Ceiling (Old Wounds IV)

White sheet covering my torso
I am laughing
Because I know
Something about Christ
And his love for me
I smile.
I am free.

But I can feel the cracks
The ones I had spent months filling
Split up again
Opening wide
Embracing the pain
I am struggling to cover up

I smile
I look up
Thinking of Christ
His Love.

Perhaps there's salvation for people like me too.

Old Wounds III

Dear Lovers,
Thank you.
I am where I am because of you.
You have been the best teachers I could ask for
Eagerly teaching me what Love is not.

Love loves me.
She waited patiently for 17 years to have me.

Love loves me.
She freed me,
restored my dignity
my faith

Love loves me.

Love loves me.

She loves me.

And for you boy-who-broke-my-heart
Who started it all,
I take back the power I gave you.
You can no longer hurt me
I don't need you to love me
You no longer have any space in my heart
Or mind
I free myself of you.

Thank you for rejecting me.

Old Wounds II

I am on a merry-go-round
Turning and turning and turning
Nothing makes sense
The trees merge with the wind
That rests its hands on my cheeks
The pain in my chest becomes the cold, hard, ground
Turning round and round
It is all a blur.

Strangers
Familiar in their haziness
In their joining with the green and grey
Sit next to me,
Waiting expectantly.
Did they sense I have something to offer?
Were they told I have nothing to lose?

The first re-orients me to grinding
Bum on crotch, wind that waist
Leave no room for dissatisfaction.
The second wanted to hit it with a geek
Said I had become a beauty
(A lie. It was the year I had the worst acne outbreak)
I didn't care for his words.
I cared for his kisses,
for the ups and downs he could offer
to the round and round.

There was the third, the fourth, the fifth

The one who wanted to see me naked

There was fake laughter

And the silliness of youth

There was me

Faceless, 

Nameless,

An object of gratification,

In the round and round

In the green and grey.

Old Wounds I

A 14 year old stole my heart
While we rocked back and forth to
Daddy Owen's brother's music,
His front on my untainted behind
My heart pounding
Breathless, unable to speak,
I try laugh coquettishly
Like the popular girls with big boobs do.
Never had I been so close to a boy
So close that his breath tickled my ear
So close that I could hear the thump-hump of his heart
So close that it only took the slight swish of my arm to touch his.

We swayed a while
Till his hands
Dissatisfied with lying limply by his sides
Grabbed me by the waist
Drew me closer
To the moistness of his breath
To the ticklish feeling of my hair brushing on my neck
To groans and whisperings about beauty
To the uncomfortable button pushing on my butt.

3 or 4 weeks later,
Right after we have finished KCPE,
Right after turning down a suitor,
Right after I have declared my love,
He will rip my heart out
Hand it over to the prettiest girl in our class
And love her instead.

Dishonesty

Writer's block. I wonder whether I should call it that when I don't consider myself a writer. Good writing is something too beautiful, too genius to call my scribbling (and can I call typing scribbling really?) that. Besides, we hardly write stories. We type them now. Does that mean that no one can be called a writer anymore? Should we call them typers or typists now?

Back to what I was saying. I do not believe I am a writer or can be one anymore. I think beautiful reading-worthy work always contains an element of honesty. Writing in a sense is autobiographical, an avenue for the author to leave their mark. I have lost that, that bit of me that is peculiar in my work. I am no longer honest and I don't know if I could possibly be that.

The Sick Rose

BY WILLIAM BLAKE

O Rose thou art sick. 

The invisible worm, 

That flies in the night 

In the howling storm: 

Has found out thy bed 

Of crimson joy: 

And his dark secret love 

Does thy life destroy.

I don't know why but this poem has haunted me since my lecturer brought it to class about a month ago for us to analyze. Maybe it's because my lecturer kept on hinting at what a mischievous lover he used to be when he was at campus. Maybe it's because when we talked about it, we unanimously accepted that the persona was addressing a woman and it was only women who could get destroyed by love. Perhaps it is because I am a woman and my greatest fear is to be destroyed by love. I imagine me, plunging myself into passionate affair, losing my identity and exchanging it for his. I imagine that I forget to hold my own opinions, to think without thinking about what he thinks. I see myself  letting go of my dreams, hopes, and  desires for his. I imagine being silly enough to have sex, then to have sex without protection. I imagine myself pregnant, at a crossroads- should I keep it or abort? I imagine the shame, the hateful words that will come my way. My family is disappointed. My mother, she is contemplating forcing me to marry my lover. She is angry, not at me really, but at fate for letting history repeat itself. I imagine walking into church unsure whether to smile or cry. I see my friends, unsure of what to say. Should they congratulate or condemn me? I see myself alone. Lover does not bear the proof an illicit affair.

I am not silencing you.

But…

But you are.

But you are.

But you are.

But you are.

But you are.

But you are.

BUT YOU ARE.

A Pawn In A Man's Game

I'm taking an African Drama course this semester. Today we were talking about Ebrahim Hussein's Kinjeketile. If you're East African, you must know about Kinjeketile Ngwale, the guy who led the Majimaji rebellion against the Germans. So the play Kinjeketile  is pulled out from that guy.

Anyway, my lecturer and I begin to talk about rape in society. We talk about how soldiers rape women in Kenya - especially in those areas in which cattle rustling is prevalent - yet they go unpunished. We talk about the incident of Ngugi's wife being sexually assaulted during their previous visit in 2004. My lecturer argues that the assault was aimed at Ngugi and it was meant to humiliate and make him feel less of a man. I agree with him. The action was meant to hurt Ngugi and create a sense of helplessness, weakness and powerlessness.

He steers us back to the play. There is an episode where a female character is raped. The men silently watch her being carried away. They do not speak up. They do not fight for their daughter. They helplessly watch as one of their own is defiled. The mother of this character calls the men "women", stripping them of their masculinity. My lecturer argues that the rape scene is symbolic of the taking away the masculinity of a man. He argues that raping someone's woman messes up with the psychology of the man; it makes them feel less of a man. And that is the surest way of defiling a society; screw the woman.

He also mentioned something interesting. According to Freud, the male genitalia is the surest representation of the privileged sex and symbolizes the power that comes with it. Thus, men are always striving to become men, that is, to become powerful, just like their genitalia represents. Because of this power that men need to harness, women become important tools. They must be subdued. They must be controlled. They must be lesser beings. And if our enemy needs to be humiliated, defile and shame their women; leave them feeling helpless.

I feel like women have been pawns in men's power play, in their need to show who is stronger. I hate it. Is that all we are?

Christian

Choked. Tormented by the rituals, the small mindedness of us, the pretense.

Suffocating. Feeling the need to hold my breath. Fear. Someone might see the doubt crowding- creeping, crawling at my skin. A flood of whos and whys and whats. I smile.


Immense urge to escape. I no longer see God in me.

I'm reading on female circumcision today. It seems that the main reason it's practiced is to "purify" the woman and prevent her from being promiscuous. I think the creator(s) of this terrible thing were afraid. They saw a woman- beautiful, proud, confident. She was aware that she's a sexual being and liked, no loved, it. She wasn't sorry for her existence and this made those men uncomfortable. She intimidated them, made them pine for her. She never made excuses for who she was. This angered them.
And so they decided that they needed to bring this wonderful woman down to their level of inferiority and powerlessness. They decided that they needed to take something from her, to show her that she is nothing, to make her need them. And so they cut off her clitoris. When this did not silence her, they cut of her lips. But her head remained held high. And when they saw this, they sewed her vagina and left only a little hole (perhaps remembering that she was a tool for their pleasure).

They did all this out of fear. They couldn't handle a phenomenal woman.

Phenomenal Woman

BY MAYA ANGELOU

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. 

I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   

But when I start to tell them, 

They think I’m telling lies. 

I say, 

It’s in the reach of my arms, 

The span of my hips,   

The stride of my step,   

The curl of my lips.   

I’m a woman 

Phenomenally. 

Phenomenal woman,   

That’s me. 

I walk into a room 

Just as cool as you please,   

And to a man, 

The fellows stand or 

Fall down on their knees.   

Then they swarm around me, 

A hive of honey bees.   

I say, 

It’s the fire in my eyes,   

And the flash of my teeth,   

The swing in my waist,   

And the joy in my feet.   

I’m a woman 

Phenomenally. 

Phenomenal woman, 

That’s me. 

Men themselves have wondered   

What they see in me. 

They try so much 

But they can’t touch 

My inner mystery. 

When I try to show them,   

They say they still can’t see.   

I say, 

It’s in the arch of my back,   

The sun of my smile, 

The ride of my breasts, 

The grace of my style. 

I’m a woman 

Phenomenally. 

Phenomenal woman, 

That’s me. 

Now you understand 

Just why my head’s not bowed.   

I don’t shout or jump about 

Or have to talk real loud.   

When you see me passing, 

It ought to make you proud. 

I say, 

It’s in the click of my heels,   

The bend of my hair,   

the palm of my hand,   

The need for my care.   

’Cause I’m a woman 

Phenomenally. 

Phenomenal woman, 

That’s me.

Maya Angelou, “Phenomenal Woman” from And Still I Rise. Copyright © 1978 by Maya Angelou. Used by permission of Random House, Inc.

Thieving

You remember my dream about the man who was stealing my precious bag along a highway in the dead of night? I am living it everyday. I walk in a daze striving to hold on to my prize. You handed it to me, so precious, so full of promise. I was going to cherish and protect it. But with each step I take, I feel one hand on my throat sucking the breath out of me. The other slowly pries my little treasure from my grasp. I am scared. I am scared.

WAIT! 

IT'S MINE! HE GAVE IT TO ME!

But I can't shout it out. 

I don't because it's safer to have nothing to fight for, nothing to hold on to, nothing to be responsible for. 

It's safer to live in the silence of your dreams, building castles in clouds than on the solidity of chasing dreams, wrestling them down, and turning them into reality. 

I don't because I have knitted together a safety net, a substitute of the best. 

I can't. I don't. I won't.

Hands wrap themselves around my neck. I can no longer breath.

Help me.

The Year Of Vulnerability

I can already feel myself hating you. You who keeps coming to me with the same problem over and over. You who is not ashamed to fail over and over again and come back to me, every single time to tell me of your bad habits. I am beginning to hate you. You who is not like me.

I am angry. That I am sure about. What I do not know is whether I'm angry with you or myself. With for failing in the same pathetic way. With myself for lacking:

For lack of courage to fail ceaselessly like you do and still rise up.
For lack of empathy towards you.
For lack of happiness.
For lack of patience.
For lack of love.

For hating you.

It makes me hate me.


PS. This is not what I expected to write for my first blogpost of the year. Not very sunshine-y, but can we really control the Muse and its dictates? Happy New Year All.