I’ve watched too many of my women, I have, cry over my men. I’ve done it too, I have, sometimes out loud, most times in secret, all the time conscious.
I’ve seen hair fall out, I have. I’ve intercepted plans, deciphered dreams, I’ve held up walls as they crumpled, I have. Just as others have for me.
Hold on, I keep saying, be strong. Another sun will shine. But I go home and null over my own words. I go home and live their pain.
What is a hero that is no hero when there’s nothing to hero about? Who is the feminist that goes home to patriarchy?
I’ve watched, I’ve listened, I’ve seen, I have. And above all that I have lived. Lived I have. And in this living it has always been the female condition that gnaws. It scratches. It screams its damn lungs out.
The other women, the baby mamas, those that sleep their way to the top, those undermined, those abused, those who are never just good enough… body. The great, the mighty, the queens, givers of life, nourishers of Aya, descendants of Nzinga, offspring of Modjadjie.
I see you. We see you. Us women understand. We carry your load, we cry your tears, we pull your plough. The teeth in your smile are ours, the love in your hearts… ours. We share the joy in your triumphs. We are the speed in your step. Depend on us.
We are women, we are. Despite what the world does to us, we rise, we smile, we go on each day. Solace is found in self-love… it is.