When I sat down with you under the warmth of the Etiyopiya sun

I smiled from within, celebrating the awakening girl in me

Your eyes also talked back of  boyish simmers of ressurrection

While the birds and wind serenaded this possible re-birth

I listened to layer after stratum of your childhood exploits.

“At age seventeen I impregnated two girls on the same day.

Nine months later they gave birth to girls, thirty minutes after the other.

My mother was the mid-wife, and she raised my unique twins.

I was in upper secondary school then.

After University I married a virgin, and she gave me two more girls.

Altogether we have four girls.

I still want a boy.”

I sat with you under that warm Abyssinia sun

My heart haemorrhaging from within,

and silently I spoke back to you.

“You know what?

At age seventeen you did not impregnate two girls on the same day

You raped two innocent girls on the same day

And sentenced three generation of women to wretchedness -

Two premature mothers, raped and neglected

Your mother – poor old woman turned to nanny,

and two baby girls devoid of parental love and warmth.”

I remember as we sat, how you tried to smile even more

As you shared account after version of your deformed sexual prowess.

I gave you my set of clean teeth back, feigning romantic awe

But bleeding from within, and silently chanting, “I am my sister’s keeper!”

For this reason my dear, you were fired from my mini-skirts!


I met you at Jomo Kenyatta airport

Your white teeth gleaming bright against your pitch black skin

I beamed from within,

but looked at you with the seriousness of a caught witch

Careful enough, never to expose my attractions to Africa’s endowments

And to remain the African woman under Nehanda’s model.

I was searching for your inner boy, not the outer gleam.

That day at Kenyatta airport, I searched for the real boy inside you

And when I asked about you, I mean about you African man.

You gave me stuff back, and not you.

“You know what, money is not my problem.

I can take you wherever you want to go on this globe.

I have five offshore bank accounts, and invest on the international stock exchange

For my house I hired Chinese architecture, and I drive a limousine.”

You raised your voice with each claim, and silently I spoke back to you.

 “Listen Kukuyu warrior, listen.

I am a simple village girl from Mashamhanda village,

in Chivi district, Zimbabwe. I dont want to be taken everywhere,

because I am not a piece of convinience bag.

Resilience is my second name, and hard-work my pseudonym

In you I sought for a man, not a 'cosmopolitan android.'

An African man who can spell out his name for me,

with the wisdom of Munhumutapa.

A real man who can share his totem with me,

with the gallantry of Gikuyu to Mumbi,

and leave the inventory of assets and effects to auditors.

I do not want you to fly me to Honolulu, to DC neither, No, no, no!

I want you to hold my hand in honest bliss

And walk with me to the river, the Zambezi River or the Congo basin

And there, bathe with me under the gaze of my "African mermaids. ”

I looked at you, and appealed to your inner ears,

as you expanded your claims, and I coiled even more from within.

And for this reason handsome, you were fired from my miniskirts!


I remember that cold Sunday night at the Pied à Terre,

Enjoying a contemporary French menu eaten with gleaming silver cutlery.

I remember how you 'sermoned' me about Africa's problems,

as if I had not come from Africa.

I cant forget how you went on about taking me to the gym,

and how you were going to find me the best trainer,

to sweat me out of my fat until I fitted into a size 10 jeans.

I remember how I paused with a fork in my mouth,

looked at your exoticness with awe, and silently spoke back at you

"Listen Mr Johnny, listen!

Why did you invite a fat African woman to dinner,

when your skinny models fill up your streets?

I come from Africa my dear, and I know enough about our problems.

Mind you Mr Johnny, there we also sing,

yes, we also sing about the problems of the West everyday.

You see this body? And you call it too big?

I call it formidable, and it speaks of the vast beauties of my ancestaral land."

And with those words, I threw a bill for my unfinished dinner on your plate,

yes, on your food, and lifted by beautiful African physique up with pride,

rhythmically swaying my rears away from you.

"East, west, which place is best?

east, west, home is best."

Yes, I sang with each sway, the rhythms of my maternal Zulu ancestry.

"Kithi kule, ezansi kule,

kithi kule, ezansi kule,

kithi kule, ezansi kule."

And clearly Mr Johnny, you were fired from my mini-skirts!


I met you in Fantasyland, under the warmth of my fluffy leopard skin blanket,

Inherited after my mother’s death, for she was a great African village head.

Together we stood, under the big leafy green muhacha tree,

and together we crafted.

You wrote five stanzas in the air,

in celebration of the beauties of my "African contours,"

And together we put rhythm to the lyrics, and danced that orgasmic ballet,

Only true lovers can understand.

You chose the colour orange, and painted the whole globe against violence and abuse.

Until Phumzile Ngcuka-Mlambo ululated.

You sat me down on the green grass - cross legged, and knelt before me,

Spear upside down, no more wars but lovemaking in Africa.

Then you did it, you opened your heart to me,

and spelt out your true name, without adaptations.

You shared your miseries and happiness with me,

without fear or shame, and you taught me to reciprocate.

You whispered love, new and rare with each whisper.

You lifted me up in your hands, and I felt light as a hen’s feather in bliss.

Body touched body, heart spoke to heart, and soul fed soul,

and we sang together as we swam into 'trancy ecstacy.'

Then, suddenly I woke up, with a noisy knock on my door,

I pinched myself once, twice, three times, yes, nomore.

It was all gone, back to dreamland, and with pain, I opened my door.


I met you right there at my door stoep,

your bag in one hand, and the other hand ready to knock noisily again.

You smiled your ordinary borrowed smile, showing tired teeth.

Teeth tired of the million phony smiles shared with unsuspecting women

exchanged everyday in hurried sexual acts and  botched orgasms.

The moment you opened your civet cat mouth,

The rage in me pressed to be retched out, but I held a peace.

“Babe here is my laundry bag, and after you wash 'everything' I will come back and take you to the restaurant, and buy you your favourite meal.”

With the painful nostalgia of my sweet dream I spat back venom,

loud enough for your stupid ears to catch.

“You know what boy, I will not call you man anymore.

You are obviously in the wrong place, this is not a laundromat.

I am not looking for a Boy Friday, I can drive my own car to town.

I do not want a material benefactor either, I have a small balance in my bank account, small yes, but enough to buy me lunch.

I am not an bimbo-owl, that you can only take me out at night,

when you come back after the laundry, no!

I am not an experiment either, that you can allocate specific chemical reaction time.

I am a complete woman, and I know what I want.

I want a real man, one with Chaminuka’s heart and the potency of the Nnummo twins, to take me out day and night alike.”

You looked down with selfish pain and pride,

And with power I banged my door against you, and shouted,

"You are forever fired from my miniskirts!"















You weave me into this experience from the first line and I have to read all of it. I love the line - I am not an owl, you can not take me out only at night. I can feel the disappointment, the rage. I can relate. Beautiful, powerful. 

Brilliant once again, dear Dudziro. Like Tiffany, I was drawn in with your first words, there with you, raging with you, celebrating each time you refused to offer your beautful self. Your words resonate with a force that creates tidal waves of healing energy. Your fierceness is beautiful.