The brave face I wear is never washed It stinks with sweat my mother’s and mine She taught me how to put it on to fit my wobbly bones to be the face that you would know My brave face has a smile it lasts for thirty seconds and plays back after a minute It…
Know your worth
Every time I was denied a seat at the table, I did not rebel. I walked away. Every time I was refused entry into a circle, I did not protest. I chose the exit and never looked back. Every time my potential was downplayed, I neither relented nor fought for permission. Instead, I stepped into…
For the blues
It’s 4am and you’re awake like your body’s been paged. You’re wondering if it will be worth it to sleep for 30 more minutes before starting your day. They’re playing a senseless song on the radio and it feels like such a waste of airplay. So you tuck yourself in to rest your brain. You’re…
My Mother in Three Photographs
Her face looks out flawless her sexuality electric in a mini dress and sheer satin stockings the girls of the 1960s beautiful beyond belief. She is looking through the camera like her space is here and beyond enchanting and enchanted by the times when the dreams of freedom were young the fortunes of Uganda hot…
Abigail George
Abigail George is a South-African feminist, poet and writer based in Port Elizabeth. Born in 1979, she is a prolific writer: she has written a novella, several books of poetry and collections of short stories. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the recipient of two South African National Arts Council Writing Grants and of one from the Centre for…
Feminist Bloodline
As i grow up i learn that knowing what i want is the most valuable thing for a woman, Same goes to a man What i don’t know is why men always have the final say Why a man says what he wants in a relationship and i am to accept it. Good or bad….
Melanin Queen
Her hands by her sideHead downShoulders dropped and eyes fixed on an unknown prizeShe snails by in fearFear of pointing fingers and heart breaking laughterThose words like a butcher’s knife swimsthrough her melancholic melanin skin She wonders if Odomankoma painted her in hasteShe has blood for tearsShe is her mother’s dreamThat moment form the womb,…
Unmarried
Mama said I atemy husbands.Seasoned themwith my saltyattitude andboiled them ina black pot onthe night of thewaning moon. She claims thatmy saggy beastsare an attestationto my disgraceas a womanand my mortarisn’t fit forpounding groundnuts. My body isa fictional tale.She claims thatI’m not fitto lay on the groundthat holds thesemen of myancestors.My complaintsunder the sunare equivalentto…
You Must Know
You must know As little girls, we write about the struggles of our mums We glorify their pain as borne out of resilience in duties never understood The choring, the caring, the back-from-work, good enough to keep her a mother As little boys, we wonder what could be wrong with the masculinity of our dads…