To Be Black and Woman and Alive undressed by a guy

Yeah you’re alive, until sheepishly laying there as a pedestal for my semen. You catch me dreaming of a holiday season rubbing hair that does not need relaxing, i.e., your need for affection interrupting me.

 My blood is of the village wise, and heart of a village peacock, I, came to the city match-making so I can be the next big-pimping. Excuse my thinking but I have seen you snorting, tin playing and panty-hose-strip jumping and jiving. And your mother’s no hair-of-yours affording, having you pointing at my bald head ‘cheese-kop lerago la missus’ teasing.

Now you want my shoulder to cry on, when, big homies, the size of daddies, who made me feel small in men’s rooms, split you like peas and made you a recipe. I’m ashamed to have been your fellow, but this is what rejection’s moment of silence had me to learn;

Black man is ungrateful. He would rather face the whip of the master after having deserted your face, frowning upon it, while it whispered, “We can endure, we can make it, we just have to hold on”. Ungrateful, not setting aside pride, poor, and won’t be inclined. His will is to extend a generational curse for big hipped and smooth featured daughters over a warm heart/ sensitive soul/ grounded determination/ passionate breath/ hoarse truth/ beautiful mind...

You will never be as good as them? During romance your mind is at war for cheap attainments. To give shelter to men, guard souls of men, wash sheets for men, feed men, realise men. And you open the door for yourself, sow clothes for yourself, and bring food to the table before anyone else.

You will never be as good as them? Because even at struggle, they will look at a made, black, man and say, “Free food”. He can change from a tree that bore him fruit and sheltered him, to a tree that accepts pruning. Your love teaches sons to never look back, until it is too late. You may be blamed for this – reassuring him of his mistakes. In time to come, having to fathom being introduced to ‘Miss Take’. For a son might only know how to tell if he feels love, and not whether the love towards him is real or not.

NB: Nina Simone – Black Is The Colour of My True Love’s Hair

@Katli Jazy San _ it is the on-going struggle African-woman go through as man puts her on, not in, constant shackles, i.e., bondage of(in) her support to crown him; leader of our race’s progression – economically, ecologically and spiritually. She vouches for his existence among the African queens; he knows he is an instrument, he finds freedom in Caucasian music, flooding his own culture, (and) just so he can walk on water.