from the lips of the drum...............

A Poem by Chirenje

journey of a drum

my creation ..

l begin as a seed

no blood at my birth no woman bled

mother earth shaped me

in the womb of the soil l crack that is how l birth

my soul manifests ,my shell cracks l rise from death in the afterlife born to a hum

growing up...

my arms reach out my lips kiss the rays of the sun lips locked

l grow tall and sacred unaware of my destiny

lm as tall as my innerheight

suddenly without warning when my trunk feels strong my virginity is taken by the axe

my foreskin pleasures the carvers knife

/my hollow self becomes depth/

lm crowned with goat skin

/now lm the inheritance that unifiess clans/

I send the nation to war,

sing for the great and small,

l awaken the village

before daylight is shot from dawn phallus

the soul is to the prophecy

my innards and the shavings become the incense used to exorcise ghosts and to invoke ancestors

my core

is my heart that beats to my soul

suddenly i hear a a loud boom

they is chaos and loud screams im awoken from my dreams

l hear screams nightmares suddenly are a reality

l am snatched from my sacred place

the village is filled with smoke and the ground is wet from tears

i watch the young boys and girls bound with bark

,those boys who I watched growing up the same ones that played hide and seek in the forest,

young girls are snatched from the hold of chastity,

their screams muffled

their cry only a silent plea to God,if he is watching and if he is not deaf.

the young girls loose more blood than Jesus on the cross

and pray through tears to find cleansing

the black angels weep but the xenophobic god gloats

as his children his messengers give deliverence to the bearers of heathens.

they say their lord saves as they send volleys into the people

but their lord was killed by some people that my keepers are not even related to

in my silence lm harsh like the language of a mute

deep and focused like the blank stares of a blind man

the hands that touch me are rough

they do not caress me softly they do not touch me properly and i do not reach that orgasmic heights that trigger my pleasured sound

i hear the pirates tell stories about me ,stories of savages but not their savagery

stories of godless heathens but not of temples they defiled

i ma carried to countless shores and every bearer of mine relates their own story of their heroism and the cowardice of my people

I long for, for the rain dances when my soul was invoked when my rhythm transported the Masvikiro into the realms of the ancestors when my voice along side the Mbira and the Hosho was portal

I long for the mermaids dance

when my bearer touched me with his palms and i felt the sweet seduction

when it was a sacred stimulation by his touch when young girls and boys sang danced and ululated

when the old gathered with the young to make offerings

My ears long to hear the prayer of my people

and laughter when they celebrate

the mbira is a shona instrument that produces various sounds,they are different ypes and sizes of the mbira they is the nyunga nyunga,mbira dzevadzimu,and vambe

the hosho :is a rattle it produces a unique sound that compliments the mbira

Masvikiro- are spirit mediums that participate in various rituals in our shona culture ,they are like high priests they played a great role in shaping the conscience and moral and ethical campus of the people