I am an African,
Just like you are,
Here I am in Africa,
From Africa,
I may speak,
Not your African language,
But a cataclysmic African,
Who speaks my African language,
I am.
An inferior African,
You may as you do,
Regard me,
But still,
African I am,
African I cry,
African I laugh,
African I sing,
African I live.


You have made me feel ashamed,
To be in this part of Africa,
But never,
Will you make me feel ashamed,
To be African,
Whatever derogatory labels,
You may stick on me,
No matter how unAfrican,
Kwerekwere, Grigamba or whatever,
But still,
I will be an African,
Even a much better one.


African,
Like my father,
His fore fathers,
And their forefathers,
African,
Just like I was yesterday,
African,
Just like I am now,
African,
That is what I will always be,
And African,
Forever.


According to the author, we are all foreigners in any country on this earth, more like tenants. No one has any claim to any portion of this earth for it belongs to God. The barbaric, self-centered and intolerant demeanor we have recently witnessed in South Africa tells the story of mindless teaks on a dog that are claiming to own the dog and solidifies the myth that Africa is a dark continent and Africans are still stuck in the animal kingdom. How do we dispute what is becoming more of a fact that “you can take Africans from the bush but you can never take the bush out of Africans”. Fellow South Africans (the perpetrators), you have proved to be more disgusting than ***** and the most befitting place for you is the sewage dump that is far away from Africa. If there was another Africa that is not this Africa, I would have done the obvious and most logical thing – to completely disassociate my dignified African self from the brainless, destructive, inhuman thugs that you are. Today, I am an African who is dead ashamed to be African!

Looking like scrambled eggs,
It would be better,
If she was gorgeous,
It would be better,
If she was one of us,
We used to be,
One big happy family,
United indeed in deed,
United in every respect,
But that was,
Before she pitched,
And now,
That unity has been shattered,
And that happiness is history,
We now view each other with suspicion,
With everybody ever-alert,
Brother has been turned against brother,
And sister has been turned against all,
Parents have been turned against us,
And our enemies visit us at will,
That family is now just but,
A collection of individuals,
With the same surname,
Thanks,
To my brother’s wife.

Give me a bomb,
I would like to bomb the church,
Give me a gun,  
I would like to shoot the priest,
Bestore unto me, witchcraft,
I would like to bewitch my brothers,
And sisters,
My roots have been uprooted,
Courtesy of the church,
And my brothers and sisters,
And the priest made sure,
My ancestors are now called demons,
And theirs,
Angels,
My culture has lost significance,
And so have I,
Give me the bomb,
I would like to bomb the church,
Give me the gun,
I would like to **** the priest.

I know what I am,
I know who I am,
But I am not sure who I am,
Or what I am,
They call me Black,
I do not know if I am Black,
They call me African,
But am I African,
Where these names came from,
I wonder,
Maybe they are just nicknames,
Yes,
Fom those historical enermies who were up to degrade me,
I do not know who I am,
But I know for sure I'm just a poor millionaire,
Poor in Western materialistic classification,
I know I am Umuntu,
A millionaire Umuntu,
Rich in Ubuntu,
But that's not all,
I'm in search of my identity,
I need to know who the hell I am,
For I am black and African,
But I'm neither Black
Nor African.

He gets pleasure in being baptized “War Vet”,
Just like a fly gets pleasure in being called a dinosaur,
He is turned against all and sundry he has,
His brains and his conscience,
His father and mother,
His brother and sister,
His own people and his country,
The stupid youth in Zimbabwe.

He is an Angel,
But a diabolic one,
Everything he touches,
Turns to Blood,
He is a passerby,
A mischievous passerby,
Sitting on a time bomb,
He is a short-sighted explorer,
Whose voyage of discovery,
Is never-ending,
He is some kind of death,
He has killed,
Is killing,
And continues killing,
For fun,
Who needs the suicidal bomb,
Bob.

A walk in the streets of Harare,
Once the affectionate him of her,
No longer the beaving heaven,
I used to know,
The pothole infested streets,
And the dilapidated buildings,
Tell the story,
So do the people,
And the atmosphere,
Unfortunate crossfire victims,
Of circumstances,
Poverty is written all over,
Like advertisements on billboards,
Everybody looks like a street kid,
Men, women and children,
Shops are very empty,
Yet pockets are heavily loaded,
When you stand at a shop entrance for a short while,
People come to form a queue behind you,
For anything you need,
The magic process is queuing,
Is this the hand of enemies of freedom,
Apostles of oppression,
Through out the lengths and breadths of Salisbury,
In homes, garages,  Hospitals, at funerals,
Queues are the order of the day,
Harare lived,
And Harare led,
One time humble midwife,
For the restoration of your people’s peace,
An important part of their mortal bodies,
You are now a dry season for everybody,
What has now gone wrong Harare,
Who is responsible,
You decided to become nothing,
And you have become the best nothing,
Who is responsible Harare,
Shame on you.