Tag Archives: Rape

Let that M’F’er Burn #writing201 #abuse #corruption #sonia

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
      
                                      
       
      

Why the silence? #abuse #paedophilia #pedophilia

There’s not a rustle in the garden.
Lucy is looking at the brow of her mom;
Looking for a crease there saying the words mom’s harbouring.
Looking through her salty eyes, listening past her chest’s drums.

Listening past her sobs for comfort
From the voice which had sent her hence:
The flask of food she had to lovingly port
To her uncle who was always funny with his winks.

Looking past her tears for feedback.
That day, the winks became vehement pulls,
And the behemoth with winks rushed her to the back,
So her screams and fighting were vain pitiable  tools.

She just let this old cat out of her bag,
From years of pillow tears, shame and disgust.
She’d called her mom aside into where the  cricket brags
So her shame might be shared with as few people as must.

The disbelief Lucy saw stung her even deeper,
As she sought a sign to make things better.
But the brow didn’t crease, or change in any manner,
And the silence made Lucy hate herself for bringing up this matter.

(c) Nyonglema

Continue reading Why the silence? #abuse #paedophilia #pedophilia

The Irony of the Red Smiling Cyclops #nuun #nassara #genocide #isis

It appeared on the doorpost as a Cyclop’s smiley face
For some Cyclops WhatsApp icon, but red-themed application
Yes gruesome red, in contrast to the expectation
You would get from a smiley face, even for a Cyclops.
It quizzed my curiosity and I dug further on Google’s interface.

It appeared on the search page as the queen Isis,
Long told in Hieroglyphics, Cyrillic and Roman alphabet,
Patroness, mother, queen, blessings with love met,
But unlike these grim Arabic script in an ominous logo,
And tales of death, pain littered with deeper crises

It told of “nuun”, 14th letter of a blessed script
In which many beautiful and wise thoughts found life,
A letter which told of blessing and not of strife
Being in a position multiple of seven, a number blessed
By God Himself when he Earth and Heaven in 7 breaths whipped

It told of the Magen David, a shining star, which should be a good thing
Only that it brings memories of gaunt bodies piled in trucks
And human experimentation, and as history at our door knocks
And Isis or Isil opens to let in what we dread most
“Nuun” is stuck in my iris with pain and scary sting.

For I have seen the blank stare of heads painting in red drips the pickets
And Leonidas’ 300-style gore re-enacted in modern city streets
As heads are divorced from bodies and all around are scared heartbeats
For even bloodied child clothes cover head-less bodies,
As Christians are beheaded like one would roast crickets.

It brings back memories of my ancestors up in the Samba regions,
Fleeing the harsh choice given to them by the jihadists:
To adorn the village picket or join the cause of the Islamist,
Forced to create a third choice, which was to leave their homes,
Friends and family to pseudo-Islam or lurid lethal lesions.

Is it that time again for Iraqi Christians?
Shall the world once again watch the Red Indians’,Tutsis’, and Jews’
Story take gruesome form and hack through human sinews?
How many litres of innocent blood, and kilogrammes of hacked human flesh
Are needed to realise the vanity in the life of Homo sapiens?

(c) Nyonglema

African Seed

Terror lurks in the darkened eyes of a growing child

As each minute she dips into the shrieks from her mama, 25;

Marked dad curled in silence on the ground, wanting life,

Marked by another man who’d barely seen seasons 25.

  

She recalls how daddy cried out and fell silent to the ground.

Mum recoiled at many punches many staunch “men” had found.

She was 4 back then, and saw as men 12-year olds from out of town

As they ripped her mama’s clothes…she closes her eyes, counting each heart pound.

  

She recalls that red stream that slithered to her hidden corner

Soaking her skirt; soaking in hurt like staring at the sun’s corona.

Outside guns rattled, taking out all who could mourn her.

Lonely, the tears trickled down slowly, spelling “Were’t I wasn’t born, Ah!”

  

Slowly the tears trickled down that lonely jaw…

“Jane”, cried the professor, “What’s the result of this mixture?”

Jane knew not what was before, she stood there distraught.

She wishes she could do better, but her past sticks in the picture.

  

(c) Nyonglema

WHAT HAPPENS #Africa #Peace #StopWar

What happens when karma turns right around?

What’s clapping to demagogues’ speeches as they mount

Lie on lie,

Promising Sugar Candy mountains,

Each word thought as false as the applaud of the crowd

Gathering round?

 

 

What happens when arms turn your life around?

What’s laughing at demographic decay as bombs amount.

The sun’s less bright;

Dust, blood shoveled on rotting corpse mountains,

Each door wrapt in pain, writhing in tears at the shrouds

Which will cost heavy amounts?

 

 

What happens when mama’s turned down to the ground?

What happens in your heart as that man strips and mounts

Before your eye,

And rips and rakes; all those shrieks you hate mounting,

Each bone crimped in pain at so sad a sound

Tearing your tears out?

 

 

What happens when the army toss your dad around

With laughing? With machete slash his mouth,

Burst his eyes,

Chop him and put another piece to the corpse mountain;

Each part calling your sorrow as flames on the mountain fume in their bout

And your fingers are gripping the ground?

 

 

Mama Africa, can’t you see the arid ground

Soaking up the blood of your children?

Why are you so deaf to the sound?

Why are we cleft so profound into hateful factions?

So many questions,

No answers.

That leaves me pondering:

What happens when we’ve stomped all our brethren underground?

 
 

(c) Nyonglema