Spotlighting Pan-African Poetry

Biography

Secret Lover

Enlarge poem

I haven’t been paying attention to class, I’ve been having an affair with art
I’m drawn by her allure, today I came home late smelling of rhyme and metaphor
Took a quick shower before class could see me
Then I met her at my desk and she asked where I’d been
For an instant I felt bad, wanting to get the cat out of the bag
Then I had flashbacks of our vows
I promised I wouldn’t fail her and signed it in paper and ink
So right there without a blink, I looked into her eyes and lied through my teeth
Saying I got caught up in a meeting
She swallowed it at face value
We burnt the midnight oil to compensate for my escapades
We made linear notes of theories and quotes
Behind her back I make scribbles of scattered verses
Unbeknownst! I haven’t been caught yet! It’s not even in her books to suspect
Damn I’m smooth! …
But then again it’s not fair, I shouldn’t take pride in having an affair
In my heart of hearts I wish to elope with art
To write and recite poetry about her afar
To play with her guitar and give birth to music
We are meant to be, I want us to start a family, I’ve got songs in me!
In recollection, class and I do not have this connection,
It feels like an arranged marriage
They complement us on how we’re birds of a feather
In the end these are just systematic lectures based on appearances
Beneath I know who I want to be with
There is no way to avoid heartbreak if I tell class I’m having an affair with art
But it would be wrong to drop the bomb on class like this
I will finish with class with distinction
I will finish with class in a graduation
I will finish with class and with her blessing I’ll be with art in unconditional love

Edgar Munguambe

Featured Poem:

The Fact of Dreadlocks

Enlarge poem

Brothers and sisters, you can take care of your natural ethnic hair
And be who you want to be
My quest for perfection comes with zest and high maintenance
Today I made an entrance at the salon to wash my Nubian locks
They were shampooed through every interlaced follicle
Conditioned to the core
Gushed with warm water to open the pores
One by one, twisted with beeswax, from root to tip
The man said they looked good, I smiled and gave him a tip
Ready to shoot for the moon, I left the salon and took a left turn
Shortly after, a stranger pointed at me and gasped at a friend, “Look, a rasta!”
He boxed me and my Nubian locks into a subculture without knowing other
Thus I spoke, “ Brother, perhaps my hair is a repudiation of Eurocentric style, represented by straight hair, that which so many sisters wear and tear their scalps with sodium hydroxide, going outside of their budgets for impossible permanents and imported weaves, behold the deterrence.
Or perhaps my hair signifies creative self-expression, merely a construction of the psychological self. Behold I teach you the superman!’
Perplexity pained on their faces… and then the one summed a bark at me, “Some pot perhaps?”
Request or offer, it doesn’t matter, he’d already fallen into the abyss.
Alas I looked in the mirror, the statement had to be clearer.
I went back to the salon and asked for a fade, the kitchens were shed as he drew me a map at the edge of my dreads. I dotted the i’s, crossed the t’s by trimming even the tips
Groomed and confident, I gave another tip, and exited right assured that this time I’d be delight
One man stopped me and asked, “Why do all of you guys wear dirty-rastas?”, he was de-lighted
Thus I spoke, “Brother, if I were devoid of aesthetics I could be a sage, or a holy shaman, the master of fire, with a special karma relating with spirits between two worlds and ages. Why strip me of aesthetics?? See this hint of red dye? I could be a warrior of the masaai tribe, a nomadic hunting and gathering type, taking great pride in my luscious locks.
I could be Shiva! Reducing the force of the Ganges River to a shiver, locked with my flowing locks, I’m putting a full stop to the end of the living, I am!!”
“…a rasta man looking at me”, and with those words he lost my grip and slipped into the abyss
I know what the left and the right mean by rasta
Woven out of a thousand myths, anecdotes and detailed chapters,
The following words merely a page among the clutter: lack of hygiene having, dirty smelling, free forming nappy headed, reggae jamming, Ethiopia-Jamaican loving, ja worshipping, lyaric speaking, ganja smoking, vegan eating, anti-structural motherf****r!!
Despite the evidence of the senses contradicting these sentences, they feel safe sentencing Africa to a box, stacked on the surface
My cousin Sartre said it comes with the territory.
I did not want to accept this, yet I was crushed beyond measure
I walked with my tail between my legs….
Until I saw a Nubean Queen with silver highlights
Irradiating past the constant noise
And behind her more locked brothers and sisters ambling with poise
A ray, I see the fact of dreadlocks in the corner
My faith renewed, the black tomorrow cannot borrow time, it cannot dawn today

Reciting

How does this featured poem make you feel?

  • Amazement (3)
  • Pride (3)
  • Optimism (0)
  • Anger (1)
  • Delight (3)
  • Inspiration (4)
  • Reflection (5)
  • Captivation (0)
  • Peace (0)
  • Amusement (0)
  • Sorrow (1)
  • Vigour (0)
  • Hope (0)
  • Sadness (0)
  • Fear (0)
  • Jubilation (0)

Comments

  1. …Edgar, you are one of the finest poetry,s artist that i have ever seen in my life(….). I have seen 100’s but like you there is none :))))… Keep going…Mozambique and the world needs your light

    Astre Mepameia
  2. Coming from your sister, my comment will be nothing but suspicious…mas nao posso deixar de dizer ao mundo que estou a transbordar de orgulho!

    K Munguambe

Your email address will not be published.

Biography

Edgar Munguambe is a Mozambican spoken word artist and aspiring writer with an international perspective. In 2013 he graduated both with a Bachelor’s degree in Media, Communication & Culture from the Nelson Mandela Metropolitan University in Port Elizabeth, and an Honours degree in African Studies from the University of Cape Town. Edgar believes his degrees helped develop his research and analytical skills, as well as flexibility which are vital particularly with regard to his passion – the creative arts.

He writes in both Portuguese and English, about issues that personally affect him; matters of the heart, death and the human condition, stereotyping, alienation, and success are among his themes.

Edgar has performed at various spoken word gigs throughout Maputo, particularly at Noites de Poesia (Poetry evenings) organized by cultural movement Pl’Art D’Alma. He participated in the “The Power of Voice” festival organized by the British Council. Due to the positive feedback on the content of his lyrics, wordplay and delivery with his resounding bass, Edgar decided to take his poetry to new heights.

Internationally he participated in the 2014 Poetry Africa Festival in Durban, South Africa. He will also be featured on Noites de Poesia’s first Anthology featuring local Mozambican spoken word artists, which will be published in 2014.

Professionally, in 2014 he became a candidate of the Barclays graduate programme, a prestigious pan-African development program where he will train as an analyst.

Edgar Munguambe

Reciting
Reciting

Biography

Edgar Munguambe is a Mozambican spoken word artist and aspiring writer with an international perspective. In 2013 he graduated both with a Bachelor’s degree in Media, Communication & Culture from the Nelson Mandela Metropolitan University in Port Elizabeth, and an Honours degree in African Studies from the University of Cape Town. Edgar believes his degrees helped develop his research and analytical skills, as well as flexibility which are vital particularly with regard to his passion – the creative arts.

He writes in both Portuguese and English, about issues that personally affect him; matters of the heart, death and the human condition, stereotyping, alienation, and success are among his themes.

Edgar has performed at various spoken word gigs throughout Maputo, particularly at Noites de Poesia (Poetry evenings) organized by cultural movement Pl’Art D’Alma. He participated in the “The Power of Voice” festival organized by the British Council. Due to the positive feedback on the content of his lyrics, wordplay and delivery with his resounding bass, Edgar decided to take his poetry to new heights.

Internationally he participated in the 2014 Poetry Africa Festival in Durban, South Africa. He will also be featured on Noites de Poesia’s first Anthology featuring local Mozambican spoken word artists, which will be published in 2014.

Professionally, in 2014 he became a candidate of the Barclays graduate programme, a prestigious pan-African development program where he will train as an analyst.

Secret Lover

Enlarge poem

I haven’t been paying attention to class, I’ve been having an affair with art
I’m drawn by her allure, today I came home late smelling of rhyme and metaphor
Took a quick shower before class could see me
Then I met her at my desk and she asked where I’d been
For an instant I felt bad, wanting to get the cat out of the bag
Then I had flashbacks of our vows
I promised I wouldn’t fail her and signed it in paper and ink
So right there without a blink, I looked into her eyes and lied through my teeth
Saying I got caught up in a meeting
She swallowed it at face value
We burnt the midnight oil to compensate for my escapades
We made linear notes of theories and quotes
Behind her back I make scribbles of scattered verses
Unbeknownst! I haven’t been caught yet! It’s not even in her books to suspect
Damn I’m smooth! …
But then again it’s not fair, I shouldn’t take pride in having an affair
In my heart of hearts I wish to elope with art
To write and recite poetry about her afar
To play with her guitar and give birth to music
We are meant to be, I want us to start a family, I’ve got songs in me!
In recollection, class and I do not have this connection,
It feels like an arranged marriage
They complement us on how we’re birds of a feather
In the end these are just systematic lectures based on appearances
Beneath I know who I want to be with
There is no way to avoid heartbreak if I tell class I’m having an affair with art
But it would be wrong to drop the bomb on class like this
I will finish with class with distinction
I will finish with class in a graduation
I will finish with class and with her blessing I’ll be with art in unconditional love

Featured Poem:

The Fact of Dreadlocks

Enlarge poem

Brothers and sisters, you can take care of your natural ethnic hair
And be who you want to be
My quest for perfection comes with zest and high maintenance
Today I made an entrance at the salon to wash my Nubian locks
They were shampooed through every interlaced follicle
Conditioned to the core
Gushed with warm water to open the pores
One by one, twisted with beeswax, from root to tip
The man said they looked good, I smiled and gave him a tip
Ready to shoot for the moon, I left the salon and took a left turn
Shortly after, a stranger pointed at me and gasped at a friend, “Look, a rasta!”
He boxed me and my Nubian locks into a subculture without knowing other
Thus I spoke, “ Brother, perhaps my hair is a repudiation of Eurocentric style, represented by straight hair, that which so many sisters wear and tear their scalps with sodium hydroxide, going outside of their budgets for impossible permanents and imported weaves, behold the deterrence.
Or perhaps my hair signifies creative self-expression, merely a construction of the psychological self. Behold I teach you the superman!’
Perplexity pained on their faces… and then the one summed a bark at me, “Some pot perhaps?”
Request or offer, it doesn’t matter, he’d already fallen into the abyss.
Alas I looked in the mirror, the statement had to be clearer.
I went back to the salon and asked for a fade, the kitchens were shed as he drew me a map at the edge of my dreads. I dotted the i’s, crossed the t’s by trimming even the tips
Groomed and confident, I gave another tip, and exited right assured that this time I’d be delight
One man stopped me and asked, “Why do all of you guys wear dirty-rastas?”, he was de-lighted
Thus I spoke, “Brother, if I were devoid of aesthetics I could be a sage, or a holy shaman, the master of fire, with a special karma relating with spirits between two worlds and ages. Why strip me of aesthetics?? See this hint of red dye? I could be a warrior of the masaai tribe, a nomadic hunting and gathering type, taking great pride in my luscious locks.
I could be Shiva! Reducing the force of the Ganges River to a shiver, locked with my flowing locks, I’m putting a full stop to the end of the living, I am!!”
“…a rasta man looking at me”, and with those words he lost my grip and slipped into the abyss
I know what the left and the right mean by rasta
Woven out of a thousand myths, anecdotes and detailed chapters,
The following words merely a page among the clutter: lack of hygiene having, dirty smelling, free forming nappy headed, reggae jamming, Ethiopia-Jamaican loving, ja worshipping, lyaric speaking, ganja smoking, vegan eating, anti-structural motherf****r!!
Despite the evidence of the senses contradicting these sentences, they feel safe sentencing Africa to a box, stacked on the surface
My cousin Sartre said it comes with the territory.
I did not want to accept this, yet I was crushed beyond measure
I walked with my tail between my legs….
Until I saw a Nubean Queen with silver highlights
Irradiating past the constant noise
And behind her more locked brothers and sisters ambling with poise
A ray, I see the fact of dreadlocks in the corner
My faith renewed, the black tomorrow cannot borrow time, it cannot dawn today

How does this featured poem make you feel?

  • Amazement (3)
  • Pride (3)
  • Optimism (0)
  • Anger (1)
  • Delight (3)
  • Inspiration (4)
  • Reflection (5)
  • Captivation (0)
  • Peace (0)
  • Amusement (0)
  • Sorrow (1)
  • Vigour (0)
  • Hope (0)
  • Sadness (0)
  • Fear (0)
  • Jubilation (0)

Secret Lover

Enlarge poem

I haven’t been paying attention to class, I’ve been having an affair with art
I’m drawn by her allure, today I came home late smelling of rhyme and metaphor
Took a quick shower before class could see me
Then I met her at my desk and she asked where I’d been
For an instant I felt bad, wanting to get the cat out of the bag
Then I had flashbacks of our vows
I promised I wouldn’t fail her and signed it in paper and ink
So right there without a blink, I looked into her eyes and lied through my teeth
Saying I got caught up in a meeting
She swallowed it at face value
We burnt the midnight oil to compensate for my escapades
We made linear notes of theories and quotes
Behind her back I make scribbles of scattered verses
Unbeknownst! I haven’t been caught yet! It’s not even in her books to suspect
Damn I’m smooth! …
But then again it’s not fair, I shouldn’t take pride in having an affair
In my heart of hearts I wish to elope with art
To write and recite poetry about her afar
To play with her guitar and give birth to music
We are meant to be, I want us to start a family, I’ve got songs in me!
In recollection, class and I do not have this connection,
It feels like an arranged marriage
They complement us on how we’re birds of a feather
In the end these are just systematic lectures based on appearances
Beneath I know who I want to be with
There is no way to avoid heartbreak if I tell class I’m having an affair with art
But it would be wrong to drop the bomb on class like this
I will finish with class with distinction
I will finish with class in a graduation
I will finish with class and with her blessing I’ll be with art in unconditional love

Comments

  1. …Edgar, you are one of the finest poetry,s artist that i have ever seen in my life(….). I have seen 100’s but like you there is none :))))… Keep going…Mozambique and the world needs your light

    Astre Mepameia
  2. Coming from your sister, my comment will be nothing but suspicious…mas nao posso deixar de dizer ao mundo que estou a transbordar de orgulho!

    K Munguambe

Your email address will not be published.