Norman Mwale [The PenPusher]
She told me she was a virgin
Of beautiful sons and daughters
And father was this uncircumcised
Ripen banana fruit, his mind not
Vitiated
Virginity was the Corner Stone of
Home,
Tribals were not inseminated by
The visitants,
Their vestality remained the pride
Of home
No wars at the firestones,
The hunters’ colligation embellished
The forests,
Carcass was split amoung a race,
Beer was this home brewed
From the lilliputian orbicular heads
Of threshed sorghum,
The whole village shrilled in joyful
Song by just one sip and stumbled
Back home
With no quarrels, fists and blood
On the face of a tribe,
Chieftainship was not acquired by
Muscles,
It was a Communal Concord,
Schools were built in homes
Where socialism and wisdom
Where served without a price
And not in this snare of unworthy
Evolution,
Every child was the rain for all,
Loved and guided by every parent
Unlike now
Where the unsighted eye of the lands
Looks only at their birth given siblings,
Feeling only their labour pains,
Driving cattle to the bushy pastures
Made the small boys understand
The formidable sting of the
Black wasp,
They would run away in their hotfeet
And girls as beating the corn with
Slender branches of trees
Would whip unknowingly their others
But without hitting back; Only
Laughters of joy sloshed the sky,
Those were the seasons of learning
Duty and uncontaminated love!
And home was this pearls of
Immortal love!
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