The night: a siren’s call to the primal fears and curiosity that lurk within us all.
Selected by Alex Gwaze (Curator)
As the sun dips below the horizon, a shiver runs down our spine, and the darkness whispers secrets in our ear – a pulsing, vibrant creature that throbs with heat and energy. It’s as if the shadows themselves are alive, pulsating with an otherworldly rhythm that draws us in, tantalizing us with the promise of mysteries that will forever remain just out of reach. What secrets do the dark hours hold? We can only wonder, entranced by the enigma that is the African night.
Moonlit
BY STEPHINGOUTLOUD
Zimbabwean creative who prefers no bio
It’s a glorious full moon.
I see her from my window, her loud warmth, her gentle intimidation.
She offers me silent comfort and reminds me cautiously, the passage of time.
Its glowing rays trickle, fickle and ungraspable and yet, absolutely glorious.
One must feel it for themselves.
Silky, untouchable moments, impressed upon by pressed lids and lost imagination. They prickle on my skin, warmly, moistly
in anticipation of what is hoped to be foretold.
In this very moment, I wish nothing more
but to have a future
that is absolutely moonlit.
Last Night’s Secret
BY STELLA KINGORI
Kenyan educator, writer, children’s literature author, translator, and advocate, driven by a love for languages, and the arts.
In the heart of Africa,
where the sun sets low,
a tale of mystery, the night does know,
of lovers’ hearts and the passions sown.
As the moon casts shadows, on the savannah plain,
a couple’s love, beat as one, in perfect time.
Their love’s flame shines divine,
the night’s magic whispers love’s sweetest tune,
bringing them closer to the night’s secret scent.
The tales of old, songs of new,
they whisper low, that only the night does know,
secrets she reveals to none,
of how forever acts are done,
truth of how he held her tight, stories of how she embrace him in the hide of night.
Even the stars up high,
they might twinkle and gleam,
but they will never truly know what couples dream, in the heat of last night’s secrets.
Nightly Promises
BY RODNEY MANYAKAIDZE
Zimbabwean writer, director, and social entrepreneur, whose works were featured in the Intwasa Festival’s short stories anthology. Rodney is the founder of Avilian Meals, which promotes healthy eating habits.
To the glittering night, God’s be-freckled face;
I whisper these vows with earnest grace.
To love and adore with equal mirth,
In bounteous times and days of dearth.
Through romance’s endless stairways;
I shall be there for you always.
In soul and spirit— if in body slain.
Always cherish, always honour never disdain.
Especialise, my queen, my crown;
Weather life’s contours, each up and down.
With patient poise;
Neglecting noise,
Through troughs and peaks,
Your rosy lips and cosy cheeks;
Nirvana’s refuge!
Harmonic heartbeats in the breeze;
As her voice’s pulsations echo in my soul,
Rekindling reminiscences pre-94’.
I’ll love you after we part as before we met!
They took you for granted? Don’t fret.
On this journey, take my hand,
Bear witness, to my nightly promises,
My soul’s remand.
Night Fall
BY ALFRED NYAGAKA NYAMWANGE
Kenyan teacher and PhD candidate who has written extensively in various genres, including poetry, novels, short stories, and children’s literature. Some of Alfred’s notable works include: “Inkscapes and Whispers of a Motherland”, “The Blood Stains”, and “The Woman Called Angel”.
In any case
like a bough of the acacia
umbrella tree dipping, gently, dipping
before the moon’s blue face
trying to mask its nudity
from my exploring eye.
As it clambers in it’s tottering steps,
bent old, too young to see
the palms of dark clouds
swinging past her face, mesmerized.
Night fall dances to the rhythm of the wind,
year in and out.
Fluttering, clanking noise of the loosen…
Nuts, rhythmically, beating often,
I know you are no longer my safety,
a thief has stolen my heart
with the feigned grace of an angel.
And when the tears flow, emotions show
perched there under the bruised bough,
forlornly swaying in strokes learned –
Detached but swinging to the wind whispers.
As my eyes wet, drip drip
and you are far away like the moon, now grey,
hidden by the waving twigs
hiding your face in shame.
What will the morning say,
about night falls’ case?
Cover image from @seligrey_
MUD Journal 