When words weigh more than paper.
Words by Alex Gwaze (Curator)
Questions by Alex Gwaze & Joanne Peters (Image Coach & Philanthropist)
There is much to critique about the current state of social media, but there are also aspects that resonate deeply within me. One of the most compelling is how words — once perhaps taken for granted — have become the defining currency of this generation. What one says now carries weight, often measured by the echo it leaves behind. Just consider the damage inflicted by a retweet or a WhatsApp screenshot. How quickly reputations can be unraveled. Also, amid this landscape, there is a resurgence of poetry; a creative reclamation of words that feels fresh and urgent.
Into this new text-heavy economy enters Chioniso Tsikisayi, poet, writer, performer, and filmmaker — whose presence in Zimbabwe’s creative arts scene is undeniable. Chioniso’s voice demands to be heard, though she seeks no attention. Instead, her work blooms gracefully, radiating authenticity and purpose. With accolades such as the Bulawayo Arts Award (BAA) for Outstanding Poet and the prestigious Canopus Award for Interstellar Writing, her portfolio spans poetry, filmmaking, and playwriting. Her works have been featured in Brittle Paper and debut novel, What It Means to Outlive a Daughter, has already garnered international attention, landing on the 2024 Island Prize longlist. Her debut play, A Woman Has Two Mouths, was shortlisted for the African Women Playwrights Network Festival of Plays in Accra, Ghana. Additionally, her poetic short film Queue for a Dream, created in collaboration with director Clinton Zvoushe, was selected for the NGO International Film Festival in Australia.
To encounter Chioniso’s work is to experience words as both scalpel and balm — cutting through the weight of grief, generational trauma, and Black femininity with an honesty that keeps the audience grounded. Whether performing at slam poetry competitions across Africa, delivering a TEDx talk, or engaging in Women, Wine, and Words, she operates at the delicate intersection of vulnerability and power. Her ability to craft emotions that linger long after the final line is what drew us to her. We sat down with Chioniso to discuss how she is weaving together stories that feel both timeless and immediate.
AG: You began writing at a young age through creative exercises like “News” in primary school. How much do you draw from your inner child in your work today, and how has that shaped your voice as an artist?
CT: I think I borrow a lot of curiosity from my inner child. A sense of wide-eyed, “what’s that?” kind of wonder — a sugar-rush brand of joy. When it comes to experimenting, you have to approach it much like you would a playground. Hang upside down from the monkey bars, so to speak… and you get a different view of the world. So, I see my younger self as my true north on a compass. When I’m in my 40s, I’ll probably look to hear from my inner 20s too. I feel like we’re young and old at different intervals of our life. Young in retrospect; old when we introspect. It’s like the ebb and flow of water. My inner child can be irrational, you know? Fearful to approach bigger arenas, and I think that’s where the refining of my artist’s voice begins. That’s when I learn to push up against said fear or insecurity. That stretching provides the maturity necessary for dealing with broader, deeper, and more sensitive issues.
JP: Your poetry delves deeply into sensitive issues like generational trauma, our ancestors, and Black femininity. How do you approach writing about such emotionally triggering topics?
CT: I think artists already have the burden of being policed by external parties — I don’t need to be the one policing myself; otherwise, there’s no room for uncomfortable truths. So when it’s heavy, I need to put it down somewhere; I’ve found that my somewhere is paper, real paper, [a journal, a notepad]. Sometimes virtual (Google Docs or my IG. I hope that whoever reads it finds the words to name a thing they have felt but not yet fully understood. And the beauty of a piece of work is its timelessness, so you can sit with something, however unpleasant, until you’re ready to face it.
AG: You are a gifted orator, whether speaking at events, performing slam poetry, or acting. I’m not a fan of the sound of my own voice. How would you describe the quality of your voice when you are performing?
CT: Uhmm, I don’t know if I see my voice as anything other than the voice I have. You know, what I know is I’m naturally soft-spoken. I get that quite often. I also know that when need be, I’m a force to be reckoned with. And after I’ve said what I have to say (all that I can say), I go back to myself. To the still, small voice of God.
AG: Still voice of God, I like that. That makes me curious, how have African traditions (oral, songs, folktales, chants, etc.) influenced you?
CT: I live in a catch-22, as most young people do, of being the by-product of post-colonial times and receiving education that equips you to integrate into an Anglicised world while grasping at straws of your identity. So it’s more deliberate on my part—to learn and re-learn the nuances of being Shona broken down to its spectrum of dialects (Manyika, Zezuru, Korekore, Karanga). I’ve had the privilege of living with stories passed down to me by my late grandmother. But I think the greater challenge is unearthing new ones more intentionally as I go through life.
JP: Do you think there is a distinct “African” style of poetry that is as recognizable as Haiku (Japanese), sonnets (British), or slam (African-American)?
CT: Oh yes, definitely, there’s no doubt. We are born of oral tradition. Archiving history through voice. Praise poetry, for example, is distinctly African. Naming one’s fathers and fathers’ fathers. Extolling praise upon a clan and its totems. All of that mirrors the art of expression through word, and I greatly admire my peers and elders who excel in it. You don’t even need to look far really—Bulawayo’s Sonkomose, Thaluso Da Poet, UmAfricakazi. Just to name a few. They masterfully craft poetry through IsiNdebele oral traditions.
AG: With the rise of social media, many feel that people have lost the art of listening to and telling stories despite the abundance of content, like podcasts.
CT: I might need to circle back to this question, where would I even begin? I think there are a lot of great storytellers. We are all in the trenches of being known and unknown together. I’ll give a very practical example: I first watched My Name is My Name by Clinton Zvoushe and Xolani Mkwananzi of Urban Legend Pictures in the last quarter of 2023. That was the impetus needed for me to bring my vision to them at the beginning of 2024. What resonated with me was the intention through which their story had been crafted. I’d been, up till that point, waiting for the right collaborators to work with on my visuals. I think if something resonates with me, I don’t waste time in letting people know, and encounters do not remain encounters. They become partnerships. And then, of course, looking at collectives like Crea8ive Spills and the work they do in spotlighting brilliant Kenyan poets. The All African Women Poetry Festival in their cross-continental efforts to link African women storytellers together. We’re a lot, man, there’s a lot of us listening and telling (laughs).
JP: Talking about your collaboration with Urban Legend, Queue for a Dream, a short film exploring the feeling of waiting—whether for ambition, hope, or desire. For me, it felt like a broader commentary on Zimbabwe’s socio-economic stagnation, or?
CT: I feel that it works inverse; the Zimbabwean experience is broad, and it is also personal to me because even within the Zimbabwean experience, there are nuances. I don’t have a diasporan experience of being Zimbabwean, or a tertiary experience of being Zimbabwean, or even a rural experience of being Zimbabwean. I simply have this urban lens through which I glimpse briefly into the lives of those around me. My nuance is being a storyteller on the continent—within this geo-specific area of Bulawayo and in this distinct female body and hoping that my art can and will transcend borders, neighbourhoods, time, and every convention or glass ceiling sitting in the way. I don’t want to give up one or the other. A country is actualised when its people are actualised!
AG: Talking about actualising. Your debut play, A Woman Has Two Mouths, was shortlisted for the African Women Playwrights Network Festival. Do you make it, do you make plays?
CT: (laughs) Do I make plays? That’s a good question. It’s not the first thing that I think of doing when I sit down to write, but I’m curious as to how far I can go even in the arena of writing screenplays, if I allow myself. A Woman Has Two Mouths is my experimental theatre baby that surprised me. It was like a preview or trailer to the extent of my writing capabilities. My ability to be humorous and to actually see that in real time—audiences laughing… The African Women Playwrights Network provided that platform to undo oneself. But I still think I’m a rookie in the game; there’s always a story to tell and there’s more than one way of telling it. I’m sure there are narratives existing within me or maybe just that one that’s best told or imagined for the stage. You know, during my JIAS residency in 2023, I consumed quite a bit of South African theatre, and I was exposed to theatre practitioners, goers, lovers. I became a sponge. I sat there and soaked the thespian zest in the air.
JP: You have absorbed so many different creative arts. Has it been smooth sailing or have you faced some challenges?
CT: Burnout, financial strain. Scarcity in resources and/or opportunity. Imposter syndrome. Navigating intellectual property concerns. Breaking onto new platforms. The metrics of social media engagement by which most measure our influence and reach. Managing the emotional toll of life, of being human in general in this economy. I’ve found over time to lean into different spaces. I save money from my writings or performances and funnel that back into my film and audio work. When there are residencies or incubators open for intake, I give that a shot too, and in doing so, my network of collaborators and friends beyond my city grows. I also think it’s especially significant to seek out genuine social connections. This creative thing needs people at the centre who get you and love you. People whom you don’t need to put on a show for (laughs). That takes time, takes patience. Takes vulnerability.
AG: You mention social media metrics and influence. Reminds me of your TEDx talk when you spoke about “taking chances,” and “being empathetic.” Lastly, what was the most transformative consequence of delivering this talk?
CT: Hmm, that is yet to be seen (laughs). I look at that TEDx talk like I look at most of my milestones. It is a footstep in a long sequence of footsteps I’ve taken in the direction of my highest pursuit, and I have to walk a little further to see the proverbial finish line. On a more sentimental note, since the passing of a friend I hold dear, I look back to the words he left in that comment section, and my heart sings in gratitude. There is a beautiful blueprint for my trajectory which he consistently affirmed time and time again. Thank you, Dimpho John Phiri.
Sometimes, it’s not the experience itself, but the emotions it evokes that leave the deepest imprint. Beyond Chioniso’s candid reflections, one thing was clear at the end of the interview: the people who nurture your dreams and steady you through your dry spells are the most invaluable presence in any creative journey (and in life). As we navigate the daily rhythms of our own paths, we should remember that it costs us nothing to leave a comment for those we care about — not only when they achieve something profound, but simply because, in this age of constant connection, we are texting someone every day.
Follow Chioniso at: @chichicelest
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