Mirror, Mirror. Who’s the prettiest of them all?
Not me. Certainly.

Look at all the beauties out there.
Surely, have you seen my crooked smile?
What about my pimples?
And what about my big ears?
Oh, how glad I am that you can only see my face.
For I hear my legs are manly, far from beautiful
Compared to how a woman’s should look.

Mirror, Mirror. Who’s the most creative of them all?
It surely can’t be me.

Do I sing better than those Divas?
I’m not sure I can even tie their shoes.
Could I possibly write better
than the outstanding poets out there?
My pen must not be sharp enough.

Mirror, Mirror. Godly Mirror, tell me:
Who am I? Tell me what You see?

Gladly, Mirror answers:
I am glad you finally asked.
You finally chose the right mirror.
It is not the flaws that I see;
I see beauty in the flaws
because I allowed them,
That I may fill them with my Light.

Poem By: Rasanganea Uwantege

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Life lately
We are on a mission
We are in a square
We are living with a lot, yet we have to press on
We are the wanderers of this life
Life lately is a lot
We are in a time tick.

It is who you know
It is who you are with
It is what you have,
The connections you have,
Life lately is a mission

I cannot help but feel the heaviness of this life
We are more of the commandments
The Bible really is re-living through us
Life lately is a lot
Our freedom is trashed out all in the name of laws
We are in a time tick
But what is next?

It is a lot,
Yet, we press on
We are feeling it
Yet, we still have hope
Life lately
We are on a mission
We are in a square
We are living with a lot, yet we have to press on
We are the wanderers of this life
Life lately is a lot
We are in a time tick.

Poem by: Nonny

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This voice of mine,
this prayer born of my tongue,
I will never let it fade away.
In celebration, I will stomp through the open fields,
my heart bursting with a joy so deep,
wrapped in the quiet embrace of my faith.

Oh, I will pray and praise,
the ancient thanksgiving prayers and songs
my mother hummed into my soul,
words that held worship in one hand
and comfort in the other.
I will lift them high
until they disappear like smoke.

For if my greatest laughter
can hold within it a river of tears,
then why can’t my deepest sorrow
be stitched through with gratitude?

I will gather my gratitude like precious stones
and string them together,
and though my hands are still rough from healing,
I will steady my breath and let this praise mend
what is broken inside?

I will let every word become a release,
a gentle pull drawing the ache from my veins.
I will offer this as my constant prayer,
for a gentle grace found me when I was lost.

I have been turned inside out by the storm.
I have been weathered and worn.
And this story of my rescue is etched into my bones
in a language only I can truly feel and understand.

And so, I will pray and praise,
not in spite of the chaos, but because of it.
I will pray when my voice is nothing but a whisper,
because my spirit has always been the truer instrument.
I will voice my endless gratitude.

Because I have walked through fire

and made it through the rain, I will praise.
I will send my thanks echoing
from the highest peaks so it may carry far.
Yes, I will keep praying and praising…
until my very being forgets the shape of sound.
I will never stop singing the songs of praise.

By: Mutshidzi

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My Dearest Scars

You were an uninvited guest,
but you made a home in my skin.
A silent story of a battle that found me.

First, you were nothing but pain:
the surgeon’s cut, the chemo’s fever,
a landscape of loss drawn on my body.

But now?
You’re the measure of
How I refused to disappear.

Every mark is a line in my history…
I bled, but I didn’t end.
I ached, but I outlasted the pain.

People say wounds fade.
But you are not a wound anymore.
You are the receipt for my survival,
proof that when my body was under siege,
I never surrendered.

So I trace your lines now
with something like pride,
knowing that…
If this was the price of my life,
Then you are the gold
That was left in my hands.

By: Mutshidzi

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From the moment I could speak, my mother, a Sunday school teacher with a heart full of faith, taught me and all my siblings how to pray. It began with simple words of gratitude before meals. Then came morning prayers for guidance, which we prayed as sunlight crept through the curtains. At night, just before sleep takes over my body, I would press my hands together and tell God about my day.

As I grew a bit older, so did my prayers. Sunday school lessons turned the Lord’s Prayer into second nature, recited as easily as my ABCs. Prayer became routine, steady, like breathing.

But now?
Now, my prayers don’t come in neat, memorized lines. Some days, they’re raw.Unfiltered. A choked-out “Why me?” when the pain digs its claws in deep. Other days, when laughter comes easy and the weight lifts, my prayers spill over: Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, Lord.

Living with chronic pain is like living with a thief, one that steals moments without warning. One second, I’m fine… the next, pain shoots through my body like lightning, and the world shrinks to just me and the ache. But this journey has taught me something… Life is fragile. Borrowed time. And in that truth, I’ve learned to cherish the small things, the warmth of a cup of tea, a friend’s voice on the phone, a quiet morning when my body lets me breathe.

Prayer isn’t what it used to be. It’s no longer just reciting words I learned as a child. It’s alive. Messy. Real.

Sometimes, it’s a yell into the dark. Other times, it’s a heart-to-heart with God, tears rolling down my cheeks, some from joy, some from the kind of pain that makes you whisper, “How much longer… for how long do I have to suffer?” Some nights, when words fail, I sing through the hurt because worship doesn’t need perfect words.

In the quiet, I remember my mother’s voice guiding those first prayers. I wonder if she knew she was planting seeds of hope that would hold me up on days when standing felt impossible. Her faith still lights my path, even when I can’t see the way forward.

These days, my prayer is simple… God, May Your Will Be Done – not mine. Whether that means a moment’s relief or strength to endure, I’m learning to trust Him with it. To center myself in Him, even when the storm rages.

Because prayer isn’t about having the right words. It’s showing up with your broken pieces and saying, “Here I am. Again.” It’s knowing you’re heard, even when the only thing you can offer is silence.

And that? That’s enough. A promise that keeps me going, a light that never goes out.

By: Mutshidzi

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In our fast-paced, digital-driven world, the line between what’s real and artificial grows thinner by the day. We’re bombarded with all the  information, yet the truth is elusive. How do we trust our senses when our eyes and minds compete with the persuasive power of technology? It’s a question that haunts us, as we go through a reality increasingly governed by screens and algorithms.

We wake up with our smartphones in our hands, their screens the first light of day. They are the last thing we see at night before we fall asleep, a glowing lifeline in a sea of digital noise. But what does this constant connection mean for our understanding of reality? Are we hypnotized, or simply addicted to the endless scroll? The distinction is blurred, much like the line between artificial and real.

In this tech-dominated age, it’s challenging to discern our own thoughts from those generated by machines. AI can mimic human creativity, leaving us questioning our worth and originality. If a machine can pen a poem or write an article, what does that say about our place in this new world? It’s a sad realization, one that demands introspection and a reevaluation of our values.

We find ourselves in a time where chaos and confusion are not mere accidents but symptoms of a deeper crisis. Our reliance on technology has distanced us from the tangible world, leading to a societal disconnection that’s as profound as it is unsettling. Have we lost sight of what makes us human, of our ability to discern, to feel, to connect?

But here’s the truth we keep missing… life isn’t infinite. That’s the thing that could save us, the reminder to put the phone down, to look up, to hold on to what’s real. Tech isn’t the enemy, but we can’t let it steal our humanity. So what’s next? Maybe it starts with a
single breath. A choice. A step back into our own lives.

From: Mutshidzi

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I grew up in a small, run-down house on the village outskirts of Thohoyandou, a town where hope often felt like a luxury we couldn’t afford. Money was always scarce. My mother, a single parent with no steady job, worked tirelessly, taking whatever odd jobs she could find, just to keep food on the table for our family of eight. No matter how hard she worked, it was never enough. The walls of our home felt like they were closing in on us, the weight of poverty pressing down every single day. But deep inside me, even as a child, there was a stubborn flame of hope. I refused to believe this was all life had for me.

School became my refuge. From the first grade, I clung to books like they were lifelines. Reading and journaling weren’t just hobbies, they were my escape, my way of dreaming beyond the four cracked walls of our house. At night, I’d lie on the thin traditional grass woven mats I shared with my siblings, staring up at the roof where the cracks stretched like spiderwebs, and whisper to myself, “I’m going to make it. I won’t stay here forever.” That dream wasn’t just a wish, it was a survival instinct. If I didn’t believe in something better, I wasn’t sure how I’d survive, if at all.

Years later, when I received that college scholarship, it felt like the universe had finally answered my prayers. I remember clutching that acceptance letter, my hands shaking, tears blurring my vision. A young Black woman from a family that barely scraped by, with no blueprint for success… I had done it. It was more than just an opportunity, it was a revolution. For the first time, I could taste freedom, from poverty, from the small-town limits, from the voices that whispered, “People like us don’t get to win.”

Graduating with my pharmacy degree was another milestone, another victory. I had chosen this path, because it promised stability, because I wanted to prove to myself and the world that I was capable of more than what my beginnings suggested. But reality hit hard. Every “entry-level” job demanded “experience” I didn’t have. The doors kept closing.

Now, in my late twenties, I’m still fighting. Some days, the exhaustion is so heavy I can barely move. The dream of building my mom a real home, of giving her the comfort she deserves, sometimes feels like it’s fading. And in my weakest moments, I wonder: Was I foolish to believe so much in myself? Does a comfortable life really exist?

But then, I remember.
I remember the little girl who read books by candlelight because the electricity was cut off. The little girl who walked miles to school under extreme weather conditions without shoes, determined to learn. The young woman who refused to let rejection letters define her. That fire inside me hasn’t died. It can’t die. Because this isn’t just my story, it’s the story of so many of us who keep pushing forward even when the world says “No”.

I won’t give up. I won’t lose hope. Not now. Not ever.

By: Mutshidzi

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Dear Cancer,

You came into my life like a thief in the night. You didn’t just take away my health… You took ME. Piece by piece, year by year, a decade later, you stole things I can never get back. You took my strength and confidence. My body, once capable and familiar, is now weak and foreign. Pain is my constant companion, and medicine that’s supposed to help only makes me feel worse.

You took my peace. The quiet moments of happiness I once knew and took for granted are now gone, replaced by fear, sadness, pain, hopelessness and exhaustion. I don’t remember what it feels like to wake up without dread. I wear a mask outside in public, but inside, I’m barely holding on. You took my future or at least the one I once dreamed of. The person I was is gone, and I don’t know who I am and what I have become now. All I have left is grief for the life I lost and the person I used to be.

Some days, the weight of it all is too much. I look in the mirror and don’t recognize myself-not just because of the scars or the way my body has changed, but because the light inside me feels dimmer. The world moves on, but I am stuck here, mourning what was and what will never be again.

Yet even in this darkness, tiny sparks remain. A memory of laughter. A moment when the pain eases just enough to breathe. They don’t take away the grief, but they remind me that I am still here. And as long as I am, I will honor what I’ve lost by allowing myself to feel it all-the anger, the sorrow, the unfairness. Because my grief is proof that I loved my life before you. And that love?
That’s mine forever.

I am tired. So tired. But even now, I refuse to let you take everything. You may have broken my body, but my heart still beats. And as long as it does, I will keep fighting… not for victory, but for the right to grieve what you stole, and to remember that I was once more than this pain. This is my grief. Heavy, endless, and real. But it is mine, not yours. And that, at least, you cannot take away.

By: Mutshidzi Kwinda

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Dear Younger Me: A Letter to the Kid Who Got Me Here Against All Odds.

June 15 marked my 29th birthday. As I begin this final year of my twenties, I want to take a moment to connect with you and revisit the conversations we missed or pushed aside.

For the first time in my life, I’ve become quite skilled at wearing a mask…, one that hides the emotions I struggled to express, no matter how hard I tried. This facade, over time, has become my haven.

Let’s go back to the day you were born. Mom told me how terrified she was. With no access to proper healthcare, she had to give birth alone on a dark, cold winter day at home. As I reflect on this, it shows me that somehow, from the very first moment I entered this world, I was fighting to survive, facing the brutal realities of extreme poverty. To make matters worse, by the time I was just nine months old, I had already lost my father… Well, you know all this, but for the sake of the story, let me continue.

Fast forward to your first day of school: a six-year-old girl walking two hours to school and two hours back every single day, barefoot and wearing a hand-me-down uniform that was far too big. Through rain or shine, winter or scorching summer heat, those days remain vivid in my memory. Do you know why? Because they haunt me every night as I try to sleep. It was a nightmare. Yet throughout all those years, one thing stayed constant in my heart: prayer. From primary school through high school, my faith and hopes for a better future never wavered. They carried me forward through fear and trauma.

I want you to know that I remember the sacrifices you made for us to be here today. Your entire life was a fight. While others enjoyed their childhood, you were busy trying to escape yours.

Then, one day, everything changed. You received an acceptance letter to the university of your dreams, for the degree you had always wanted. What a moment that was. It felt like every prayer you had whispered over the past fifteen years was finally being answered.

But just a few weeks later, all that hope was shattered. Because on the 31st of May 2016, the final biopsy and scan results came back positive for a soft tissue sarcoma cancer diagnosis. Just like that, you had to drop out. Yet, through prayer, hard work, and sheer determination, you fought your way back into university a year later, even while undergoing chemotherapy and battling the effects of the illness. Your selflessness during that time was nothing short of heroic. You kept saying, “God, please give me just enough strength to finish my degree and provide a better life for Mom and my disabled sibling.”

Looking back, I’m grateful you didn’t give up. I know it was unbearably hard, and that’s why I need you to hear how proud I am of you. You were stronger than I ever imagined possible.

Since your diagnosis, you’ve faced multiple recurrences, yet still, you completed your internship and community service. And now, you’re a registered pharmacist and a writer. You proved time and time again that anything is possible if you work hard and trust God while doing it.

For the past six months, things have been the hardest, and each day feels like an impossible challenge. We’re going through a difficult phase in this journey called life, and even though it feels like we’re failing in every way, I wanted to take a moment to tell you how proud and grateful I am. It’s an honor to know you’ve always had my back. You are strong, courageous, and a survivor of so many battles.

In the future, I hope you can set that mask aside and allow yourself to feel everything without apology. Embrace your raw, messy, imperfect self. You are worth it. You are enough. I see you, and I love you, always.

By: Mutshidzi Kwinda

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