Her name is Effie Nkrumah. Formerly known as Benumah, she is a multifaceted artist – writer, poet, actress and director – and she also works in the Academia. She tells AfroWomenPoetry that she started consciously writing in 2011: “I needed a way to get my questions and thoughts out – it was quite accidental but…
Painfully Healing
It is so painful to heal! For some reason it always seemed like healing was all about covering the parts inside you that laid naked. I thought internal healing resembled how you would naturally let new skin grow in places that were once wounded. You know the open holes that don’t really hurt anymore but…
Good Morning Kampala
Clouds are racing above Kampala Sunrise peeps from the head of its hilly protrusions. Suddenly, rapid gun fire exchange invades our atmosphere Heavy feet scamper to find footing on our broken roads “Hooligans are demanding for change!” They say. Arrows of rain armed with hail stones join in the human pelting But you Rain where…
My Crush, for Many Years
Melanin ambience, 6’3, broad chest, well defined arms wet round scarlet puckered lips, enlivenly gleamy eyes I looked at him as he walked my way The appearance of the earth in the galaxy like a band of light seen in the night’s skies and formed from the stars which cannot be distinguished with the naked…
Stank with Sweat
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…
Sarah Lubala
Sarah Lubala is a Congolese-born, South Africa-based writer. Her family fled the Democratic Republic of Congo two decades ago amidst political unrest. They relocated first to South Africa, then the Ivory Coast, before returning to South Africa and settling in Johannesburg. She has been twice shortlisted for the Gerald Kraak Award, and once for The…
Jean Rhys
I think of the divided self of Jean Rhys in Dominica, her invisible self in London, and the depth, scope, scale of her writing: What was achievable in her lifetime is achievable now, the winter’s tale of Jean Rhys, and her tragedy of errors, of losing a child, and her failed marriages. She was a…
The Plead for Change
Change! Change! Change! There was no response Yet I plead for change not to change Growing up, I thought my generation and That of my children are going to be the best But now, I strummer and stagger Yes we all want change We don’t know weather The change will be positive or negative The…
Threshold (For my sisters rejecting FGM)
I am seventeen The moon giggles shyly and caresses the skies Sipi Falls cascade in a wave of excitement. I waltz with the falls downstream A tinge of warmth engulfs me My feet rub… My future. The village awakes It is the rite season The search… She descends with a knife I grip my tears…
The sun e sons of Africa
They come here with empty faces Looking for the sun The equatorial sun rays hit their eyes, They blink and find the son, Poised, smiling at their wallets With a hot, hard, black, cocked gun. There is no argument to be had with such a gun between your legs. Between sips of badly brewed, black,…