Hunger for Home

I long for my home,
To smell the sweet scent of wild flowers,
Not the putrid stench of industrial smoke,
Smoke belching out of Harare’s stomach.

I yearn for my home,
Where my neighbour is my kinsman,
Rather than Harare,
Where my neighbour is a stranger,
Hidden behind a fortress called ‘durawall’. 

 

I crave for my home,
Where untainted girls smell of fresh flowers,
Not Harare,
Where easy girls smell of rotten eggs
 

I hanker for my home,
Where every bean that falls to the ground,
In love we share,
Rather than Harare,
Where the 'gospel' of one man for himself,
And God for us all,
Is proclaimed by self–righteous preachers.
(c) P. Chidavaenzi,
2010 All rights reserved.