Blessed Be the Woman

African Woman

You’re powerful
You’re strong
You’re amazing
The nurturer
The force
The bringer of life
The bringer of light
The bringer of love
Mummy
“Abo”
“Obinrin”
“Iya”
“Iyawo”
My lady
My sister
My mother
My queen
My woman
The greatest piece of art

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For Writers I: Don’t Gag Your Self

One minute, you’re possessed by something
till you cast it out through words;
the other minute, you are not.

Writing is an art;
you can’t fulfill all writeousness.

Serve your words raw when you need to.

She Took the Midnight Train Going Anywhere

Doggo.jpg

…and she let out a mild giggle as she looked out the window [😂 the one on the other side of the train, smartass]. Yes! It was finally happening. 

She breathed the air in slowly, and although it was not as fresh as she had dreamt it would be, it was not that bad, plus it did not smell like human’s sweaty and dirty body, and his musty clothes. 

“A bitch has no collar. A bitch has no owner. A bitch has no name. A bitch’s not the same. A bitch has no soul. A bitch is, at last, on her own”, she muttered, before closing her eyes.

She thought about going to doggo’s house, kissing his butt and licking his ears, then lying down, with her back on the ground, and as soon as he came closer, releasing hot urine into his face. She giggled again. 

“A bitch is free. This bitch.”

The Man of My Dreams

church.jpg
Many times a week, after we stopped talking, I would have several dreams of him- terribly stressful dreams that would make me cry. In those dreams, I would anxiously wait for him in the church that I grew up in, that we grew up in- where we first met, or in an unknown, deserted place, but he would ignore me.

He never remembered our initial meeting when we first began to talk, as much as I tried to get him to, but I did, very clearly. He was with his friends, and since they were so tall, they looked intimidating to me. He stretched his right hand out towards me and I put mine in his briefly, before asking my question. The question was about a creative-arts program that was to be held, if I remember correctly. I thanked him, and walked back to my guardian or friend, I cannot remember which.

The dream that made me cry the most was the one in which I was talking to him but he was avoiding eye contact and walking away, leaving me in an unknown place.

I had a very similar dream before we stopped talking, and I narrated everything that I could remember to him. I had not been in contact with him for over a week at that time and I was beginning to worry, and as soon as I remembered the dream, after he texted me, I gave him the details. I did not understand that it was a prediction then, and that a little excuse for walking away was all that he needed. We had a little, insignificant quarrel, and he milked the argument so much that my heart lost its perkiness.

Nine months after, just when I thought that I had moved on, that my soul was healed and I was free, although I had occasionally, very intensely hoped that he would text me, I saw him again. It looked like a children’s program was being held at the church. I sat and waited for him in one of the seats at the back, and I saw him pass me by. He did not notice me.

He looked very sad, and his hair was so full and unkempt. I had never seen that much hair on his head. I watched him sit on one of the chairs at the front of the hall. I wanted to walk over to him to say hello but I could not. In the first few dreams, I did the talking. In all the other ones, neither of us spoke to the other. I only watched him and hoped that he would talk to me, but that was it.

After he sat, I went over to the speaker who had the microphone and whispered something into her ears about the children she was addressing. The few sentences that I made were acknowledged- she nodded. I walked back towards my seat and out of the hall, hoping that the distraction would make him notice me. I made sure not to look at him this time.

Ileke idi

I went into a little room with a sleeping mat on it and I laid down. Immediately I dozed off, someone banged on the door. I jolted out of my sleep and screamed his name. I looked up to see if it was him, but it was not. It was my younger brother. He made fun of me the way he does every time any reference to him- the him- is made in my home.

I woke up, and asides the perspiration and tiredness that I noticed, my muscles were sore. My whole being was sore; I cried like never before.

This is me coming to terms that it is over, that he is not coming back, that I have left that church, that he does not love me as much, or at all. This is me letting go off the broken karmic tie and resigning to fate. This is me dying, accepting that my yin will never be balanced with his yang. This is me at the funeral of our attraction and love that died long ago. This is the ninth month, and when I had the dream at around 8 pm today, I birthed my stillborn.

Winslow Homer - The Gulf Stream

Heal: You Are Beautiful

Were there terrible men and women in your lives,
relatives or non-relatives, at any point,
who found it pleasing to compare your beauty to someone else’s, 
in order to get to you and make you think less of yourself
or get you to agree to whatever perversion they wanted to try with you.

“You are fine but not as fine as your mother; why are you feeling yourself?
Remove your skirt, let me see your legs” and such.

I bring you healing. You are beautiful, and I’m not just trying to patronize you. Don’t ever let anyone determine what you think of yourself. 

Can We Be ‘Grokay’?

Can one be great but not okay?
Can one be okay but not great?
Can you be everything but okay?
Can you be okay, but without anything?
How can we be okay if we’re not great?
But, how can you be great if you’re not okay?

 


Money or Art?
Money or Life?
What do we do? We need both. 
We don’t get paid for living, we need money to survive,
but we don’t live when the money comes first.
Our art dies and so do we.

heART

osunnn

The Art of Stephen Hamilton

When our hearts get broken,
when our souls get injured,
when our very beings get tampered with,
our eyes shed water in sympathy,
and art becomes the tears
that our hearts profusely bleed.