Hypersexualization of the African woman

Fetishized; my worthiness is
measured in cup sizes and big booty.
Integrity is compromised and dismissed.
Body parts named- policed and sexualized.
They say; “it’s the sway of my African belle derriere, the clumsiness of my breasts, the thickness of my lips and the arch of my back”.

Objectified by the media,
my nudity is
plastered on billboards, social
media and marketed in raunchy music videos and sex magazines.
Bartered in foreign currency for
a bit of the exotic experience.
Perceived as promiscuous- sold for consumption.
My body is just entertainment and a peculiar scientific breakthrough.

I am a product of disrespect.
The streets mock my pride.
Patriarchal society trashes my
name with a twisted perception
of my body.
Lewd; incapable of love.
A belligerent woman with an insatiable sexual appetite.
My tinted shade is salaciously appreciated with sexist comments,
but not pursued.
I am only good enough for an experiment.
Grope me in public- bring me to
my knees because somehow my
history conditioned me to be
a sex slave and the rape culture is nothing but a myth.
His ego must be massaged.

Stereotyped; I am the proverbial angry black woman waving the blood stained banner and cussing out at everyone like the world owes me something.
The world owes me nothing!
Baptized with sperm as “Jezebel”- promiscuous and hyper-sexual.
Archetypes of my history are
smudged on the walls of public
lavatories as a legacy of colonialism
and imprinted on my consciousness.
Voyeurs of my ancestors lined up
on the auction block come back
to me in sepia each time my black
femininity is masqueraded on the
stripper pole.

I am a symbol of trauma and degradation.
I wear the shroud of shame that
Sarah Baartman wore when she was
paraded in the freak shows in
London and Paris.

“Too much”, they say!
My body is too much!
“Carolyne, that dress is indecent.
It doesn’t flatter your body size”.
“Your hair is nappy; you need
a few lashes of lye on your scalp”.
See, i can’t control the way my
rebellious curves riot inside my dress.
I just can’t stop my belle derriere from bouncing when i walk.
Anecdotes of my femininity now catalyzed by stereotypes leave
shards of my identity dripping
over my thighs.
Affecting the way that i see
myself in the presence of the hegemonic depictions of my Afrocentrism.
I am not a object to be fetishized – or a part of the body shaming brood in twisted society’s hypersexualization
of the African woman.
I wear this beautiful body with pride.

Link to the Italian translation

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *