Uncategorized

DREAMS

Published

12 months ago

February 7, 2020

Happiness was not something Rudo was used to. She had never felt its popular comforting arms around her.

She saw life as hard and grey as stone. Every day was always unkind to her. Each day leaving her with nothing lovely. All these, and many more, she said.

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I dreamed of Rudo the night we chatted about Love. It was the first time we did. I was surprised too. In this dream, I couldn’t find myself. I could only see my face. I was levitating in this dream too. Clouds of darkness swallowed me, leaving only my face. I saw her. Yes, I saw Rudo. But, it was only her silhouette. I could hear her. She couldn’t hear me, I couldn’t hear myself too. It was as if I was being choked. I thought I would die, asphyxiation being the cause.

I woke up. Beads of sweat covered my face. I couldn’t make a thing out of my dream. I don’t know how to interpret dreams too. I buried my face in my pillow, forcing sleep to come. I wanted to complete that dream. This time, I wanted to speak with Rudo there. I wanted her to hear me. More importantly, I wanted to hear myself too.

I was running home that particular afternoon. It was all set to rain. People ran for cover outside and umbrellas were opened as the clouds prepared to spit out their beads of water. I quickened my pace as the clouds began to gather in the sky. It was beginning to form large pillows of cloud. It changed, continuously.

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The once beautiful sky was turning into monstrous clouds. Halfway home, I got the first splatter of rain. Luckily, I got home before the rain started.

The roofs of the cars, my father’s car inclusive, danced with spray and I could hear the murmuring of the rain through the window. It sounded like the buzzing of angry bees, whose member just died. Through my window, it was a beautiful view. I could see children, naked children, dancing as the rain played with them. In one of them, especially the youngest of them, I saw myself. I saw my Mum dragging me into the house, with her left hand holding my right ear. It was so vivid. The pictures, the pain, were well remembered.

I saw traders shouting at their sales girl to make sure their goods escaped the heavy downpour. Mai Zhuga, the mother of three, only had to close the left door of her shop. She had a kiosk, a small one, made of zinc. It was so empty, I could count every item just by looking at them. I wondered how she catered for her three boys. A single parent with such burden, I shook my head in pity.

“I know you’ll love someone else while I’m away. But, just know, your heart is my only home” Rudo texted, on that rainy afternoon.

Inside that text, I read so much pain. More pain than we’ve ever discussed. I read defeat too. Stronger defeat than we’ve talked about. We would go on to chat for more than seven hours that day. We chatted till the next morning.

But, this chat was different from the one we had three months ago. That of three months ago was filled with humour, smileys, voice notes and calls. This present one, we used words. We weaved words to sew poetry. Poems whose synopsis only forced tears.

She would go on to make me understand that gifts are not free. That, the giver would always want to know how well you’re enjoying the gift. I couldn’t allow this painful truth slice into me. I would bleed. I would break too with injurious edges. This will make me injure anyone in my path. After all, broken things have sharp edges.

Years later, I’d see her. Everything was still same. Perfect too, nothing changed at all. Her smile was still all perfect and beautiful.

Only that, it is her picture I see. The one I enlarged and hung on the left wall of my room. The one she sent to me on that rainy afternoon. It was her best picture. Her two beautiful hands pushing her jaw and acting as a pillar to her head. Just below it, I saw my writings. I wrote “Rest in peace, Rudo” with my favourite black pen.

POEMS

The bitterness of bombs

Published

2 months ago

November 28, 2020

motimagz

I wonder why I wonder why?

I grew up in terror

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And I met a terrible error

My life was and is still shattered

And my society scattered

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I wonder why, I wonder why?

The first bomb got me on the top of the hill

But I had to face it with courage and stay still

A couple of bodies laid like flies

And all I could hear were the cries

I wonder why, I wonder why?

I saw young lads taking the last breathe by my side

To survive I had to dive in no river in order to subside

The ground was tensed and it couldn’t hold me anymore

And my senses, my throat and my heart were all bitter and sore

I wonder why, I wonder why?

I fled the scene leaving the dead alone and I felt the shame

But who was to be held accountable and who was to be blame

I will live to tell my own story as a single narration

But the history has it all and the full documentation

By Ngaluku Lukulu Chocho

MOTIVATION

The Magic of A Pen

Published

2 months ago

November 28, 2020

Trevor Virima

You feel heavy in your heart; you wonder if it’s worth jotting down. “This is for talented people”, what if it’s a chance for you to discover yours? I believe life is a mystery to be discovered and learnt. Learn to appreciate your mind by allowing that pen to scribble your motivations or feelings. I have learnt to discover writing makes me to be serene with myself, it’s a form of healing.

You can ask yourself, should I use complex language? Should I use a certain structure? All these are not of major importance; we all have a unique way to our literary work. If you cannot appreciate your work as the first customer to it, who will? Never doubt that you can do it, it only needs you to believe in yourself and never be ashamed to ask for help. If I say a lot it would be more of iteration, just believe in the magic of the pen you hold.

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Compiled by
Trevor Virima S.C

Uncategorized

Bitconnect Shuts Down After Accused Of Running A Ponzi Scheme

Published

2 months ago

November 18, 2020

motimagz

Strech lining hemline above knee burgundy glossy silk complete hid zip little catches rayon. Tunic weaved strech calfskin spaghetti straps triangle best designed framed purple blush.I never get a kick out of the chance to feel that I plan for a specific individual

Separated they live in Bookmarksgrove right at the coast of the Semantics, a large language ocean. A small river named Duden flows by their place and supplies it with the necessary regelialia. It is a paradisematic country, in which roasted parts of sentences fly into your mouth.

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A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. Even the all-powerful Pointing has no control about the blind texts it is an almost unorthographic life One day however a small line of blind text by the name of Lorem Ipsum decided to leave for the far World of Grammar. The Big Oxmox advised her not to do so, because there were thousands of bad Commas, wild Question Marks and devious Semikoli, but the Little Blind Text didn’t listen.

On her way she met a copy. The copy warned the Little Blind Text, that where it came from it would have been rewritten a thousand times and everything that was left from its origin would be the word “and” and the Little Blind Text should turn around and return to its own, safe country.

“NO REPRESENTATION IS BEING MADE THAT ANY RESULTS WILL OR ARE LIKELY TO ACHIEVE PRICES SIMILAR TO THOSE SHOWN.”

A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am alone, and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for the bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my talents.

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But nothing the copy said could convince her and so it didn’t take long until a few insidious Copy Writers ambushed her, made her drunk with Longe and Parole and dragged her into their agency, where they abused her for their projects again and again. And if she hasn’t been rewritten, then they are still using her.

Far far away, behind the word mountains, far from the countries Vokalia and Consonantia, there live the blind texts. Separated they live in Bookmarksgrove right at the coast of the Semantics, a large language ocean. A small river named Duden flows by their place and supplies it with the necessary regelialia.

A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table – Samsa was a travelling salesman – and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer.

Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather. Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quite sad. “How about if I sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense”, he thought, but that was something he was unable to do because he was used to sleeping on his right, and in his present state couldn’t get into that position. However hard he threw himself onto his right, he always rolled back to where he was.

“The will to win, the desire to succeed, the urge to reach your full potential these are the keys that will unlock the door to personal excellence.”

One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections.

His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls. A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table – Samsa was a travelling salesman – and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame.

It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer. Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather. Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quite sad.