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.

My Type Of Love:

WhatsApp Image 2019-12-24 at 12.00.17 AM

my type of love.

thrones your body.

king to your desires.

my type of love.

holds your neck hostage.

love bites to release you,

into surrender.

my type of love.

lingers on the tongue.

hypnotic.

your lips.

serenading,

with mine.

my type of love.

isn’t just about sex.

closure for the soul.

eye to eye.

stargazing.

into our little universe.

into — us.

my type of love.

gives a fuck.

plays on the dangerous.

toxic, yet intoxicating.

my type of love.

my type of love.

loves only a certain type.

 

model: @abhendi_claudia

 

 

Burnt.

The face of my forefathers.

men that smoked polygamy once.

and forgot to exhale.

men that –

stirred women.

– like fine wine.

between their tongues.

bitter sweet.

misogyny.

angry black.

women that –

breastfed.

– with both hands.

as if forcing a prayer.

into their children’s existence.

as if our lips.

– knew God.

as if we could empty

– the pain.

of father’s mistakes.

of men like.

– arsonists.

with petroleum for fingers.

women touched –

– between their thighs.

igniting sparks.

– sweaty nights.

deadly fights.

kisses from.

– other women.

– emotional tides.

– sons like.

– fire extinguishers.

– putting out.

– mothers burning.

– from your.

– fuckery.

The Brave Mister

 

Brave Mister
photo credit @ownherworld

 

I come in many shapes and sizes.

To some, I am a man of charisma; the kind that stifles fear and electrifies the will.

To others, I am the biggest loser; the man with a balding sense of humour.

To the art of words, I am her brave Mister; the fool that tried to tame her and failed.

I do not claim that Poetry loves me in the same manner, but tis the love Shakespeare proclaimed.

A love affair with the sublime that only ends in one way: when the writer stops writing.

I was three when I first met my muse — my Juliette of poetry?

Sparks flew when she spoke in metaphors and I in broken vows and sentences.

I made a mockery of myself; what with the diaper and the lack of sophistication?

So I strengthened my acquisition with the world; I learnt the language of Men and Bots.

I went to pre-school.

I learnt to colour in between the lines to impress her. I was fervently in love with my muse, but I could not express her. I fell sick; my muse ignored me still.

From an early age to adolescent, I buried myself in television. I let the ambient box sing me to sleep. I let it erase my talents. I dragged through life and death — then back through life. I did things I would never trade my breath for — like learning to dance with both feet. The magic was missing. There was no thrill, no spunk.

Till I read ‘My Black Is Beautiful’ by Yolanda Mabuto.

If admitting that I cried means I’ll be stripped of my right to be a man, then set me free. I was revitalised of an energy I once knew; I was alive again. And I felt my muse blink.

Ever collapse to the sensation of being home after a long trip?

I felt the same; I felt the rush of belonging to something bigger than self — of belonging to Juliette.

I read more and she spoke a little louder. We dined over Jane Austen’s passages, laughed like children in Chuck Lorre’s ‘Vanity Cards’ and survived horrors in Stephen King’s ‘Nightmares and Dreamscapes’.

The more I marched over the terrains of literature, the closer I came to my muse.

Soon, we became one; we became night and day.

And with a kiss, she vanished.

She said I was ready.

Ready for what?

Ready to write.

 

 

Of Rapists & Victims: The First Of Its Series.

Sometimes we forget. That those closest to us are capable of the most heinous acts.

Photo credit: @ownherworld

I.
The hum of her skirt,

Stories of lust sewn in,

He sings along,

Thoughts of skin on skin,

And echoes of her plea,

Melodious,

The subjugation of her will,

Melodious,

The screams of her inching to survive,

Yet moaning to the thrust,

Of him,

She denies the face of the man that robs her,

She denies,

Yet moans?

She denies,

The face of her father,

She gives in,

Because she feels,

That’s the only way,

Out.

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.

 

Lit, a recollection (II)

Read the first of this series here.

White lights queued. I made a new friend, and (much to my frustration) I cannot make his face out. I do, however, recall a sense of belonging; a nervous pain and desire that spoke through our eyes. We wanted to escape, to run with the liquor because childhood doesn’t drink. Adults do, and we wasn’t adults.

The baths were clouding. I wasn’t ready to see reality through a broken filter. The water was colder, saltier, and plenty. I wondered if he was going through the same thing, or maybe worse. Like AIDS? The thought was uncomfortable.

Getting dressed was easy, staggering through the hospital wasn’t. I made it, one stiffed leg at a time; I made it to the corridor. White lights queued. It was quiet, free from the clank of test tubes and needles.

Homie had a plastic ball. He had been waiting. We hit it hard and forgot the pills; we hit it hard to forget the misery. Our focus was on ruining something so beautiful,

And undisturbed.

Just like what life had done to us.

I was discharged six weeks later, Homie wasn’t.

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.

Cupid’s Vindication:

This is a public announcement to all the newly weds, the beloved, the couples.

Cupid’s dead.

I never gave him a chance to say his last words;

To that, I halfheartedly apologize.

His bones, however, sing me to sleep at night.

I curtained them over a window, and sometimes — just sometimes,

the ambience of past lovers strikes their panel,

I am repulsed by this, of course.

I murdered love to forget love, not to be reminded of it,

Figments of his being permeate the space between mind and soul,

between time immemorial and presence,

sex and missed phone calls,

It kisses the brain with a neuroplasticity,

one that strings memories and clouds thought,

one that whispers tales of her,
— the beautiful, the sweet, the divine,

I am repulsed by this, of course.

I murdered love to forget love, not to be reminded of it,

Cupid’s skin hangs from the ceiling like a lynched slaved,

like father’s clothes when he left,

like mother when she took her life,

like the remorse of death,

I touch it,

I touch Nicole,

I touch love,

I am repulsed by this, of course.

I murdered love to forget love, not to be reminded of it,

His arrow cradles itself in the palms of deity,

I pierce myself in search of its promises,

it meanders past the pain,

past the loneliness,

past the last heartbeats,

I see the strobes of an afterlife,

the illumination of heaven,

Yet,

even in the face of eternity,

I still dream of our time together,

 

I am repulsed by this, of course.

I murdered self to forget love, not to be reminded of it.

 

— Miscellaneous Lover.