Fear of facts, fear of truth, fear of standing out. Fear of fraternal correction, fear of the hypocritical mob: "Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear." - Alan Paton I'm a teacher where the future flows from The ground. I water in the shadow of the clouds, As the sun fails at peeping at me, smiling proud. These tender blades look like mini green swords Although the arid air wishes to suck out the breath That fills their stomata, replacing it with death. Cool air rushes round my feet, as I side-step My precious lawn. Nature and I collaborate To heal the future, and watch it elaborate. But the clouds suddenly shift and the peeping sun, Like a Netflix nightmare, smiling at innocence, Paints them brown forever in masked silent violence (c) nyonglema
Tag: abuse
This is a graphic depiction of violence…dedicated to all the Sonias who only get heard after self-immolation, or the Sonias who keep quiet because nobody believes them.
Today a woman died after being abused, and nobody would listen to her until she was dying on a hospital bed after setting herself ablaze. Now she’s dead and the police would investigate her case.
Imagine the frustration that led her to consider the only outcome “Let it burn!”
This is a fire for Sonia and all victims of abuse, male or female: Your life is precious, we know what you’re thinking, but that fire will not heal you, faith will.
Let it burn!
Let these tears on my skin burn!
Let these tears fall down and burn!
Let years of hope years of study and work burn!
Let the future burn, let my past and dreams and memories burn !
Let this body borne 9 months in my mum then born burn !
Let this city I walked safe sear in the heat, I say let it burn !
Let my country and all who walk it, think it, breathe it burn !
Let the world hurtling and hurting innocence within it burn!
Let those men who saw innocence walking and got heart burns,
Let out vicious virility ripping my clothing and my skin burn! Burn! Burn ! Burn!
Let the pain of nails digging into my tender breasts burn
Let it be that in that instant I had a phoenix to protect my flower while they burn
Let it be that the blood in my taste the pain round my eyes, my loin which burns,
Let out this creature as 2 pulled then slammed me to the concrete burned
My life in a fire consuming them inside which I denied them,
And punched as I tried to protect dignity dying, and jabbed feeble
Arms trying to keep off intrusion inside, moving violently moving
Beating me inside and outside wounding me killing me stroke
By stroke defeating strength straining youth for old men’s
Gain! Choking, choking, choking, breathing hindered by hands covered in
My blood flowing from up and where mum told me nobody must touch,
Flowing going with all, going with all, my all going
With all their coming with confusion, in my wrecked mind wondering
What being would come of all this? What illness pouring
From the instruments of my undoing would come in,
Into my safe haven: my garden, my own mine no more!
Let it be that the phoenix helped me now kneeling here,
Letting kerosene wash me clean, heal my wounds
Letting me heal in the flames of renewal
Letting me burn.
(c) Nyonglema
Tip tap tip tap tip tap dumm dumm dumm
Tip tap tip tap tip tap dumm dumm dumm
The butterflies don’t fly around anymore where I live
Nor do bees weave honey out of the sweet notes from trees.
Outside there’s quiet, so quiet even the colours took leave
And the dim light scoffs the darkness dancing around me
The fireflies died eons ago. Those notes of the piano
I long to hear turned to screeches within each cord
Of my soul: broken chords, broken hope more than you’d know
The cling clang of my chains and my beaten soul are in accord.
Tip tap tip tap tip tap dumm dumm dumm
Tip tap tip tap tip tap dumm dumm dumm
Yes the steps outside, those steps I hear as I fall
Into this abyss I love, those steps keep knocking and get denied
Entry to my cosy coroner of paradise which tends the walls
Within which I cage myself: this body I’ve hatefully knifed.
I clutch the bane and nurse my pain as my very own kin
And wish they could float in, wishing the owl’s hoot
Were not real, and they could pass through any- and everything
That the nightmares in my reality were entirely moot.
How shall I let them in to take away my pleasure
My treasure, my precious tender executioner?
The butterflies don’t fly around here in any measure
And the bees fled the pestilence in this corner.
(c) Nyonglema
