LIVIA'S BOOKLET

A reflection stares back at me from the broken mirror Who are you and where did I go who is this scorned woman staring back at me I wonder where these fake images came from I’ve deeply lost my sanity in this broken mirror What happened to that girl with beautiful eyes and a smiley face? So bubbly Her eyes, now, full of sorrow from lies with remnants of the broken mirror cast at her A crooked smile endlessly reflecting back in sadness Captured in deep despair by this broken mirror.

The in-laws were on their knees, begging. Not minding their age, all joined in pleading with her. To Lidia, their pleas were empty and senseless. Why did it have to take them so long to realize the truth? Or, what was after their life that they now wanted forgiveness? Who on earth could believe such empty pleas? “We were misled by fellow villagers that you killed my brother, that’s why we behaved awkw ardly during the funeral ceremony. We’re really very sorry, please accept our apologies, mama!!” Cried the  sister  in-law, while kneeling on the floor. “After some fifteen years you have realised that we were not responsible for your brother’s death, who told you that we did not murder him?” Lidia confronted them. “Please mama, forgive us, to err is human. You know how people in town are different from us villagers. Any death, whether an accident or coming from natural diseases is regarded as foul play in our superstitious life. Francis was bigger than our whole village and his death cou

The last time I thought I was in love, it was just mere infatuation Perhaps I have too much to bring to a relationship till I got nothing left to give I try to force something that's not just there begging for reciprocation to the love I poured in reality when you never felt the same way How I wish you were what I pictured before you decided that we cross the line between love and hate There are chambers in my heart sorrows buried deep and unspeakable But I realized that; It takes guts to set yourself free and embrace breathtaking mess So; I beg God to wash me clean to wipe the stains of every memory of you off my veins So I forget about you - about us And; I took myself out of the equation closed the chapter and turned to a new page - starting afresh

Dearest Aku; I know right now you feel broken. "The earth has it's tragedies but it's still a beautiful place" I've been saying this to myself and i'm going to say it to you in case you need to hear it. "Stop calculating the number of steps it takes to get to the front door - you don't need an escape route  Just close your eyes and surrender" There's still time for doors to close and open - for new beginnings to emerge and trust that good things are coming. There's still time.

Have met broken men before and It's a catastrophe. They all hide their brokenness somewhere for fear of being judged coz the society always labels a man as the strong one If a man reports abuse/violence/traumas they say " he's too weak to be considered sane."  "Too strong to be sympathized". But he has demons he's fighting time over time by himself in search of light and freedom with his spirit crushed under trials of life. BROKEN PIECES FROM OBWERA Dearest Ndapita, I am writing this note as part of my broken pieces of which I have been struggling to make whole. I clearly remember how you said it to my face that "I carry poverty on my skin like birthmarks" and that "men are only good at chapter one of every love story", your words made me hate the mess my emotions brought. My chest kept feeling heavy at the thought of every memory that had you in it, then, I didn't see the meaning of life - the reason to live. Death was beckoning

  Is there any other way to label pain? For I wish to extract the ache from every part of me without leaving scars Coz; there are wars I need to win. #mentalhealthmonth #mentalhealthawareness

"Let's talk about the unhealthy attachments of clinging to someone who has brought misery to us; It may be too embarrassing to talk about and too much to bare, But never refuse to face the trauma it has brought to you" Dearest Lusitania; This is the first and probably the last letter I am writing to you. I'm writing with my heart torn, I am bleeding. I have had people asking me "why I attach myself to moments that don't really belong?" And I read somewhere that said; "Every single pain is a lesson." I believed that indeed it is, Coz; where you feel vulnerable-you are brave, Where you feel puniness you are strong. Someone said; "One of the kindest things you can do for others is to show your effort." But here I am, on the verge of madness, I am breaking apart; I wish someone would hold my hand and save me from the cold to tell me I'll be okay. I begged you to "hold me one more time, to tell me you loved me and be there" b

  In a reality filled with agony I search for happiness in places I found pain right there; burning memories I buried flash before me My heart skip beats and you race through my head I let my heart break In order to remember I once loved

Guest Writer's Profile: Name: Rhoda Zulu PenName: Rhoda Zulu Genre: Short stories/Poems Location: Blantyre, Malawi THE BLIND FROG     “Antafada! Antafada! Antafada!’’ Animals of Umtomosya spread out palm leaves on all roads for this poor fellow that had usurped the Annual Festival Award. But swollen faces among the giants of the forest revealed this was a bitter pill to swallow. Giraffe, lion, hippo and elephant among other giants felt belittled; they whisked their tails and shook their heads in sheer disapproval. The small animals were all smiles jumping up and down clapping their hands. But what was the secret behind Antafada’s success? Umtomosya Kwenu was a civilized animal village that grew various crops and tamed other smaller species for consumption and security. Once a year the animals celebrated their crop harvest through festive competitions that were grouped into two distinct categories - the smaller animals competed among themselves like mice, rats, coach roaches and fro

Guest Writer's Profile: Name: Fiddy Lundu PenName: Fiddy Lundu Genre: Short stories Profession: Secondary School Teacher Location: Blantyre, Malawi REVENGE HAS A BITTER TASTE The celebrations at this bar, only known as Nzeruzatha, reverberated such that patrons hardly heard each other talk. Men, their bellies thrown out in the half-lit neon lights, danced with chic, rolling their waists as if they had no bones. Women, most of them teenagers, stuck to their 'temporary' male counterparts, squeezing them with that sexual salvation. They were their hope for the following day's meal. The DJ, who perched himself at an elevated cubicle was tall and thin and at intervals he could stand up, danced with exaggerated attics, his thin hips doing the rounds as the hit followed his vibrations. Then out came a boomed voice that gave courage for more dancing from the din dance floor. Chembonga, a tall fat character with a flying moustache, arrived at Nzeruzatha Bar at exactly 9pm, thir

  Guest Writer's Profile: Name: Sambalikagwa Mvona PenName: Sambalikagwa Mvona Genre: Fiction Location: Blantyre, Malawi THE LEATHER JACKET The two warring men lay on the fresh graveyard mound, facing each other. The slightly taller one, built like a gorilla and spotting a goatee had already died. The other one with square shoulders, his legs almost broken and his thick lips pulped lay groaning, his wrecked body showing some life with one battered eye still gazing distantly. Mun’ndo, for that was his name, felt bitter, for despite his great strides to reach this far in his bloody chase, he too was poised to follow the same way. He was not going to enjoy the fruits of his sweat. An inveterate gambler, he too knew he was going to die. Die a hard way.  He tried to take a new grip on the machete, but the killer metal slipped from his hand and dropped down soundlessly. Yes, the writing was on the wall, his eye stared at the half dug mound and he felt his throat dry. Was it not the rescu

Guest Writer's Profile: Name: Sambalikagwa Mvona PenName: Sambalikagwa Mvona Genre: Fiction Location: Blantyre, Malawi A CHICKEN FOR KHUMZ Of all market days at Lunzu, those at the end of the month are the most eventful. Lunzu remains the cheapest market for any food item, including maize bran, chickens and goats. It was written in one of the dailies that at the peak of the recent famine, a big goat could go for K1, 500.00 – the price of two chickens! I was among those who had made an early trip to Lunzu that Sunday morning. I was greeted by stampeding feet from different directions. Women in dirty chilundu cloths – carrying beans, premature pumpkins and semiconscious chickens – trooped towards the market place. Goats of different colours emitted different sounds as they were being dragged by men in farm clothes.  Chickens cackling by the roadside competed with voices of minibus touts calling passengers to board Blantyre minibuses. Stylish cyclists, ringing their bells with exagger

Guest Writer's Profile: Name: Matilda Phiri PenName: Matilda Phiri Genre: ShortStory/Articles/Poems/Proses/Folktales  Profession: Author, Social Worker, Model, Entrepreneur Location: Malawi Years of writing: 18 years THE2020MEGAMEN’SCONFERENCE “The long awaited men’s conference is finally here,” a loud but husky voice announced on the radio. Immediately, I dropped the mop, rushed to the radio and turned the volume up.“All Men,young and old, let’s meet at Chichiri Stadium for the mega men’s conference,” continued the message. As a man who was doing nothing important and with no hopes for a wife, I was curious and I quickly made up my mind that I should avail myself on this big day. My curiosity was on what will this conference bring forth on my life?What kind of men wilI meet there and how will they help me with my problems? These were questions that came into my mind and I prayed that this day should really come so that we can share our problems for problems shared are half solved.

Guest Writer's Profile: Name: Matilda Phiri PenName: @matildaphiriarticles Genre: ShortStory/Articles/Poems/Proses/Folktales  Profession: Author, Social Worker, Model, Entrepreneur Location: Malawi Years of writing: 18 years THE HARE FOOLS HIS FRIENDS There was once a Hare who organized a competition with other animals to prove to them that he was strong. He went to the elephant and told him to fight with him. “My dear friend Elephant, do you know that I am very stronger than you? In a tug of war despite being small I would win!” The elephant laughed at the Hare, asking him, why he was so confident.  “I am very big and also am a strong animal. I’d definitely win”, said the Elephant. After sometime while arguing, the elephant agreed to compete with the Hare to see who was very stronger. The Hare told the elephant to stay on one side and that he would go on the other side. When the Hare went on the other side, he found a lion preparing his meat and he greeted him. The Hare told him

Guest Writer's Profile : Name: Grace Athauye Sharra PenName: Grace Sharra Genre: Poems Profession: Secondary School teacher  Location: Bunda-Lilongwe, Malawi Sisi IN THE RAIN Sisi loved the lustrous lick of the rain onto her skin She loved dancing with arms flung about her hugging the raindrops and claiming them for her own. Sisi had a bubbly laugh that rippled with irrepressible joy in the rain Her feet would go pata-pata-pata-pata to a rhythm deep in the rain and her soul. Sisi said the sound of the rain could felt in the bones that rain was a communion, sacred and gods. Sisi made me pick out different melodies of the rain and so I loved me a good downpour on a quiet day discovered a sleep formulae in its soothing songs. While just outside Sisi hailed and claimed the raindrops and let them lick her clean. She said she felt our ancestors in the rain and I beloved when we finally went we too would return as rain. Sisi wanted to go on a day full of grey and mist; She'd live to o

Guest Writer's Profile : Name: Grace Athauye Sharra PenName: Grace Sharra Genre: Poems Profession: Secondary School teacher  Location: Bunda-Lilongwe, Malawi THE PARTING REQUIEM Today this heart feels like A death that finally arrived Tired, painfully but O so glad to finally locate this ghost of a home. And me wearer at soul for waiting too long. Weighed down by the sour foretaste of this eventual end I hurt all the same for this letting go that takes with it All that was once graceful, glorious, lender and full of promise Today, I feel a lot of sad things in this my belly As I sit bloated from a perpetual swallowing of your indifferences and all those choicy little hurts so small they nibbled away at my heart with stings like mean bites of broken glass on a dragged soul That cut me up so unkindly and left my bloody hopes all over the place Battered and bleeding noiselessly across the indifferent time Severing all that was once tender and soft and you Today, be kind to me for loss

Guest Writer's Profile Name: Garnet Howse PenName: Garnet Howse Genre: Poems/ Shortstory Profession: Accountant/ Auditor Location: Blantyre, Malawi Years of writing : 10years I THINK ABOUT YOU Sometimes at silent times like these I sit on my wooden chair And think about how much I have missed. I think about the time we missed Because of the fights we caused I think about the cloying kisses we missed Because of the oeuvres condoned I think about the tepid hugs we missed Because of the pride I had I think about the amorous dates we missed Because of the less a man I was I think about the steamy showers we missed Because of  our  shillyshally I think about the  ruttish dances we missed Because of  our unrequited  love… Much that time has passed Sometimes at silent times like these I want you to know that I miss you. BY GARNET HOWSE.