Suffocating:

II
Model: Audrey Obuobisa-Darko

I.

I am sorry about your abuse. I am sorry that your uncles forced themselves into you. I am sorry you were too young to fight – too naive to recognize your captivity. I am sorry the bedroom walls turned to prison bars. I am sorry they took their turn on you. I am sorry your screams couldn’t shake the trauma — ricocheting back to your ears in surrender. Where was God then? Or Jesus? I am sorry you lost your faith before you even found it.

Your father chose not to believe you. Your father read the newspaper. As you knelt on the floor begging to be heard. Your father flipped the pages. As you spoke of his brothers. As you suffocated to the memories. Your loss of innocence. Your father jaded your soul. With his disbelief. Killing you softly. With his ignorance. Killing you softly. With his silence. Your father chose not to see the scars. Or the blood. Or the torn apart clothes. Or the arch in your back. Or the pain in your large, beautiful Yoruba eyes. Your father called you a “little whore” for lying. For speaking evil on his brothers. Your father. Your father taught you to apologize.

For being raped.

II.

You found out, years later, that your father sold you. He said your body was never yours to begin with. He died without apologizing. He died, and you found the strength to attend his funeral. You refused to give the eulogy. You let the silence sit with his soul.

May his soul burn in eternal hell.

III.

Your lover kisses your forehead. Your lover recites your name like a sensual poem. Akanni – your legs tremble. Akanni – your loins are filled with fire. Your lover kisses your lips. He knows your rhythm. Slow, yet intense. Your lover is a master at loving you. And you love that about him. He parts your legs. Gentle, yet firm. He caresses your thighs with his hands. Your chest arches. Consumed by desire. Consumed by fantasies about to be fulfilled. Yet. Yet you stop him. Before it goes too far. Before the pinnacle of lust. You tell him of your past. Of your uncles. Of your father. He knows. This not the first you have told him this. He knows. And he is tired. Of rejection. Of waiting. Of not being a father.

Your lover begins to rage. Fire rolls off his tongue. Like Satan’s wrath. You place your hand on his chest. You try to consul him. And gloriously fail. He… he calls you an “old whore”. A woman your age should be grateful to find someone – he says. He calls your body a graveyard. Of love. And hopes. And dreams. The bedroom walls turn to prison bars. Your lover escapes. And you remain captive – to a past you could not control.

Of Rapists & Victims: II

Photo credit: @ownherworld

Read the first of the series here.

She walks through,

Roads filled with street signs and scars,

Of graffiti and tattoos on walls,

Sex symbols and misery in red,

RRUUN,

She knows not to stay,

She knows not to become one with the darkness of the night,

She knows not,

Of prostitutes and pimps that turn their hustle into songs,

And force strangers to sing,

9 p.m,

The streetlights flicker,

10,

The silence falls,

Schizophrenic,

Yet the voices go,

The clicks of heels hitting the ground,

Sing me to sleep,
Baby,

1036,

She paces,

Not slick on the gas pedal,

He notices,

Through the rear view mirror,

Through the iris of a sinner,

Through instinct,

He reverses,

Slick on the gas pedal,

She falls,

Legs confused by the pulse of fear,

Legs confused by the head games of her stilettos,

1035,

He steps out of the car,

1036,

His steps are quiet,

1037,

The stillness of lust masquerading as innocence,

1037,

Heavy,
The weight of his presence on her skin,

1037,

Heavy,
She feels undressed by the ghosts of his hands,

Heavy,
She feels herself shaping into the arc of his desire,

And breaking,

Sing me to sleep,

Baby,

Chills of the devil’s voice,

You are one of them now,

You are one of the girls.

Of Black, Children & Vices.

tyronetakawira
photocredit: @artbywak

Colonialism kissed,

The face of the African sun,

Systematic,

The infiltration of the devil’s kiss,

Illusions of colour,

Illusions that blinded,

The hearts of supremacists,

WE ARE CHILDREN,

Dreams of our ancestors,

Silhouettes of their realities,

Our minds cannot conceive of,

Shades of black,

of niggers cut,

blood,

Bath of kaffirs,

The knife that is white privilege,

WE WERE BORN,

98tolife.wordpress.com
photocredit: @creativesoulphoto

With a melanin scarred,

We spite,

The stretch marks on our skin,

Yet poverty sits,

On the roof of our tongues,

Can we afford to speak?

Lineages of men,

That smoked polygamy once,

And forgot to exhale,

Lineages of men,

That skip responsibility with a tempo,

Crescendos of pain,

Crescendos of absence,

Men that leave,

Before daughters utter the word,

Father.

A MOTHER’S VICE,

98tolife.wordpress.com

Chinua demands,

Chinua demands to eat,

Chinua always demands,

His stomach shouts,

Ghosts of his vigor,

Ghosts of his hard work,

His stomach shouts,

Substances of liquor,

Substances of his hard work?

She kneels,

And washes the hand that bruised and battered her,

She kneels,

And feeds the mouth that swallows her name whole,

Before vomiting out another,

Priscilla?

The turn of her insides.

She knows not,

Of the silent messages,

And the loudness of moans,

That aren’t hers,

She knows not,

Of the legs that spread,

On the same bed that holds her secrets,

She knows not,

Of her daughter’s beauty,

Because hers, surely,

Isn’t enough,

She knows not?

She knows,
And justifies,

And kneels.

 

Daughter Of The Soil:

98tolife.wordpress.com

Your mother was an old, vibrant soul.
Naomi Nothando Dube? Wasn’t that her name?
A daughter of the soil,

she birthed you out of auras and Afrika,

beauty and fragility.

Your words recite her truths,

stories of slavery and sub-Saharan romance,

apartheid and rain gods,

Your ebony heritage has never been so sexy to me.

Your lips turn into a smile,

You say,

“Mama fed me porridge with one hand,

and wrote feminism in my heart with the other,

she made me carry buckets full of water,

and washed my body with small stones and scripture,”

I smile and whisper,

“Your ebony heritage has never been so sexy to me,”

Your eyes run away from mine,

You say,

“Mama beat me with a stick like the other boys,

she made me cook sadza and okra every night,

we all ate in one plate,”

I wipe the tears of your face,

“Still, your ebony heritage has never been so sexy to me,”
You say,

“Mama never let me outside,

all the girls got drunk and had fun,

I was as sober as a tea cup,

and dull as the tea bag,”

I laugh and say,

“Very funny, Gugu, but your ebony heritage is still sexy to me,”

You take off your shirt and turn your body from mine,

I see the marks on your back,

the scars under your arms,

You start to cry,

“What’s wrong?”

“Mama was an old vibrant soul,

a daughter of the soil,

but she never warned me of men that could steal my innocence.”

Enjoyed the read?  Give a big follow to MIND OF THE WRITER for inspiring it.

You can also check out her poems on abuse and sexual violence here and here.