Drafting Poetry With Anna Zgambo
Open Window University
14 June 2024
Lumanda
My first experience eating lumanda
At the barbecue lunch market
On Los Angeles Boulevard.
It was a beautiful green
Vegetable, pounded.
Convinced it had tamarind,
But that was natural tanginess.
Smooth and tasty,
Yet no chewing required.
By Dr Ayan Ahmed
Around the Fire
The beauty of visiting the farm
comes when we sit around the fire
as a family after a long day.
Wood catches fire
as we undress maize cobs,
listening to Mum’s folk tales—
only then do I feel at home.
Dad’s laughter flickers,
roasted maize oozes odour
and the chilled night chirps.
We sparkle around the fire.
By Chipego Chibizwa
Elders
I get on a bus after a busy Monday,
worrying about my naughty
ten-year-old boy at home.
What mess will I find tonight?
My son grew up with my father
for seven years until finally
Dad handed him over
to me upon noticing misconduct
that he had failed to handle.
Every tantrum reminds me
that it’s my parents fault.
But I can’t confront them
because, in our culture,
they are elders
who deserve respect.
So I swallow tears
and assure my parents.
Don’t worry, I’ll work on him.
My soul is torn,
realising that I must honour
traditions even when
elders are at fault.
This is my daily ride.
By Tony Nkhoma
Arcades Gym
Bouncing with energy,
clients walk in and out
strutting with stamina.
Sweat drips off chins,
music calms heads and hearts—
fit figures give hope to the weak
that all things are possible.
Sweat dripping like a tap,
everybody’s quiet
except for machines rumbling
and instructors growling:
Come on! Come on!
One, two! One, two!
By Mary Mukuka
Lozi Bride
Cold air and laughter on a Saturday morning,
The bride was eager to marry her groom.
We heard hooting
And became anxious, whispering:
They are here! They are here!
The gate opened and women ululated.
Wiyuwiyuwiyu!
Floral chitenge concealed the bride
The groom’s family flung cash
As his aunties uncovered the bride,
Tucking money on her body.
Wiyuwiyuwiyu!
The bride’s father gave her away
with words so soft that the bride cried
and we all wept and that’s how our bride
was taken to meet her groom.
By Kufananji Mwanza
Vimbuza
Ready to dance,
the woman sits down
on reeds covered with chitenge.
Drumming begins,
but she doesn’t shift.
Finally, she asks for another
person to play the drum.
The new beat moves her,
and she dances vigorously.
Annoyed, the first drum beater
quarrels with his successor.
The two musicians fight,
interrupting the dancer.
Eeh, stop that!
Onlookers shout
until the fighting stops
and dancing continues.
By Derick Singogo
Baby Shower
Sekeleleni, baby shower
Umwana aletensasa
Whistling, drumming twapalwa,
Umwana afyalwa.
Ribbons of laughter,
Yeyeyeyeye!
Gift presentation
Shaneni, sefyeni,
Ukulya, ukunwa,
Umwana afyalwa—
Family union.
By Aidah Mumba
Proposal
A lady flamed my faith in the future.
She shimmered from head to heels,
God must’ve grinned when sculpting her.
Gathering keys to open up,
I invited her for a drink in town,
but shyness shut my lips.
I prayed for boldness to tell her.
When courage came, my tongue said
that I intended to marry her
and churn out children that resembled us.
She took time to respond, promising
to get back to me in two days’ time.
By Karokora Leolidas
Chilanga Mulilo
Happiness bursts from the bride’s family.
Relatives receive roles
and everyone prepares:
Chikanda, soda, beans, fish….
They march to the market. “K5 pano!”
Marketeers shout prices,
Negotiations add to the noise.
Tired and unkempt, the family buys food
In readiness for the following day.
The sun kneels, night leaps.
Drums applaud in the bride’s home—
Her house dances to joy’s song.
By Grace S Chilwalo
Kariba Dam
I visited Kariba Dam on a bright Sunday,
rushing straight to the middle of the bridge
to see Zambia on my right
and Zimbabwe on my left.
The vegetation took me back to the village,
I could almost smell kasongole.
Kariba Dam, a factory known for power generation,
but to me, a bridge back to childhood.
The hum of generators soothes me like a lullaby.
My mother roars in Kariba’s drumbeats.
By Emmanuel Muzhila
Tasting Memories
Nothing tastes as good as a memory.
The fragrance of burning charcoal,
Sizzling T-bone and the aroma
Of mealie meal take me back.
Imwe tailapya.
Local languages hollering
Cars screeching on a busy day,
It reminds me I’m not alone.
A hot plate of nshima,
Side bowl of visashi—
Savouring a meal of conversation.
Reminiscing, now knowing
Nothing tastes as good as a memory.
By David Chiza Gondwe