Have you ever wondered what life would be if we didn't degrade our potential to the lowest decree. If our prayers were straightforward and we wished for money and death of our enemies. If we were not scared of being proud of our archivements and humility wasn't backed up by poverty and if we skipped the talking stage and went straight to business ( sex)

Stay with me

Have you ever wondered what life would be like if we gave up. For slavery never died but changed form to accommodate the times. If we stopped dreaming because dreams make hope and that's one powerful tool if you want to suffer.

Stay with me

Have you ever wondered what life would be like if we just didn't care. The biggest question can only be answered by our creator- why are we even here?. Vile circumstances fall upon the kind , torture being given by our oppressors, greed being made a sin yet we see others benefit and not to mention that they shall be punished in heaven while we are being punished on earth.

I'm almost done, stay!

And finally, we say love is love but to what extent, we torture our brothers and sisters and say we need space to make jobs that's don't even exist in our radar. A woman's safety determined by access to a gun. We are vile poor creatures and take orders from colonizers to kill one another and we have no shame in having our members weep. So from the bottom of my heart, as an angry African female:

Aii futsek!!!!

Writing will always be a fascinating sport to me. The ability to demystify , identify, shrink, compose certain thoughts and feelings in a way that seems universal and understandable and utilizing tone and genre as if performing to a certain audience , only the audience may be of acquired taste and one has to minimize slang to evoke a slight small feeling from them so that they approve and pity ones art.

It does not care about talent, trust me, talent is useless in the field of writing. One can never write on command despite having ideas that can captivate an audience and receive a virtual standing ovation. It requires feeling. Joy , sorrow, pity or anger make the most beautiful art brushes and one's tears create's the unknown yet breath-taking canvas required in this field.

And it depends, it really does , those who write about death have more color than those who talk about life , loss overtaking the game of gain and hatred being more realistic than the idea of love because real beauty comes in the ability to overcome and that can only be measured with a thermometer called pain.

Alas this, mentors teach us to practice till perfection , read widely to harness the craft , ask what's in trend so as to not get canceled and seek advice from those who have existed in the field for far too long forgetting the most important rhythm :

Writing was never meant to be perfect, it was meant to be flawed , for flaws weave out a certain uniqueness that is all sorts of beautiful.

Growing up we were told we broke free from the shackles of captivity. That our ancestors and grandfather's survived and fought for us to be here.

That land was a commodity to all and that diamonds and pearls were kept within ,

But to what degree?

Do we speak of the inhumane treatment of our brothers?

How we attack foreigners and now we rape mothers ?

That we changed the color and became the new oppressors?

That blood that was shed was better if we had drank it ?

To what degree?

Do we admit to being greedy and selfish?

Sacrificing those who are our own relatives?

Retaliate with violence when we face accountability?

Deny Deny Deny all accusations?

To what degree?

Do we beat our women and kill them too ?

Call them golden black and cheat on them?

Give them AIDS and HIV ?

Because a real man's appetite cannot be filled by one

To what degree ?

Is our rich culture spoiled with injustice

Corruption the new mode of transportation

Humiliation rituals masked as empowerment

Our mothers and fathers dancing in the eyes of a spoilt toddler?

To what degree?

Were we not better at the mercy of the banana man , being hidden and overworked tirelessly, because at least then we blamed them for our suffering and hid the true nature of humanity .

But to what degree?

Photo credits : imperial war museum - Princess Ademolla

People often believe that becoming a mother is one of the most beautiful things a girl can go through. The loud echos from the bedroom, the love embodied in the eyes and the dependency from a new born. Well I beg to differ, This is the story of how I became a mother to three boys at the early age of 24.

It was the 3rd of October when I clocked in for my shift, a sunny day indeed. Takundwa , my little brother, had just brought me lunch and I was staring at the window as he waved goodbye moving towards the village. I heard a loud sharp scream that pieced through my lazy staring coming from the labor ward. And I knew the contractions had started. I quickly sanitized my hands and put on my mask and rushed there Immediately.

The woman was already panting , her husband holding her hand. I got there with the other midwives and started preparing the room. The husband was reluctant to stay but the firm grip of his wife was holding him hostage and he could only utter words of encouragement as if to pass time and distract him from the heavy view.

Immediately I crouched down professionally and started telling the lady to push. After a struggle the baby's head came out and I carefully passed him to the other midwife, another head also started showing and I passed the baby as well and almost instantly another showed and at this point we were shocked, not sure whether to start singing praises or to offer donations and advice to the couple

The three boys where taken to get cleaned up while I started cleaning up the lady. I accidentally looked up and met the horrified face of the husband. “ These things happen” , I said , as I tried to lighten up the mood, “some even have seven”. The other midwife signaled me and I excused myself and went to her.

"We have a problem" she said calmly, avoiding making a scene. She led the way and for a brief moment I thought a tragedy would not be so bad as the couple seemed like they couldn't even afford one child but I quickly erased the evil thought as I too am a woman of the cloth. As I got to the baby's room I was more than petrified. Three sets of albino eyes darted around rapidly and I froze instantly on the spot.

It was no secret that albino children where viewed as taboos and bad omens in our village. They were special days that were set aside to burn them as part of a village cleansing ritual. I avoided attending the rituals , it was the only time where being a village nurse was the best decision I had ever made. I would voluntarily take on double shifts and work so independently avoiding the mere thought of slaughter and now at this very moment I was in the presence of three whole sacrifices.

I stepped back , the tears I shut down after my attachment years ago , visiting my eyes once again. “ Ntombi we cant…” , I whispered failing to finish my sentence as the lump on my throat made it difficult to speak.

I belong to no one , I am an experience

I embody a perfect love but I fail to give

I am not fragile , I am sweet

Full of life and potent dreams

However I Crack at the slightest inconvenience

When it comes to love , I am not real

Long lasting heart trenching love

I belong to no one, I belong to me

If the cupid exists , don't let him see my door

For with all that gift, he will see me as a foe

Against the magic , against the pace

Because to me love it but a phase

The ones who know me have survived

Purified by the tears they sacrificed

All in the name of being with me

They lost it all and surrendered to defeat

Don't get me wrong, I wish to love

Be embraced and paraded in sight

Kissed and taken by surprise

The one knee thing they do with diamonds on their side

But after the adrenalin, all cease to exist

The chasing , yearning and locking of lips

The feelings I had , locked inside

Die and get buried faster than a butterfly.

I am not real, i am an experience

Not to be kept , nor to be prayed for

I'm sane enough to kiss the hand

But I will bite it down afterwards

Perhaps I have story buried deep

Of how I felt till I died in my sleep

But unless a Sailor brings in the scroll

I will remain a broken petal, beautiful and sweet.

"Mayday, Mayday, my house is not in order"

I utter as I stare at myself in the mirror, being African alone is already something I find poetic, because what do you mean I'm born at an obvious disadvantage?

The people I aspire to be are not in my region, Yet I share the same sentiments when it comes to religion.

Those who have surpassed my standards, in terms of where I come from, Have joined hands with my oppressors,Yet I aim to become them and stand where they are, because I have been institutionalized to believe that corruption is the highest definition of success.

Everything I say is from a mental diversion.

Being a black child alone is already a painful truth in disguise,But being a girl child who is black adds more to the trial. I stand to correct those who I believe have done wrong in the set of eyes of many, However, they crush me down because they believe that my mere identity is demonetized.

I aim to show that I am better than what they claim I can be, But they refuse to understand that my status in society can be above that of cultures famous teachings

From girl children fighting to become part of the education system, Now they want to crush us down when it comes to the work life interception.

I may be a girl child, but I believe in the vision, Yet they shut me down because my vision is a truth bound to my womanhood. They utilize scripture to control my mindset And reduce my existence to the mere role of a family. They refuse for me to become more than I am,

Because in reality, Eve was only Adam’s rib.

Luki - Cant split my 100

Is it not enough that I cannot withstand the grip of patriarchy trying to strangle me ? , that issues of freedom give me the same adrenalin as the idea of a cigarette and coffee on a gloomy day . That the word "Choice" is such a romantic concept unless it comes to picking what I would rather eat ?

Is it not enough?

That I am a believer of castration as a cure for the disease of rape , that I believe women should be compensated for the time lost , That equality has never been a question to me and that marriage shouldn't be job tittle

Is it not enough?

That in rooms where culture and tradition emit a suffocating odor, I smell like roses , that I believe in accountability over artficial peace , that I do not romanticize suffering and I believe in rampaging some existing laws ?

And is it not enough ?

That I believe that being able to identify trees and being able to speak in English have the same measure when it comes to intelligence? Psychology and izaga have the same teachings and that i believe that tribalism and xenophobia were crafted by the coconut man, "divide and conquer", dressed in colonial hands using us to export minerals stolen from our own soil?

Is it not enough?

Growing up , I used to be obsessed with snow. I believed being white was a privilege and being rich was associated with race. That eating sadza was barbaric and that I will grow up and move to where I truly belong - Away.

As I grew older, so did the prevalent expectations I had set for myself under no pressure at all. The need to be perceived as knowledgeable, embody the etiquette, the standard I had seen from movies had to reek from me , the style , the accent, the personality.

Then I entered the scary 20's , and I felt suffocated , I was too African to foreigners, too western for Africans. Maslow cooked with loving and belonging because that was true. I was an alien by definition, not enough for either. Then I saw reality. I had been robbed of my chance to be patriotic by dubious beliefs and I had to familiarize myself with my own heritage and understand that English is a language not a measure of intelligence, Religion and culture can coexist but are separate entities , and that colonization escaped textbook pages and became our definition of "we made it".

We often mistake wealth for living in Paris, London, or New York, when real wealth is being fully known and still belonging somewhere. “Home]” as we call it , real wealth is speaking your native language without shame. It is saying your name in a foreign land and instantly finding a sahwira. It is knowing enough about your traditions to correct those who try to convince you that being yourself is barbaric.

Migration is not the enemy. Losing yourself to be accepted is.