May 25, 2024

by ANNA ZGAMBO

District

Chama’s door screeches

delight of darkness.

She is our portal

a chiefdom drenched 

in the sand and scent

of River Luumbu’s blackness.

On a shore of sugarcane,

her Muchinga Mountains 

mumble warnings resembling

a Senga or Tumbuka song.  

That screech darkens lightness.  

When the district unlocks

its door, we will glow black 

without the Sun’s whiteness.

*

Time

Hello, dzulo. Your evening ticks to

overthrow baby day as our planet

tocks to the flow of its own blue body,

proving that time can grow tall from tempo.

Hey, jilo. Those whistles could startle dawn.

Sunrise was surprised to hear you gargle,

gulping last night’s remnants with a belch.

Yesterday munches mortals for breakfast,

gulping lives left over in between hiccups.

Like garments trending in and out of style,

today is the trousers you’re adorning.

Mailo, smell melodies in your morning.

*

Fury  

A thicket scratched our thighs,

piercing arms with spite’s thorns.

The ground growled anger, 

goading us to get out.

We had swooped into 

the woods in Kalikiliki 

while recording a coucal,

but the bush began to bite.

Itching, we tried tickling its roots, 

though the forest refused to laugh.