are paper people, we cradle  and crumple them. The rain drags the soggy paper to the drains, where there is quiet and coldness .  I can’t sweep up your fractured pieces for you.  I too came to Limpopo broken.  If I can’t  love you, then let me fly to where the wind meets the seagulls!”. 

I smiled faintly.  He had a way with words.

The room grew quiet.  The rain started pelting on the roof.  Tears flowing down our bedroom window felt real on my face.  The loneliness started to envelope me like an unwanted blanket strewn through the dust.

I think I might have killed him.  I’m not sure.  Things happened.   Things  that started my dart towards the kitchen cupboard.   I gave him what would make him calmer in moments of spats and tiffs.   I didn’t  mean for him to die…


5:00 pm.  Ventersburg.

And so I lift his limp body, towards our final place.  Suddenly my phone rings : “Mom, we’ve  been trying to reach you.  Are you OK?  Where are you, mom?’

How do I find words for the horror and despair  I feel right now?   What is this madness that my child finds me in, in a whirling wasteland on the edge of a once-forgotten town?




 was born in Mangaung, South Africa. Her poems have been published by Aerodrome, New Coin, The Kalahari Review, Botsotso, Brittle Paper, Miombo Publishing, Poetry Potion, Hello Poetry, Poetry Cafe, Story Zetu, as well as featuring in two anthologies : ‘Poetry from Public to Private Places : Botsotso 18’ and ‘Best New African Poets 2018’. Her Igby Prize Essay is published by The Kalahari Review. She blogs on¬ Her two flashfiction stories appeared in Story Zetu in 2016. In 2018, she was a finalist in the Poetry in Mc Gregor Poetry Competition and won the 2018 Jozi Book Fair Keorapetse Kgositsile Tribute Competition. She holds an M.A. in Research Psychology from Wits University. Catch her interview in ‘Africa in Dialogue’ with fellow writer, Sinaso Mxakaza.



This place like a bleeding wound

The profuse bleeding

The extirpation of life

This place like a festering wound

The gangrene setting in

The looming amputation

This arid place

Where cacti grows

Abundant thorny bushes

Here the acacia thrives

Power of the Pen : Jabulani Ndlovu Mzinyathi . – Miombo Publishing

JABULANI MZINYATHI is a triple P man. That means poet, prophet and philosopher. Jabulani is the brains behind three poetry collections. The first was the not so successful Voices of Conscience. This was followed by Under The Steel Yoke and Righteous Indignation. The poet, writer in general has complete literary projects in the closet. A chiShona novel- Mumambure is being fine tuned. Also Derailed – a novella on the undesirable side of the Zimbabwe land reform programme is ready, so he says. Another poetry collection In The Steel Talons is work in progress. Jabulani has been a guest reggae deejay on Musina FM, South Africa. He strums a few chords on the acoustic guitar. Jabulani is also into soccer administration. Recently he adopted three girls whom he pays school fees for. Jabulani hopes to see the project grow. He is also working with a young hip hop artiste who does his work in Tshivenda.

(for Staff Sergeant Joseph William George)

I’m alone. I’m alone again, a solitary figure thinking
ever after of you, for you are the love of Ophelia’s life,
of you, and the ownership of daughters in a maze, the
race question, the class system when in Rome. You
either love me, or you don’t. You either care for me
or you don’t. Once my flesh was a prize, now I’m older,
wiser, but what to do with this knowledge, there’s no
exit out of this soldiering on, sleeping alone, waking
alone, and I’m surrounded by star-people who work
miracles on me. I trust so hard, I let the sun go down
on me, summers are cold, winters are cold, they whisper
of their neuroses to me, and I’m asking for forgiveness,
and I’m asking to be loved, and I’m asking you to fall
in love with me if you dare, she’s transformed into

matter, particles, atoms, molecules, air, Norma Jean
and Marilyn, and I can’t accept anything that is less than
love, or reading the wonderland-feeling of your body, and
I think of your gravity, meeting my gravity, your air
meeting my outspoken lips, my hair, my shoulders, and
I want to bring you down, give you all the love that I
can give, instead I’m sleeping alone, and you’re with her,
you’re with the love of your life, and I only fell asleep
in the early hours of the morning, the night was hell to
tell you the truth, because you weren’t here if you want
to know. I’ve been listening to Coldplay the entire
morning, trying not to think of you kissing the love of
your life, while I’m here on my own. You think you
know me, you think you’ve fallen in love, but I’m ghost.

I’m fattened ghost, self-conscious ghost, it feels like it
did when I was little. I miss you waking up in the morning.
I’m not intimidated by your lady friends anymore, just
scared-competent. You can love whomever you want,
show me mercy, show me grace, make me cry because
you’re so good at doing that to me anyway, and this funny
woman loves you so much, would do anything for you.
And then I woke up as if from a grassroots-dream, glee,
fragile, how to live without you, this fire catching fire,
and I think of the journey and direction of the mis-
understood flame, and everything is psychological guess-
work, my jealousy is magnificent, my love is abundant
and needs permission from you to exist, all I have is this
organic depression, this pilgrimage. Delete all of that.

 ABIGAIL GEORGE is a Pushcart Prize (“Wash Away My Sins”) and Best of
the Net (“Secrets”) nominated South African blogger (Goodreads, link
on Piker Press), essayist (Modern Diplomacy, Ovi Magazine: Finland’s
English Online Magazine), filmmaker, playwright, anthologised poet,
chapbook, grant, novella, and short story writer (,, contributing editor  at African Writer, editor at
Mwanaka Media and Publishing, and the writer of ten books. She
studied film at the Newtown Film and Television School in
Johannesburg, which was followed by a stint as an intern at a
television production company. She was educated in Port Elizabeth, and



The night gets so cold that the stars all go inside.

But the moon will always stay behind.

And I will tiptoe to the edge of reality and reach out to it.

And through the silvered glass of my imagination

our  hands will meet.

It will smile and disturb the peace of earth’s aquarium,

with its eight billion fishes, already in bed.

I will then wander to the microphone,

where announcements are made to all galaxies.

Then observe the footprints of a thousand souls,

As they approach that point were two roads diverge, 

to two different fates.


The night gets so cold that my logic and faith sit side by side. For warmth.

And From the mix  of their exhaled air, I find unity.

And i realise that there are no problems anywhere. Only unanswered questions.

But here in earth’s aquarium there’s so much noise, 

because one can never know the extent of what one does not know.

None has a map of his ignorance.

And the train of life never waits 

And who will blame it, 

since it has an eternity to cover.


 SAMSON ABBANI is a medical student who has the gift of words. He is poet who has a way of telling stories and inspiring change through his poetry which he sees as a tool of healing and a call to action. He has won some poetry awards and received high recognition as a poet of the new era. He has a great following in social media where his works are consumed with relish. He also organizes poetry contests to support upcoming poets. He loves words and writes as if his life depends on it.


My daughter is busy colouring her thoughts

The fingers restlessly

Move across the drawings

On the card board paper.

“What is the colour of the sun?” she fumbles–

Yellow, orange, or crimson red–

Who knows it? The colour of the sun?

She takes a colouring pencil, and before she fills in

The colour, she tries to sharpen the tip of the pencil;

The tip breaks again and again…

And it only sharpens her nerves.

Irritated, confused,

She raises her head, and slowly, turns it a little right,

And gives a puzzled look at me,

Her eyes are enough to tell what she feels

About me; But I have never coloured

A sun, you know! I have never felt it closely

To know its colours. At times,

I have hated the irresistible heat, or

Its absence too. But colours?

Does the sun have a colour at all?

With my little daughter, the sun smiles, and how

Do I tell what colour is the smile?

It’s raining heavily outside, and inside

My conscience erodes to create a grim, bleak lake

That receives the reflection of the sun.

What colour is the sun in the lake?

The colour of my mind, probably.

To my daughter, I just said—

Paint your own sun, dear!

 KESHAB SIGDEL is a poet, translator and academic based in Kathmandu, Nepal. Editor of An Anthology of Contemporary Nepali Poetry (Big Bridge, USA, 2016), his other poetry books include Samaya Bighatan (2007) and Colour of the Sun (Slovenia, 2017). He edits academic and literary journals including Of Nepalese Clay and Rupantaran His recent translation works include anthologies of modern Chinese and Nigerian poetry. He is an International Committee Member of World Poetry Movement. He is also the recipient of several literary awards including Bhanubhakta Gold Medal (2014), Kalashree Creative Award (2015), Rock Pebbles International Literature Award (India, 2018) and Youth Year Moti Award for Literature (2018). Currently, he is an assistant professor of English at Tribhuvan University in Kathmandu.


There is something about poetry

That arouses my soul, hardens my footing.

There is something about poetry that

Gives me stomach butterflies.

There is something about poetry

That intrigues my curiosity.

There is something about poetry~

That tightens my hand and awakens~

 My creativity.

There is something about African poetesses~

That smoothens my melanin,

Leaves my hands dripping ink,

 dresses me boldness, Buries

 My fear and burns my shyness.

AKIMANA DIVINE is Rwandan poetess who draws her creativity from her life experience. Poetry to her is more than words but therapy. she has been published is different online magazines.She is a volunteer at afflatus Africa, as a social media manager. The organisation which aims at empowering the African youth through reading and mentor ship. She is a council of poets of the world to Rwanda and a member of different poetry societies on Facebook.


Silence is dead

God passes over

All mourning cities.

Down town here,

The hungry new shrine

Starves, naked pews…

Sunflowers smile sadly,

White ant rains bathe the land,

Sunbirds mate

On the vacant streets.


Did you know

The new season has commenced?

The vultures squat

On dead woods

Like homeless monkeys

Sulky over these

Stale days without carcasses…

Evil corrugated irons

Dog the midnight,


Blacksmithing the shapes

Of jagged civilians…

Home sweet home

We sit up late night

At the forlorn fireplaces

Hearing riddles

And songs on fiddles

And folktales

We long missed

At the traffic lights.

No more lipsticks

No lofty men looking…

Lips are fasting,

Kissing postponed

Till further update…

Women spending

Without earning,


Women nagging

And weeping for wigs…

This season of suspicions,

Your neighbor is your

Firsthand suspect

For a crime uncommitted.

Each head

Has been shaven

Like women’s chins.

A black man at quarantine

Is undergoing a prisoner’s

Check in a confined toilet

At the country’s checkpoint

Locked inside outside…

We are bored all day

Watching fun infested movies

To avoid the future ghosts


We sit bored all day

Reading Romeo and Juliet,

The Romance of Love

Gone sour at funeral…

Little worms eat children’s stomachs,

Father spies at mother,

Kissing access denied:


Breaks the mother drum.

We all sit indoors

These days

Counting the dead outside,

The world is sick of us…


Let’s not be murderers

Of the trampled truth

But butchers

At the butchery

Of the evil forest of technology.

Let’s be lovers

Imprisoned indoors

As lovers in a dangerous time,

Waiting for the Sun of God.

 Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st

Omission poetry/Poetry to be included…………..

 JUSTICE MASANGANO Is a writer and poet from the southern part of Malawi. He is agold awarded member of an international online poetry platform WORLD FAMOUS POEMS. He has published his poetry In local newspapers as well as International magazines and journals. Currently ambassador at poetasdelmundo. com poetry for the world representing Malawi.

COVID-19  by Ngam Emmanuel

Opened-mouthed monster lurks
Fearful faces spy confined
Flames flicker in brittle air
Waiting their last to breathe

Swan swimming over the lake
He knows it might be too late
So he fights to keep beast abay
Tells the conclaved, “stay away!”

Trapped like crystal in stones
Behind windows concealed
World grounded to standstill
Feeling cage closing in……..

Tenseness in hearts and heads swells
Till contagion be contained
Blame game for another time
Now fight all, for and with all !

©®Ngam Emmanuel 30-3-20 See Less


where in our times we these rocks piled into buildings

that fell down a thousand years ago dis(re)membered from war

or earthquake raised and razed again into where nothing

recalls again the warm day anemones bloom hollyhocks

poppies forget no one and another rain day another dry day

pass hot and cold while an orvani drops blue feathers in flight

a hawk sits calmly on a fencepost and flocks of egrets

traipse toward the sea no cattle no grains all harvested

in this place we would call holy land nothing left to it but conflict

with the passing of her life that tried so hard to hang onto one

moment many moments missed so many more empty echoes

a difficult way to say goodbye to a mother watching her

evaporate like rain in the desert her mind dust that dries

lips her droned words faded as warmth from a midnight rock

meaning what the layers of history these rocks un-piled

reveal sepia photos a couple of tin-types dust school

reports cards newspaper holes the shells of bugs raised and razed

again and again into our times where nothing remembers


Michael (Dickel) Dekel has authored six published books and chapbooks (pamphlets) of poetry and short fiction, and published over 200 individually published poems, short stories, and non-fiction pieces, in addition to book-reviews and academic articles—under his birth name, Michael Dickel. His next book will come out summer 2019 from Finishing Line Press ( For Fisher Features, Ltd, he wrote a successful NEH film-development grant and the script for a documentary film on Yiddish theatre. He works as a freelance editor for publishers and individual authors, co-edited Voices Israel Vol. 36 (2010), and served or continues to serve as an editor of one sort or another for several print and online literary periodicals. He has taught writing, literature, and English language in higher education in both the U.S. and Israel. Michael publishes an online blog-Zine ( He is the past chair of the Israel Association of Writers in English. He holds a Bachelor’s in psychology, a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing (Fiction and Poetry concentrations), and a Doctorate in English. Dr . Dickel is our Poetry Chef , Editorial Advisory and Head of Jury.


A poor boy looks beyond his door.

His footprints may have been

ripped from their journey,

but by God they’re gonna

find their way.

Gonna seed a glorious achievement —

the voice of mankind, never to retreat,

but carry onward!

Rise, Rise, Rise,

Take these seeds scattered here with each step —

replenish the world over to germinate human dignity

 — this fertile ground of reclamation.

Unleash the fields of Africa — unconquerable

against exploitation.


This moment without pause;

All noble creatures and ancient spirits rise.

Grasses bend to the

wind-trail, rise.

Open wide for brotherhood —

beyond rivers and rain forests, oceans of depth.

Hemispheres warm a cold bud.

Hands pulsate together through void.

Organic division of the cell, mysterious quest of beginnings —

make your mark here,

pulled by almighty.

Eyes open from Zimbabwe to the Caribbean,

across the shores of Haiti

west to Nepal.

No more villagers without voice.

No more venomous grips

dragging junkies crawling in pain.

The least of you is heard. 

My sweat is your sweat.

The smallest wildflower multiplies,

drinks rain under our sun;

invests its last breath

to regenerate the good earth.

Where the smallest creature fell

rises a great tree.

We take our stand, return to our promise —

a rhythm without end

lifting quiet notes of wilderness.

The smallest pebble of canyon rock

tips it’s sway

Your earth is a freedom call. Take heed and Rise.

JAMES COBURN-is an Oklahoma poet in the United States of America. Coburn has always valued the subtext of life and seeks to reveal its undercurrents. He believes indifference is the enemy of man as it is the benefactor of ignorance, racism and xenophobia. Coburn is currently collaborating with Nairobi poet Brian Kasaine on a book of poetry. His first book of poetry “Words of Rain” was published in 2014. The book was a finalist for an Oklahoma Book Award. In 2016, ten of his poems against terrorism and to save the Sunderbans (wetlands) were published in “Onnyodhara” (The Alternative Way) Eid-special issue festival edition in association with “Anushilon” (The Culture & Literature Society) the National Literary Organization of Bangladesh. Coburn is a 2013 inductee of the Oklahoma Journalism Hall of Fame. He has been published in several anthologies. Three of his poems were published in Canada’s Tuck magazine in 2017-18. He has served as a resident poet at


Tall and black, creatures of mortal flesh

Clad in dark gown of darkness,

Why have stars and moon dimmed in vouch for conspiracy of

Satan’s thirsty heart, present in existence,

Sitting caged by the ruffles of experience,

Where everyday at life and light, moments leave in us petrichor

Of trauma, with pleading tones gagged with emotions of eaten dignity

Being lowered as squatters in a cesspool of sharks,

From a ground of grandiose, that once was raised above all else,

See how now, dissolved he is in melanin on man?

The owl’s voice of warning is here, hear,

See now how, he wets his pants in ecstasy,

Defiling man amid chaos, in the lands of yore,

Oh, appointees of him who’s ousted from heavenly glee,

You now hold us at ransom of our blood,

The butterflies of peace have escaped to freedom

The morning dew points have been left to dry spell,

Nature is unable to appreciate the sun

Going down with Sudan’s tomorrow,

Oh, the land of only dark and lanky,

The hybrid teeth twitching the muscles within,

When will you walk in the silence of peace?

Why are you and yours a stadium

Upon which death stretches its treks towards?

When your son wakes up tomorrow, what’s his past?

I may, as life has done previously,

Lift off my legs to leave for freedom of peace,

But what is the purpose, if change hasn’t come

To the soul I taught and wrote for?

Souls with which wisdom stayed to dwell,

Swelling to discovery of a knowledge that’s already soldered in souls;

Knowledge that gives man mighty, is simple vulnerability to human

If greatest of all masters, a nutshell of whole generation is

Made to disappear in the ploughed burdens that

Often will sprout life from a cesspool of sharks!

VICTOR WE SONGA VICTOR WESONGA is of Kenyan nationality. He stays in Kenya. A Literature enthusiasts with roots immersed in Engineering. In the republic of letters, I read to internalize and learn .My submission comes from his unpublished anthology, MILITARISTIC STAIRWAY.


*“This virus is teaching us that from now on living wages, guaranteed
health-care for all, unemployment and labor rights are not far left issues,
but issues of right versus wrong, life versus death.” Rev. Dr. William J.
Barber II, American Protestant minister and political activist.*

The dreams can drive you crazy sometimes
The ones that envision a just world, one
Where equity is the backbone of endurance
A vineyard of bliss, so to speak, a garden of joy
Relative to the greed times of unworthy living
In a penthouse with a golden toilet, while
Others sleep on cardboard outside, urinating
In the streets, begging for lunch and walking
Barefoot in the snow, betrayed from day one
By the false ideal of rugged independence,
Of monied might is alright, of resource hording
By the richest and unconscionable trafficking of
Children for the unhinged pleasures of the elite
*Oh my God, how did this happen?* and who
Might have thought that the munitions factory
Of a deadly virus would bring us nose to nose?
How COVID-19 recognizes no bank account or
Prestigious position, just drops its noxious tidbits
Indiscrimanently, into lungs of princes, prime ministers
Those sleeping rough on city streets, its travels
Enhanced by an uneven distribution of access
To water, healthcare, space, living wages,
Paid time off, the rudiments of a civilized life
Girded by compassionate societies, lessons
Learned, we await implementation, and
Dare we move beyond yearning to hope

*This poem is dedicated to the Rev. Dr. William **Barber and to
Senator Bernie Sanders, currently running for the Democratic nomination for
the presidency of the United States.*

JAMIE DEDES  Lebanese-American writer and activist.  In another lifetime, she was a columnist, a publicist, and an associate editor to a regional employment publication.  She’s had to reinvent herself to accommodate chronic and catastrophic illness, which has her home-bound, often bed-bound. The gift in this is time for literature, her primary passion, and social justice advocacy, her primary mission.Jamie lives in a Northern California residence for disabled elders and works from bed where she’s carved out a rich life writing feature articles, short stories, and poetry and managing The BeZine and its associated activities (including virtual The BeZine 100,000 Poets and Others for Change, which she handles in partnership with Michael Dickel) and The Poet by Day, an info hub for writers meant to feature and encourage activist poets and poetry, good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity.  The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights.Jamie founded The Bardo Group, a virtual arts community, that publishes The BeZine of which she is the founding and managing editor.  The goal of this collaborative is to foster proximity and understanding through a shared love of the arts and humanities and all things spirited and to make – however modest –  a contribution toward personal healing and deference for the diverse ways people try to make moral, spiritual and intellectual sense of a world in which illness, violence, despair, loneliness and death are as prevalent as hope, friendship, reason and birth.Jamie’s work has been published in digital and print publications. Her primary professional affiliation is Second Light Network of Women Poets (U.K.)



Each raindrop, fast, often furious,
Rushing to greet the earth, often hard and thirsty earth,
Transitioning, into pools, rivulets, and,
Surface runoffs to the drain,
After roots had sucked enough,
To the tributary and mother river,
To the sea or lake,
Far off too, to the ocean,
Steam off the seagull Nation,with waves crashing on whale fins,
Up and up the heat flies up,
Clouds picking wings and forming fluffy feathers,
Am from the South where men play dice with human bones,
And the best use of the mouth is to chew held dreams,
And spit them into fresh graves,
While father’s walk the slow walk of the ninth trimester mother ready to deliver,
Except,the new born is an old lie wrapped in diamond glitter,
Am now in the East, where Christmas happens every market day for those with pockets,
While hunger roams the side streets of those politically incorrect,
Am going to the North, where hope still holds a decent conversation,
And reason is not needed to allow a man to breath,
Invited by a soul who knows my needs and not my name,
Perhaps I may end up West,
Where feathers once adorned a brave head,
There, I might rest a night and a day,
Waiting for paid maladies to find a cure,
And social consultations to search my roots,
At this cross section where my dreams sit anxiously,
Am kept alive by sweat of Angels from
Lands I know from Google map,
Am constantly logged on the accounts of good will,
Never lacking for sleep for the flow of interrupted hope,
I see in my mind’s eye why faith is such a divine virtue,
Hunger has failed to dim my steps,
Cold has refused to deaden my prayers,
Am a warrior first who fights best on his knees,
Pillars that stand like lighthouses never fail to send light my way,
Am mothered by love that is beyond blood and tribe,
As for father’s, their silent arms embrace me from afar,
So dressed in the dusty clothes of a traveler,
Bearing temporariness like a permanent feature,
I transact my steps in Translations of survived hits,
Counting my blessings in the power of ten like Man Musa
And the Commandments, I transition each night
From a wide freelancer boy to a missionary with a mission and vision,
What the world will know one day is this,
Some paths are never chosen by those who walk them,
And that the path does pick pillars to support such a walker,
And I, son of an uprooted existence,
Is borne on this journey by true Angels,
Am a beneficiary so grateful,
That when a tear drops,
I catch it first before heaven thinks am ungrateful.

MBIZO CHIRASHA (Mbizo, the Black Poet)  is a recipient of PEN Deutschland Exiled Writer Grant (2017), Literary Arts Projects Curator, Writer in Residence, Blogs Publisher, Arts for Human Rights/Peace Activism Catalyst, Social Media Publicist and Internationally Anthologized Writer, 2017 African Partner of the International Human Rights Arts Festival Exiled in Africa Program in New York. 2017 Grantee of the EU- Horn of Africa Defend Human Rights Defenders Protection Fund. Resident Curator of 100 Thousand Poets for Peace-Zimbabwe, Originator of Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Movement. He has published a collection of poetry, Good Morning President, and co-created another one Whispering Woes of Ganges and Zembezi with Indian poet Sweta Vikram.




I am not an African 

But my heart beats with Africa’s.

And my soul is at home in Africa.

When Africa weeps for her children

My cheeks are stained with tears.

Beyond the mountains and valleys, 

Beyond the sight of imagination 

Stood endless black blake Of

street and struggles of life.

Africa, her world is black. 

Her eyes will never smile.

They are the survivors. 

Where there lived with no 

superiority with no Brahmin 

nobility and purity. 

Whose women were nor 

a gift with dowries. 

They are the victims of every tragedy.

Many myths and many stories.

Their skin like black soil, 

their tears are like black river. 

They are beyond the description. 

These people marked by color.       They are a broken race. 

A race of slaves,a race of savages.

The current of diseases and hunger

Washes they away.

Africa calls to me With 

the cry of eagles 

that frees my soul, 

she lives in the world’s shadow, 

But she is the land of tomorrow. 

I am a soldier and a revolutionary, 

And resistance against racial discrimination.

AMBILY OMANAKUTTAN is a protest Poet, Writer and Activist from Kerala, India. She is writing continually articles in newspapers and magazines. Her poetry is published in so many magazines, weekly and daily platforms. Omanakuttan is an advocate of gender rights, human rights and environmental conservation .She uses her poetry and essays to speak out and to amplify vulnerable communities. She is a literary revolutionary armed with her pen and poetry to free her people.


They say the sun is a spy

She disappears on us every night

And recklessly hands us over to darkness

That the moon is now a man

They say the sun is a spy

Who lets us bathe in her warmest rays?

And leaves her DNA to mess our days

As she leads the enemies through her trail

They say the sun is a spy

She scorches the earth with the fury of a Savanna hurricane

Kills our animals, dries up our lakes and riverbeds

Before she starves us to death

They say the sun is a spy

That she deceives us to worship her face

Every morning as she sends angry spirits

To destroy the moon

That the moon is now a man

They say the sun is a spy

That she deceives us by her warm flirty shape

And welcomes the enemy with her smile

But the pit of her stomach is full of bile.

They say the sun is a spy

She sneaks out of her aboard in quarts and halves

Never opens her arms in full embrace

Except to spread her cancerous rays

That moon is now a man?

Oh! To think of the big quarrel in the sky –

Or of those days when the sun denies the rains a visit to the earth

When we dwell in the land without waters and our wells run dry

As we die of thirst and the sun laughs at us –

Harsh in her golden crown as she terrorizes the world!

They say the sun is a spy

Who dims the moon’s light and hides her breast?

That when the rain escapes her wrath

She falls fast and furious through the clouds

And washes everything away

The moon turns and shows half “his” face and turns away

They say the sun is a spy with scorns and a scorch

That tear the heart away

But what do you say?


The Editor in Chief at Tujipange Africa Media, a diaspora based Magazine in United States of America. A Consul at Large at /POETS OF THE WORLD .A motivational speaker. Writers Consultant with her amazing projects, Walks and Talks and Tips for Writers Show . An International investigative journalist, poet, vocalist, performing and visual artist. She is author of a Memoir, “God’s Child on The Run.” .Published in several anthologies including Our Secret Lives, Holding the Center and other journals of International acclaim. Omwa is a former Bureau Chief, The Standard Group and has published over 4000 articles in her journalism career spanning 20 years. Her passion for standing up to power and corrupt leaders in the media circles is unmatched. Her experience in journalism spans from more than two decades. She stands firm against the abuse of power, corruption and mass killings .she is an advocate of true journalism. She comes aboard with her vast understanding of global humanity issues, journalistic experiences and women rights knowledge. She holds a postgraduate diploma in journalism and mass communication and a BA degree from the University of Nairobi.


The Projects Curator of Brave Voices Press

(Chief  Editor and Projects  Curator)MBIZO CHIRASHA is the Poet in Residence at the Fictional Café (International publishing and literary digital space). 2019 Sotambe Festival Live Literature Hub and Poetry Café Curator. 2019 African Fellow for the International Human Rights Art Festival( ) , Essays Contributor to Monk Art and Soul Magazine in United Kingdom .Arts Features Writer at the International Cultural Weekly .Featured Writer Poet Activist at The Poet A Day( Core Team Member and African Contributor to Bezine of Arts and Humanities( in USA. Flash/Short Fiction Writer for Squawk Back Publication( Writer( Africa) to IHRAF Publishes- Originator of the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign. Curator of MiomboPublishing Blog Journal( Founder and Chief Editor of WOMAWORDS LITERARY PRESS. Founder and Curator of the Brave Voices Poetry Journal. Co-Editor of Street Voices Poetry triluangal collection( English , African Languages and Germany) initiated by Andreas Weiland in Germany. Poetry Contributor to in Belgium. African Contributor to DemerPress International Poetry Book Series in Netherlands. African Contributor to the World Poetry Almanac Poetry Series in Mongolia. His latest 2019 collection of experimental poetry A LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT was released by Mwanaka Media and Publishing and is both in print, on and at is featured at African Books Collective. 2003 Young Literary Arts Delegate to the Goteborg International Book Fair Sweden (SIDA AFRICAN PAVILION) .2009 Poet in Residence of the International Conference of African Culture and Development (ICACD) in Ghana. 2009 Fellow to the inaugural UNESCO- Africa Photo- Novel Publishers and Writers Training in Tanzania. 2015 Artist in Residence of the Shunguna Mutitima International Film and Arts Festival in Livingstone, Zambia. A globally certified literary arts influencer, Writer in Residence and Recipient of the EU-Horn of Africa Defend Defenders Protection Fund Grant, Recipient of the Pen Deutschland Exiled Writer Grant. He is an Arts for Peace and Human Rights Catalyst, the Literary Arts Projects Curator, Poet, Writer, publicist is published in more 200 spaces in print and online

#BRAVE  VOICES PRESS # A digital literary arts culture Republic featuring Resistance Poetry and Voices  of Mass Instruction . Speaking hard truth to Abusers of Power . Telling  Transparency to greed and corrupt political leadership. Wielding Pen for the upholding of  human rights. Word -Slingers  in trenches  in their struggle for Freedom of Expression and Freedom after Expression.

publishes Brave Voices Poetry Journal.

CHAPTER 1. Loomings

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation.

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time tozz get to sea as soon as I can.


2 replies on “BraveVoicesQuarterly”

Amazing incredible -a classic collection of Brave Voices. Each and every line is powerful -Great Work
Thank You Respected Mbizo Chirasha and All at Brave Voices Poetry Journal.

Liked by 1 person

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