Of Literary Cadres and Revolutionaries: LIBERATED VOICES JOURNAL # 01


LIBERATING VOICES are liberated .Only liberated voices can liberate others hence calling them liberating Voices. Sister Comrade’s poet’s griots in here are singers of the truth. They are literary cadres revolutionizing this earthly kingdom through literary consciousness *Poetry* *Fiction* Essays*.Liberating voices break the chains of political Satanism , historical deformities , cultural barbarism and of moral decadence . Liberating Voices knows no sacred cows. They sing radical hymns and true tunes to political Gods, to blood suckers, to devil cousins and to truth killers without restraint. Liberating voices are women and comrade sisters of substance armed with metaphors , imagery , satire and other literatures to transform the world for better if not the best . They hunters of Peace, miners of freedom and masons of revelations. Liberating Voices in this inaugural edition are from  Netherlands( Amy dela Haye) , Uganda( Awadifo Olga Kili) ,Iran( Sanaz Davoodzadeh Far) , South Africa( Dimakatse Makie Seidte), Nigeria( Ngozi Olivia Osuoha) and Zimbabwe( Chrispah Munyoro ). Contact the Chief Editor MBIZO CHIRASHA at womawordpress@gmail.com



DIMAKATSE MAKIE SEDITE( South Africa), a South African poet and writer born in Bloemfontein.
Her poetry has been published by The Kalahari Review, New Coin, Aerodrome,
Story Zetu, Poetry Potion, Poetry Cafe, and Hello Poetry. Her other poems
appear in two anthologies: ‘Best New African Poets 2018’ and ‘From Private
to Public Places: Botsotso 18’. She studied Poetry at SA Writers College
and holds an M.A. in Research Psychology from the University of the Witwatersrand.

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My bed creaks as I turn to face the wall of my room. It is 2:00 a.m on a Sunday. These days I don’t sleep, there’s too much to do and I don’t have long to live. My candle of life is burning furiously. Kago seems to sense this dark dawn I am chasing. He looks at me through a squint and shakes his head as he rolls back to sleep. I lean to touch him but he folds himself like a blanket and swallows a sigh.
‘Do you think perhaps we could take a road-trip to the Free State this afternoon, KG?’
The thing with dying is that suddenly I have no fear to live.
‘Or maybe we can go to the wasteland and be surrounded by birds and freedom, what do you think, huh?’
I try not to look at him, as I listen to his silence.
It is 9:00 a.m. Kago’s old Nissan jerks us towards Ventersburg, a pitstop town where no-one misses us, where our memories do not exist. As we approach the town, the Free State sky is wide open and kisses the shining blades reflected on the moist grasses. (In Limpopo, where our journey started, donkeys and goats owned village streets, before they lay mangled on their edges the next day).
As I drive through this parched land I remember that I am dying. We breathe each other’s air as I cough… I gasp for air as I wind down the wailing window at Kroonvaal Toll Plaza to pay a toll fee. My cotton shirt is clinging to my sweat. We saunter through this desolate land, as a faint rainbow perches on the horizon.
We arrive at Ventersburg at dusk, and drive towards a hill overlooking the dumping site near Mamahabane Township. Seagulls hover over us, tweeting this spectacle to the rest of the world. We hop out of the rattling car and flutter towards a heap of rubbish like moths, towards the silence of heaps of dirt. Only the dying have wings to fly away, and only the living have feet to run. So I lend him my wings. We pant together like people who could have loved each other if there was time…but now all we have is silence. I cling to the coldness of his shirt, to the love whose absence has been endless.
Kago’s eyes are glued to the early moon on the horizon. Like him, it is distant but intimate. I see rare moments of him just being, and not being frozen like he often is. It is impossible to love this man, but easy to fall for him. I do not even bother to embrace his presence, for it is an absence in my future.
Trucks cough as they slice through a highway nearby, muffling the whirring birds above our heads, in a cycle of time being wasted. I feel a coldness slap my damp face as I struggle to breathe. In death I want to be with him, for in life I could not.
A day earlier…
“You said you loved me!”
“Lerato, how can you expect love from someone who struggles to make it in life? It has been said that people like you, who’ve not been in need, are paper people, we cradle and crumple them. The rain drags the soggy paper to the drains, where there is quiet and coldness . I can’t sweep up your fractured pieces for you. I too came to Limpopo broken. If I can’t love you, then let me fly to where the wind meets the seagulls!”.
I smiled faintly. He had a way with words.
The room grew quiet. The rain started pelting on the roof. Tears flowing down our bedroom window felt real on my face. The loneliness started to envelope me like an unwanted blanket strewn through the dust.
I think I might have killed him. I’m not sure. Things happened. Things that started my dart towards the kitchen cupboard. I gave him what would make him calmer in moments of spats and tiffs. I didn’t mean for him to die…
5:00 pm. Ventersburg.
And so I lift his limp body, towards our final place. Suddenly my phone rings : “Mom, we’ve been trying to reach you. Are you OK? Where are you, mom?’
How do I find words for the horror and despair I feel right now? What is this madness that my child finds me in, in a whirling wasteland on the edge of a once-forgotten town?




AWADIFO OLGA KILI ( Uganda) is the Ugandan Ambassador and Head of Diplomatic Corps to Poets Of The World (Poetas Del Mundo) global poetry community. Kili is a Ugandan Law Student, Human Rights Activist and Award Winning Author of The Book Victorious Tales which is Human Rights based. She was conferred with the Ambassador De Literature Award from Motivational Strips, an International forum where Writers from 105 countries meet.



I want to call women brave and intelligent
Before I say she’s pretty and beautiful
They’re extraordinary and resilient
And have broken gender myths that seemed powerful
With writes breaking mountains.
A literary Miss has a handful of impeccable rhythm
With a lot of time and less of wit
All she needs for bliss is papers and pen
From her ink, love and change happen
Direct to hearts and struggling lives.
She writes her soul into a book
And takes patience to set it up
With a lot of energy and focus
Bright words, so strong and true
She fills the World with merry and helpful thoughts.

ANTONIA VALAIRE is a Jamaican multiple award-winning Author, Poet and Inner child Press International Cultural ambassador. She is a BA Holder in History (major) and Philosophy (minor) from The University of the West Indies. Her Book, “Pearls among Stones” was awarded Prime Ministers National Youth Awards for excellence in Arts and Culture. Also, Major art award for Literary and Performing Arts in Drama from JAYECAN. Her other publications are Out from Babylon System: Liberation of Mind, and Black Gold for which her poem, “Stone cold sinner” was a finalist in Hessler street fair poetry contest, Cleveland, Ohio.Some of her publications includes are: Gleaner newspaper, Jamaica, Poetry NZ 47, New Zealand, Tuck magazine, Female first write be share be read, 2014 winner, reflection mag, India, shortlisted in Desmond O’ Grady poetry in Ireland, shortlisted in jaBlog! Junior authors poetry contest, L3 Magazine, Also among top 30 in World Healing, World Peace poetry anthology by Inner child Press in USA, featured Poet at Jamaica Poetry festival which is organized by veteran award -winning Dub poet Yasus Afari, Jamaican Poets Island- wide High schools and Colleges tour organized By veteran Dub Poet, Malachi Smith, and An assistant instructor to veteran Dub poet, Cherry Natural and Poet laureate, Lorna Goodison in All flowers are roses program.


I am told I have the right to vote
It is my sole obligation
A goal orientated achievement for my nation
Politicians I must select and elect
Their obligation is to fulfill my dreams
Make me feel special and supreme
Only to understand it is like a brand
Not necessarily genuine rather world celebrated

When they fail blame human weakness or even God
I do not expect perfection
That is not my expectation
What I desire is for durable roads, health care,
Job opportunities, security, access financially higher education
Flaws in system, yes inevitable
But Corruption Nah
Human greed refusing need
Society breathes while we inhale
They dictate we follow
Now everyone is in the gutters mislead
Swamp infested left to be devoured

It is drawing near to the hours
Who gave them the power?
Feel mighty and strong
As they try to reach Babel tower
We need intervention as our situation is under construction
As people cry for poverty and crime reduction
Calculate the sum give the value to this equation
Religion and politics in Holy Communion

I am told I have the right
Right to what
The independence of declaration stated never acted upon
Just an illusion
If I have the right then why is their sanction
Why my action cause a negative reaction
I am told I have the right to expression
Yet when I express I have critics to assess
Before I am approved
They say it is just the rule
Am I a fool to believe I have the right?
A right dictated by whom?

Taken from Poetry collection, Out from Babylon system: liberation of Mind
SMEETHA BHOUMIK( India) is an artist, a poet, and she curates poetry at WE, as Founder of Women Empowered-India (WE). She is Chief Editor – ‘Equiverse Space – A Sound Home in Words’ Written in response to a call ‘Brave Voices Poetry’, for solidarity with Kenya, Uganda, Tanzania, by Miombo Publishing.





Hark O Tree, O Flyaway Eastern Sky !
I am Shelly’s greenbul, Sharpe’s greenbul
a mountain greenbul or a ulugulu greenbul
I am your very own bare-faced-go-away bird
a papyrus gonolek;

East coast boubou, zanzibar red bishop,
I sail on your wind, I cry on your tree-tops,
I sing of dawn, well before dawn while it is still dark
and you are restive, you are worn,
I sing !

I sing to you of vast green Lake Nakuru
where primates swing and people dance
in joy unbound !
Masai Mara, O Masai Mara,
Do you hear me, O Masai Mara?

I fly the oceans and sail the skies
in search of that ephemeral stillnes
almost divine :
a sameness on the other side!
O Enchanted Eastern Sky, I am home.

Birds of a Feather – Song

Flying to the other side of the universe
on wings of hope
I see you

cross a river,
scale a mountain, hum a new song
with roots of trees embedded in it, shells

of magic too ! Gold dust flying in the air
with dreams you dare.
Your silk

rustles in
a song.
Your dance

all over the

heralds good cheer of warmth…
NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA( Nigeria) is a Nigerian poet/writer/¬thinker, a graduate of Estate Management with experience in Banking and Broadcasting. She has published over one hundred and fifty poems in over thirteen countries and featured in over twenty international anthologies.She has published three poetry books and coauthored one, they are THE TRANSFORMATION TRAIN, LETTER TO MY UNBORN, SENSATION and TROPICAL ESCAPE respectively. She writes hymns, psalms and has numerous words on the marble. All her books are record breakers.

Haggard; you were a digger
Mustard; your faith was bigger
You can never be forgotten
My teacher; never to rotten,
Dead; you are a Legend
Alive; you are a Friend
Thank you, thank you.
Disrespect walked out of Class
Ignorance walked into Glass,
Indiscipline expected you to cry
Inexperience left himself dry,
Hatred did you, waylay
Stubbornness forgot payday,
On their behalf; forgive.
Your Old-school hair; they pocked
Your torn trousers; they mocked
Childishness laughed at your Shoes
Brutality stepped on your Toes,
Foolishness played you games
Stupidity called you names,
Never mind; forgive.
Disobedience always did wrong
Outlaw bullied the young,
Freedom misused his fees
Abject poverty stung by bees,
Mischief came for a fight
Weapons consumed your night,
Yet committed; thank you.
They knew you were hungry
Knew not you were; a Laundry
They knew you were thirsty
So they became very nasty,
For all they did dramatize
On their behalf i apologize,
Forgive, thank you.
Now i fully understand
All you wanted to withstand,
I thought it was wickedness
But you built me for wilderness,
I appreciate the purnishment
It was for a sound development,
Thank you, thank you.
Thank you for the manual labour
It added my strength; flavour
For answered questions, thank you
For unanswered ones, thank you
For each assignment, thank you
For each flogging, thank you,
For everything, thank you.
I can now comprehend
Why you could not pretend,
You were a Role Model
Wanted me; a Supermodel,
It was a royal target
You vowed; no regret
Thank you, thank you.
If i never held the Chalk
If i never did the long Walk,
If you were not my Teacher
If you never turned a Preacher,
If you never saw me Green
Wonder; i would have been;
Perhaps a terrible Nuisance.

Amy de La haye 2

AMY de LA HAYE (1967). Since 1990 individual, social involvement, cultural diversity, emancipation and ICT have been her field of work. She worked at various government agencies as an ICT teacher, educational advisor, cultural worker and web editor. She became a kind of lost in the chastity of her years. Work hard on that career and ignore the desire of your inner self. A few years ago she picked up her pen again and started listening to the calls of her interior. As a cultural entrepreneur she is busy with poetry, reciting, (script) writing, filming. ‘On the cutting table of life’ is her debut collection (2016). Together with the poet Gerhard te Winkel she published ‘Zomerzotjes’ (Summer Follies) in 2018.
are your angels sleeping,
are your messengers yet awake,
your people down here
are torn apart by bombs
in large numbers

Where are you God?
I was looking for you in holy books,
between the lines
in stories of oral traditions
in countless opinions
from your own creatures
In the goodness of my fellow man
I found You – in vain

I sought You in hope that was left
when fate covered mercilessly
what life had brought
from the early life light,
I was looking for You in the promise
of a loved one, a Judas
who later cut my heart in two

God, they told me to search for You,
on Fridays in the Mosque
others shouted an irrevocable No!
pretended to find you on Saturday
in the synagogues,
also others tried to bind me
and swore cheerfully
that you were everywhere in the church on Sundays

Jehovah’s at my doors
presented you in many scents and colours
God, the dogmas flew abundantly around
no mortal human wanted to hear
my intelligent sharpness. Drifting
and rabid- the revolt
focused on the secret
the knowledge came to me slowly

The illusion of distraction -inspiring
me for years in a row-
now knowing. You are all directions
in every end, every beginning, every moment
in every fraction, in between and halfway
You are where I allow You to be

Then I saw You in the faithful eyes
of an animal. In the reflection
of sunlight on water. In the trees
seeing my stumbling
when I wanted to get out of the autumn,
dazzled by all the splendour of colours
that this season has tried
to show me, while I just wanted to die
in a stylish fashion. It turned out not much later
that I found you also in the pain
tearing all my intentions apart

I saw you in the stuffed veins
of elderly hands
transparent softness
that even now, at the shortening of the days,
still hold history
I found you in minuscule rewards
in friendships- gold rim
For long my thinking -redundant-
is now liberated of illusions and
distractions. I go peacefully and struggle
for love in all small things.
SANAZ DAVOODZADEH FAR( Iran , Luxemburg) is an Iranian poet and artist. She began her artistic career with the theater And has received many awards in this field .She has published many of her poems in many Iranian, Arab and international newspapers.” I walk on dead words »is her first poetry collection that Fully translated into Arabic,french,spanish,english.This collection is very welcomed in Arabic And her poems were published in the most important and most famous Arabic-magazines and newspapers And very positive and beautiful criticisms were written about it she invited many important festivals in iraq,oman,france,tunisia …
A new work:new poetry collection,Children’s story book, A play,And the translated collection of Gholamreza Brucean poems




When we meet
The distance between us is several cigarettes smoke
When we don’t meet
There is only a cup of tea with one cube of sugar
The experience is always like that

If you open your borders,
I will immigrate to you
Without visa.
My case is not political.
I fled as a lover.
If I get back home,
They will sew up my tongue and lips:
Wordless love
And without home.


CHRISPAH MUNYORO( Zimbabwe) is currently a graduate of Applied Art and Design, Graphics and Website Programming. at Kwekwe Polytechnic College in Zimbabwe . Munyoro is a talented writer, journalist and a dedicated Design Artist. She is natural linguist, fluent in many languages among them English, Shona, Esperanto, Setswana, Swahili, Italiana and Yoruba. She began as a columnist writing feature articles in the Gweru Times in Midlands Province Capital of Zimbabwe. She has worked as a Midlands Chapter Chairperson of the Zimbabwe Association of Freelance Journalists. Munyoro was once a Zimbabwe Representative at Zone IV Regional Youth Games in 2014 Bulawayo in the boxing discipline. The multi-disciplinary artist is registered under AIBA the international body of boxing. The Writer, Artist, Poet, Journalist and athlete has been writing poetry since her tender years and she has participated in various writers, poetry, journalism and sports.


The phantom pain deeply rooted in the dark rivers of heart
Robbed aspirations erased mercilessly
Parents milking from the feeding breasts
Youth deprived of manna -the bright future
Doom and gloom reeking of sickness and stink mess
Souls demented, bloody teared by mangy tattoos
Big fat cats preying demonically
Slogans of peace toasted in bloody wine glasses
Brewery of tears, sweat, pus and blood brewed
Concoction erupting from Cameroon
Rampage spreading throughout Africa
Born and christened into poverty and vandalism
Sounds of machine guns the nursery lullabies
Luring the masses into believing barbarism is the swag
Hunger an appetizer
Pain the main meal
Destruction the desert
Greatness bulldozed by egomaniac salamanders
Armageddon of pure madness puked and sowed into the blemish
Hierarchy wearing idiocy-centric sneers





LIBERATING VOICES are liberated .Only liberated voices can liberate others hence calling them liberating Voices. Sister Comrade’s poet’s griots in here are singers of the truth. They are literary cadres revolutionizing this earthly kingdom through literary consciousness *Poetry* *Fiction* Essays*.Liberating voices break the chains of political Satanism , historical deformities , cultural barbarism and of moral decadence . Liberating Voices knows no sacred cows. They sing radical hymns and true tunes to political Gods, to blood suckers, to devil cousins and to truth killers without restraint. Liberating voices are women and comrade sisters of substance armed with metaphors , imagery , satire and other literatures to transform the world for better if not the best . They hunters of Peace, miners of freedom and masons of revelations. Liberating Voices is a Journal published under WOMAWORDS LITERARY PRESS.



WomaWords Literary Press
to lift the literary dreams and creative aspirations of the girl child: grandmothers, mothers, women, young women and girls. It is a Literary Haven of Rib Cracking short fiction . Hair Raising Poetry. Skin Harrowing Speeches. Mind Blowing Literary Profiles* Ride Along the Waves of Liberating Voices, Women of Resilience and Positive Gossip.


CHIEF EDITOR (WomaWords Literary Press)
MBIZO CHIRASHA is (ihraf.org) 2019 International Fellow of the International Human Rights Arts Festival New York. (2018)Recipient of Global Literary Influencer Certificate of Merit by Directorio Mundial de Escritores through Academia Mundial de Literatura, Historia, Arte y Cultura (http://directoriomundial.allimo.org/Mbizo-Chirasha/). Vice President of POETS OF THE WORLD in Africa (poetasdelmundo.com). Recipient of PEN Deutschland Exiled Writer Grant (2017) .Literary Arts Projects Curator, Writer in
Residence, Blogs Publisher, Arts for Human Rights/Peace Activism
Catalyst, Social Media Publicist and Internationally Anthologized
Writer/Poet. Recipient of the EU-Horn of Africa Defend Human Rights Defenders Protection Fund (2017). Resident Curator of 100 Thousand Poets for Peace-Zimbabwe. Originator of Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Movement. Curator and Editor of Brave Voices Poetry Journal (miombopublishing.wordpress.com).Founder and Chief Editor of WomaWords Literary Press. http://www.en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mbizo_Chirasha
Email -womawordpress@gmail.com .

2 Replies to “Of Literary Cadres and Revolutionaries: LIBERATED VOICES JOURNAL # 01”

  1. Compilation of poetry and other literature from great poets with impacting writings has been one of the best things, I kept perusing through again and again.
    Thanks to the founder Sir Mbizo Chirasha, it’s a great and remarkable thing to host us women to raise our voices which in turn leaves struggling lives and bleeding nations healed and reformed.
    Nice working and happy networking with WOMAWORDS PRESS.
    Happy networking with mothers of nations.

    Liked by 1 person

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