So in my last post, “F is for February” I wrote about a personal frustration with Valentines Day, Black History Month and paid tribute to #blacklove I was recently introduced to.  Nowadays, I consider myself a friendly social disruptor bringing hopefully bringing hope to the masses, a preparer of good, tomato sauce, and ghostwriter for the man dem and gal dem quietly.So another frustration.Why do I have to wait till Mothers Day to appreciate my mother?  I started writing this piece yesterday evening when I was waiting for friend and fellow artist @Tamramusic to arrive at my compound or hut that has no couches.  We cook, reflect and write. Why spend all that money wrecklessly? In any case, I gave up eating out for Lent, so here we are.Regularly and carefully, I disclose some of our #Tribesmen and #Tribesladies as long as they are comfortable with the exposure and disclosure.  If they already have an online presence, it’s usually okay.  The ones you should worry about are the ones who remain anonymous because they love their privacy.  I protect it.  I salute and honor their wishes because they are true ghosts.  I guess I’m the public overly talkative ghost, trying to lead the tribe collective one post at a time for the man dem and gal dem.  We kind of need a marketing strategy hence, welcome to this website. Just the other day on our Instagram story we said,

“Corporate Ghosts,

Man you can’t kill us (our spirits)

or Penetrate our Hosts (our minds)

Not seeking fame,

That would be doing the most!

PhD Ghosts out here working so hard – so our mothers can Toast!”

So, she is just a little girl from Rusape, Zimbabwe. Her mother had green eyes, golden hands and bronze skin.Her mother used to call me “Mabunhu” which if you google, it means “white boy”. Well lowkey puzzling but when I was five years old till I was thirteen, my best friend was Dikson.  He is @ComradeFatso’s little brother.  Yes, the one who founded #ShokoFesitval and started #MotoRepublik in Zimbabwe.Dikson doesn’t know he’s in the #TribeofGuruve, but he’s the kind of lad that doesn’t need an application to join our #Ghosthood.  He is a master at this writing stuff, but nonetheless, this post is not about him. It’s about her daughter.It’s about the little lady where I get my funnies from.  The little lady whose bosom gave me strength to grow my tiny bones – after a remarkable premature birth in the late 80s. Then,  Zimbabwe was literally on tribal fire.  I don’t want to go into the circumstances besetting my big sister Zimbabwe at the time, but let’s just say I am lucky to be alive and so is she.   Part of why I used to have random nosebleeds in my adolescent years is because I flew from the back seat of her little green Golf, hit the windscreen in a car crash.  I have survived many since then. The sheer luck of the ancestors, right?Part of why I have 20 stitches on my  left thigh is because she rushed me to the hospital in Macheke, Zimbabwe.  Patrick used to make fun of me about it, but it’s okay. I forgave him. One day in 1999 my Yugoslavian brother Branko UK got a black eye for trying to defend me and my scar.  One Blue with Mr. Trinci was a gas though.  Maybe that’s why every time the “new Yugoslavia” plays I support them individually (Bosnia)and wholeheartedly.  Just the other day, I watched USA draw with Bosnia.  A fellow Bosnian was the first person to text me when Zimbabwe was all over the news in November 2017.  He too, was the first person to text me when Morgan Tsvangirai passed away.  Zimbabwe has mad love for Bosnia. But do you?Anyway, I still remember the pain of each stitch piercing my naked, brown skin because they didn’t use anesthetic.  Well, that’s what you get  for trying to climb through a cracked glass door. Yes, I know I was foolish. It’s called youthful exuberance.After one of my mischievous escapades, I decided to scale the ladder of our ZUPCO sponsored home and fell backwards. Go figure what happened next. I fractured my elbow in three places.  Lowkey – I was so proud of my cast like it was a rite of passage.  All the six year old gal dem signed my arm including my crush Jane Norrissey.  Anyway Baba, was doing some graft, before he worked too hard and got a home.

The good old days of Zimbabwe, man. That barely happens nowadays – but it still does.  Companies still give plenty benefits, but now sadly not as many as the late 90s – very few. Hopefully, the new Zimbabwe provides restoration to this fruitfulness.

Part of why I have a cast in my first grade picture of Mrs Dzvairo’s class in 1992, is because this little woman rushed home to take me to the Doctor.  Ironically, this Doctor’s son would become the Head Boy at my High School thirteen years later.I sadly couldn’t be there when she slipped on some ice and broke her ankle a couple of years ago.  It pained me that 4,000 miles separated us.  As if FaceTime or Skype was going to allow me to return the favor.  Please my G! The same little lady who cried with me when I didn’t know what to do about being temporarily homeless in a foreign country. I had nowhere to go, so she and her husband, Baba give me all her little pennies for me to get something to eat and water to drink. The same little lady that would make Razzle Dazzle and I try on her nieces dresses because we were supposedly the same size. It was hilarious, but it’s all because she has a good heart and wanted to make her little nieces happy.  *Special shout out Lulu and Lucy and Aunty Sally.She’s the first person to listen to my songs, read my blogs and leave comments 4,000 miles away.  Even when her iPhone stopped working, she’s the kind of woman who would rush to an internet café just to google “SonofGuruve” and read our art before you do.Even through her own sadness or pain, you can always hear her ironing or cooking for the family – daily.  Sometimes unappreciated, I feel deeply sad I can’t take her out for coffee on a random day.  I would do anything to fly her here to cook me Sunday dinner.  I can count the number of times she has done so in the last eleven years – on one hand.   But it’s okay, she prays for me everyday.  At least she sends me unprofessional selfies of her cooking too.I feel bad that I never helped her with chores enough before I left for the United States to study at Bearcat University. I simply took advantage of this little lady, now I’m out here burning my food and spending too much money eating out.  I’m so grateful she taught me to always use olive oil and wait till the onions are glassy before adding the tomatoes and spices. She’s the woman who’s always “Busy” on the line when I try to call her on Sundays because, she’s solving someone else’s problem or lending someone some money.  That’s my Amai.Oh, I didn’t add that she foolishly ran away from her rural home to join the liberation struggle of Zimbabwe and witnessed bombings at camps in the wilderness of white minority ruled Rhodesia.  I’m not sure how she was able to study for some exams and end up with a scholarship to study in Sierra Leone at the then illustrious Farabay College.She’s the reason I always order Karlberg everytime I’m at the Alley Pub.  Dixon will tell you. I convince myself that I am pouring back into her bosom each time I take a sip of that Danish lager.As I type this, and as you read this I want to let you know that I am who I am because of my Mama. I love her, and I hope you love yours too.If your mother is no longer here with us, I want to let you know,

“Live an honorable life that she can be proud of.  You too, can find an earthly mother.  I don’t know what that grief is like, but there are plenty available”.

I’m glad that I when I moved to the United States, I found American mothers who my mother probably asked her Lion Tribe 🦁 ancestors I’d find.  I don’t have to wait till Mother’s Day to write about her.  This post has been in the works for four years, I just didn’t  know how to deliver it.  I figured it would be more special if she didn’t expect it.It’s also dedicated to all the mothers I have including Juanita (“Juju”), Ms. Sandra and Annitta who were temporary replacements for Charie, and hugged me when I lost Ndudzo some years ago and when @DJLeonsa and Mikeyy passed away this week.This post is dedicated to my Mother, Charie.I love you.Anyway, I’ve got some Afro Beat jams to ghostwrite for the mandem.Bye Chale!*I have not gone through everything Tupac says in his song neither has my mother, but its perfect. As you were ladies and gents.  Have a good day and give your Mummy a hug.  If you see Charie, give her hug and say it’s from her first-born son, SonofGuruve.© SonofGuruvé 2018

F is for February

I get rather upset in February because of society’s expectations thrust upon me. 

I did lose two friends just two days ago so it kind of sucks right now. But I soldier on.  Don’t call me unless you’re in the #TribeofGuruve.  Otherwise – text only.

I’m a short, bold black man a.k.a “Prince of Zamunda” by my buddies particularly Bobby who’s a former Marine.  We always exchange political jabs, but at the core – despite our differences in race and political affiliation, we are good friends.  I was telling him the other day about why I’m not a fan of February.

I wonder why I’m limited to celebrating #BlackHistory during the shortest month of the calendar? Secondly, why is my checking account relegated to the ashes because of all the unnecessary content-consumption on telly, #Wallymart superstores and #radio?  Every girlfriend I’ve ever had, whether Zimbabwean, English, American, or Egyptian, exerted this pulsating pressure on me, and my little kindred spirit always caved in. Back then, I was a frail, little boy.


But now, things have slightly changed.  I’m not as frail, but leader and #ChiefWarrior of a #ghostwriting collective of African Ghost Artists.  The modus operandi I set upon them is to politely be a #rebel with a cause, stay classy and challenge the #statusquo – respectfully, proportionally and delicately.  Part of why we don’t talk or reveal who we work for is because we are not worried about being famous.  The joy we get is purely from knowing our words are HELPING OTHERS one article, one song, one music compilation or one newspaper column at a time.

Do you know what it’s like to have some of the most influential people in various industries and disciplines across three continents in your WhatsApp group, and not be known? It’s pure gold.

That’s why we used to say we have death in our pouch in the tagline on our Homepage.  I charge all our African Artists to bring  that poison, but only to use it for good.  Part of the reason we politely ask for you to pay us for our silence is based on one simple quote shared with me countless times.  I never really understood or listened to it until I suffered the harsh, unimaginable and ineradicable consequences.  Trust me daddy, the consequences cost me quite a couple of grand, but it’s okay.  Money comes, and it goes.  I’m more worried about the purity of my soul nowadays.  I’ll let our Ancestral Spirits handle the rest.  All things come around full circle, so if you’re reading this and feel a certain way, oh well.  You know who you are.  The tribe is always watching and so is the Sun.

My grandfather Sekuru Sarikosi always said,

SonofGuruve, usaise zvinhu mumhepo.

That’s our native tongue in Guruve, Zimbawe, Africa. It’s called Shona. The English translation is:

SonofGuruve, don’t put things into the wind.

Simples mate.  Don’t use your tongue to rob yourself of what you ought to be or what you ought to achieve.  The tongue is intimately connected to your spirit and certainly leads to the physical and especially if you’re not careful. 6Lack said it best,

Be cautious where you play.

I’ll be cautious and adapt it to, “Be careful what you say, and who you say it to”.

Do you think we just started writing these raps, blogs and songs for my mandem overnight? Absolutely not.

I‘ve been writing my whole life, so I started this little hustle with an iPad and an iPhone, told some people, but had to do it alone when they wouldn’t frolick with me.

 Look man, you can either speak life or death to whatever you are intending to accomplish in this short-lived journey we collectively call life.  Ironically, it’s Valentines Day today and I’m sad.  I couldn’t be there for my dear friend Mike who passed away just the other day.  He spoke so much light into me when I was in my own darkness.  I just wish I could have returned the favor. Man, damn!

If I ever hear any of my tribesmen or tribesladies speaking evil or uncouth things, they are temporarily suspended so we can unravel what spirit or fountain they are drinking from.  Just be careful with what you put out there man.  An old friend once said,

#SonofGuruve, always muddy the waters!

But whoa, as our Board member, Fables agreeD that I should be glad and not drink from that fountain.  It’s still under consideration though, because I haven’t unraveled exactly what it meant.

So the #TribeofGuruve exists to put that juice, sauce and empowerment out there for the voiceless.  When I started writing this blog post at 5am this morning, I didn’t quite realize we would arrive at this juncture, but I’m cool with that.  I hope you are too.  It’s from the heart and it’s organic like fresh Italian sauce oozing from the frying pan.  I’m also hopeful that you are not too offended by the image appended.  It’s artistic and I thought through it for a while.  I guess it grasps our funky audience’s conscience before we try to write and hopefully reach them.  I knew this post would do well when the same picture was on my Instagram @SonofGuruve and received likes I’d hope are of appreciation and anticipation.  I’m sure there will be a 50/50 split and likely my African Mandem parents, aunts and uncles will be blowing up my WhatsApp inbox.  But that’s ok because they come from a good place.  I just ask for the bigger picture of this body of work to be reflected upon.  Not everyone understands or appreciates the art produced at #TribeofGuruve. You can’t always cave to everyone’s demands in the face of what I’d like to call artistic adversity.  Art is individualistic. You create, the audience reacts. Simples.

I was listening to the mandem Burna Boy and it pretty much inspired this post in twenty minutes and a couple of edits of course.  I’ve been reminded by my Baba to check my posts more frequently before I post them – so hopefully this one is perfect.  Burna Boy is definitely my favorite Naijah mandem out there right now.  As you may know he is a an artist like us at #TribeofGuruve.  I’ve followed him for a couple of years, and one day I’m going to ghostwrite for him.  Only thing, is he’s so good, he probably won’t need me.

Did you see what I did there? I know I put it in the wind, but yo, sometimes you have to speak special tingz into existence – as long as they have good intent.  Perhaps it’s a positive affirmation Sekuru would provide an exception for. I still think if he was still alive and preaching today he’d say,

“Nah, YoungKilla, keep that info low-key!”.

 I guess it’s about that balance – that Natwest Balance, Cyaga! Oh, so before you read on, special shout out to the funniest mandem inna London right now. Man like, #MCQuakes! Google him for plenty funnies. Below is an audio for Burna Boy’s “Wickedest Love”.

So today is Valentines Day. Okay.  So what?

F your February

Man come on man,

Man come on man,

Man gimme time, gimme once second,


Why the f am I in debt man?

Man, so much ps, So much man,

Why Mandem? In debt fam?

My  white gal left me AND,

But I’ve healed and,

Recovered from all of that pain and,

Man, come on man!

Been there n done that man,

Why the f man?


Man, Mandem!

Losing so much money?!

Just for Feb-ru-ary?

Not coming to that party,

Man come on darling?

Pardon me!

But adverting?

 Got you spending on all that jewelry?

Man, come on man!

Come one Man.

Damn Fam!

F is for, F your February!

F your February,

Yes, yes I fn  said it!

Only get to celebrate it?

Being black and loving you,

Only inna Feb-ru-ary?

Well come on, man!

Gerrahere mayne! Knnaaa wha I’m sayin?

Man, Come on baby,

Come put it- put it on me.

Shoutout BBC1XTRA, Shoutout Charlie too!

For giving mandem Faya in the fn Booth!

Sloth Imma hold you down,

when I’m in London town,

In tha summa now, Man two twos now!

Man got my visa! Give Charlie Sloth a

Mega pizza!

All right now,

All right darling Imma hold you down,

With this golden crown.

Can I see your gown?

Geeez. Baby please!

Now please don’t frown.

I’m an African n I’m out of town.

I’m the Burna Boy of this writing sound,

Death in our pouch!


Imma give you the? the wiki-leaky sound,

From March all the way to January baby,

Imma love you.

So Come on man!

One month man?

28 days for all that Black History?

Only inna inna Feb-ru-ary?

F what you heard man,

It’s black love man,

The wickedest love man,

Bumper to bumper man,

My peng ting’z name is Niniola.

Man, My baby so gorgeous, Man she so focused,

Flawless! Oh, I love you baby! She’s my black princess!

Man I’m writin scribin  jam – Like!

Haha-haha-haha Get it?

Yes it’s Heinz sauce and,

Yes! Yes it’s Red!

YNWA,  yes I’m a freak n I’m fn Red!

An African warrior man!

Anfield to be exact,

So can you feel me?

Call me John Bread, Butter or Buns-ey,

Get it? John Barnes, Yeah he ate with me!

That JamaiCAN,

 That Black mandem,

Delicious Chicken, Yeah chicken Jerky!

Man he coming, Man, Man Get Ready!

Four- four-two- Mandem,

It‘s for the weekend!

Shoutout to Muhammad from SevenEleven!

Playin for Pool?

Yeah in the Eighties man.

I’ll take you back to school,

Way Back when,  man way back then?

Number 7 maybe,

But the bredda was so peng  at scoring pens,

Man ask a friend!

Scoring peng goals, had peng tingz,

So much Black Bling! Imma Black king,

Oh yes AND we rising!

Brov you think you winning?

1-0 right now, but imma ghost B!

I got all the zeros, many many plenty,

That’s why you can’t see me,

I’m out here,  Ghost-wriding a bad lady!

Paying my tithes n’!

Always in my kitchen, man I’m always cookin!

So Solid,

Now they all wanna do, is f with my food.

But Yes I said it! Rude boi Don’t you ever test it!

Not no contesting, F is not for Forgetting,

It’s actually F squared for F your February,

This one’s for the Black mandem and galdem, that are black lovin!

You are all so lovely!


Because I love my black love daily.


Yes, still.

-drops mic.


I’m only hopeful a rudeboi doesn’t try to bite these lyrics. We will write to you my G. We use plagiarism and image checkers which as a matter fact are tools for finding misappropriated content.  One of the items we use is called Copyscape. You simply provide the URL of your written material, and Copyscape searches for any other web pages where the same content appears.  Our hope is simply to request credit whatever that means to you.  When we find someone using our original text or photos without giving credit, we beat some drums, meet as a Tribe and decide how to respond.  Here’s another thing I’m going to put in the wind:

The only person who has the sole right to pull up and sing a bad boy remix to Wickedest Love or whateva using SonofGuruve’s lyrics to “F your February” is Burna Boy.  Did you see what I done? Maybe, but special shout out to man like J Hus!  He has permission too.  As you read this, you might be able to mash it up in the booth too.  But for now, hit the Contact Us page for the mandem. Our attorney who’s a bad gal ting from Barking will be as helpful as she can.


Peace, Love, Positivity and Good Food.

**PS Man might just go to the studio to spit these bars himself you know, but I forgot that studios don’t rent their spaces to ghosts. Damn.

#ValentinesDay #Africa #Guruve #Love #Wind #Red #Liverpool #Debt #Money #BurnaBoy #Sekuru #Zimbabwe #Bloggers #Content #Creators #Copywright #263 #Twimbos #BBC1XTRA #BurnaBoy #JHUS #Rudeboi #CharlieSloth

© SonofGuruve 2018

Sugar Cane 

Strange to write, but the sweetest grass I have ever tasted is called nzimbe. It’s grown in Zimbabwe and called sugarcane as you probably call it where ever you are. Rich in glucose and vitamin, I wish there was a nzimbe-flavored cider drink. Perfect for Summer, init?!

Why do I tell you?

Well, its because Zimbabwe has an illustrious town called Triangle in the South Eastern region of the country where sugar trade is key to the survival of the local economy.  It rides on sugar production and the people are particularly proud of this asset. The weather is like the gateway to hades. Too hot, dry and unimaginable temperatures, however this is the perfect climate for sweet natural tasting sugar cane.

May Triangle remain as productive as it’s been for the sugar industry!

After recovering from a bout of worry, and personally-inflicted pressure and stress, I sought temporary relief from my local pub one evening. Why did I go to the pub? What I like about my pub is that it is the most liberal place in all of our conservative Upstate South Carolina city. I meet people from all walks of life and  have precious, memorable and riveting conversations with all patrons including the cooks, waitresses, friends, strangers, depressants, liars, clergymen, lawyers, professor’s but best of all,  I write best in this environment.  This pub is an honest institution.  It’s a family of regulars – the old, the young, the lost, the found.  It rarely judges. It’s a peaceful place too, and ironically a destructive place for some. The irony and beauty of alcohol and great conversation is that it provides temporary relief, yet I have seen many entangled in it’s side effects, including myself.

Nonetheless, on this Tuesday evening, a Kenyan lager called Tusker was offered by the lovely Amarie. Amarie is the pub’s all-star server. You really could buy anything so long as Amarie was selling it. Mulato skin, she has dark intent and hardworking eyes and a natural smile that warms. Her personality makes suicidal patrons reconsider the deed and she regularly fishes depressants out of the quicksand. After a couple of sips, I began a casual conversation with a regular called Adam Kingsley – now a trusted friend and brother.

Adam shared with me his prior married life and pictures of his beautiful young daughters he is proudly and inspiringly raising. He’s a Soccer Dad. Haha! Class. This gentleman looks Mediterranean, I thought.  He’s a clean cut lad. He’s polite, well travelled, and as honest as as a mirror. His daily job and mission is to help others and I felt attached to this servitude because I consider myself called to do the same. I shared my tension in my current relationships and he introduced a concept to me that will forever be the mantra of my relationship goals-setting because ever since I comprehended his words, the tension has somewhat dissipated, and confidence firmly restored.  He introduced the equilibrium of a relationship as a TRIANGLE and now you can connect the dots with sugarcane and Triangle.


I asked him to clarify what he meant.

He said for the success and enrichment of any relationship, you have to have a triangle. God at the top, man at the right and woman at the left.  The two cannot manage the relationship by referring to each other’s, traits, goals, appearances, mistakes, successes, flaws and history. None of that really matters, unless both are engaged and focussed on top of the triangle. WOW, I thought, so simple, but rarely is this concept applied due the high rate of domestic violence, divorce and infidelity we alll know too well about.

People aren’t selfless enough and make emotional decisions, without asking what is it that God wants.  God requires us to please him at all times and be the salt of the earth.  Every person in a relationship should ask if what I am doing pleasing to God!

Is what you are doing pleasing to God?

One Tuesday evening , I sat over dinner with a female friend of almost a decade.  Her name is Ms. Paltrow. She taught me about the word, “sonder”. To sonder is to realize other peoples’s unverbalized experiences.  You never know what a stranger is going through. Sometimes you don’t know what your spouse or girlfriend is going through so dealing with them directly isn’t always optimum. Refer to the triangle for guidance is all I can say.

It’s not about me, it’s not about her for its about what God says. If both apply this simple concept, equilibrium manifests itself. Balance occurs and a firm reference point provided.  A framework for all unanswered questions and emotions. I had not began to immediately apply this concept, but I can tell you it began to make marginal gains in my own journey.

There are thousands of scriptures inscribed about marriage and relationships. I mean just check out Song of Songs. I chuckle as I write this  because Song of Songs should be rated “No Under 13”. I think MARRIED couples should have a weekly Song of Songs read.  Bring the fire back people, Bring the fire!

So every time I meet a couple going through the growing pains, the oil changes and considerations of breakups or divorce, I tell them about the triangle. Life is much too short to ponder, to worry for you’ll fall into an abyss of confusion and sorrow.

I began to think of my Amai naBaba and these words were furnished on one rainy Sunday evening while in Northamptonshire, England.

Amai naBaba


You’re strong, wise and ridiculously able,
You’re a wounded shepherd, your story would be thought of as a warrior’s fable,
Private, pensive, I know God guides you while carrying you in his safe cradle,
I’m honoured to call you father, a leader, a MAN who is cautious and sharp as a needle.


You’re loving, considerate and unimaginably blind,
Your love unconditional,
Gifted, caring, you have a precious mind,
You give it ALL and I know you give more than the expected tithe,
Now I know where I get my generosity, my positivity, and my sight.


You’re the head of the triangle,
The Alpha, the Omega and Omnipotent Guide.
Show Mhofu and Amai to draw from your presence, your words, your Love,
Banish resentment, negative spirits, danger, fear, worry, anxiety from their Lives,
Rain peace, rain love, affection and stimulate the jive!
The glory, the fire, the fond memories, the battle, the fight,
The good fight of faith, that strengthens and binds.

God, Mhofu and Amai, I love you. May the triangle be ever present, alive and illuminate your matrimony.

Taste the lasting sweetness of the sugar cane you’ve grown, nurtured and blessed to have!




© SonofGuruve 2016

Allan Manyika