I weave words like a west african market woman selling you my vision, my mangoes, my papayas, even my coconuts. My finished product can be held up to the sun, illuminated, made to shine. The skins of my poems have been submerged in mud then laid at the bottom of the baobab tree to dry like mudcloth. The blood of my poems can be as dry as the sahara as wet as monsoons as cutting as a machete in the hands of the mau mau. I weave blood into my words: red blood, dried blood, youngblood. An over-saturation of blood decorates my words, makes them pulse red. My words hang from trees like the bitterest kind of strange fruit. My words find the peruvian revolutionaries murdered while hogtied and then buried in criminal secrecy. My words were inspired by rigoberta menchu. I roots rock reggae with my words have them jamming to the heartbeat rhythm of the warmest music. The fabric of my words is at its lightest when it's in the dancehall or the yard. My words sweep over people like the softest caribbean breezes. My words will have you dreaming of blue skies, white sands and coral reefs and while you're dreaming I weave black people into my words and I am done. My finished product can be held up to the sun illuminated, made to shine.
—Tichaona Chinyelu
From In the Whirlwind, Whirlwind Publishing, 2004.
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