Black Woman

By Rosaline Virginia Bundeh

A black woman is told:

your smile is dazzling and elegant but it’s too much

your laughter is stunning, but it draws attention and it’s too much

you are hard-working, you bleed your palms and bruise your knees, but it’s not enough

I notice you have two hands that bind softly but you act like they are on cuffs

you are beautiful, your skin glitters but it’s still rough

you are black, you are cultured but you are not black enough

being a black woman is tough

To a black woman, they say:

you talk boldly, you’re defensive but it’s too loud

you work tirelessly but you always frown

Some say: don’t look up, look down

others say: don’t look down, look up, don’t act like a clown

don’t stare, it’s rude, don’t look down it's dumb

you are too ambitious; you’re always chasing something like a crazy cat

you’re this! You’re that!

To a black woman, some say:

your stretch marks resemble the back of a tree and it’s not pretty

your curves are unique but your thighs are too thick

your thighs draw attention. They are too flabby

they define saggy breast as being slutty

they will say; you’re too humble, you’re too rude, you’re too fast, you’re too slow

society will always complain and want black women to act like a supernatural being

when they are treating her like a worthless thing

As a black woman

my elders will hurt me, but I dare not speak

men will touch my hips, and squeeze my thighs, force themselves on me and smile 

It’s our culture to be respectful even when they are breaking our bones 

or bruising our thighs or painting our faces black and red with a slap

men will rape you, but it’s not new, its most of my sister’s stories, 

they say: I am not that beautiful but I am always complaining 

I am an attention seeker, so I should stop whining.

Being a black woman is like being against the world

It’s like you carrying mother earth and fighting with the sun and moon

they will expect us to speak after cutting our tongue

society will say ooh no! It’s a girl

and they will shake their heads in disappointment 

even if we mop the ocean, they will still point out the tiny drops and say we are lazy or call us an embarrassment

they will send us in the dark, pluck out our eyes and say stop acting blind

We are Champions

Our skin is rich, fresh, dark, and soft, it glitters

Our greatness is about embracing our true selves regardless of the pains or heartaches

I’m a black woman with flaws but I’m me and I’m unique

 I’m a pearl

You are a black woman, you are tough, you are priceless, you are rare, you are worth a king’s ransom, you are valuable 

Being black is POWERFUL.

Rosaline Virginia Bundeh is a writer and public health practitioner currently residing in Freetown. She finds beauty in words and enjoys the trials of life. You can follow her on twitter at @RBundeh.

Fool’s Glitter

“ Like a baby still-born

Like a beast with its horn

I have torn everyone who reached out for me.”[1]

---

Nestled in the pregnant ground

The ancestors tamed me.

Midwived by the Companies’ adventuresome greed

I mewled and seduced, fed fanciful needs

And then

Lionised, I nurtured organised terror

I roared out my unholy power

I took humanity

and shoved it down my hole.

Gold

Solhan’s choke hold

Diamonds

Kailahun violence

Cobalt

Goma’s child soldiers

I took insanity

Fed it gas so it would explode.

Like a bankrupt billionaire

Like a unicorn turned bear

I will tear all the values that came before me.

I take humanity

And shove

it down

my hole.

Dedicated to the victims of the June 2021 Solhan massacre.

[1] From Bird on the Wire by Leonard Cohen

About the poet: Yarri Kamara is a Sierra Leonean writer living in Burkina Faso.

His Silence

Too much has happened here

He has waged silent warfare

Socially learned neglect as norm.

Avoided glances and eye contact.

Shut doors and cellphone for finger tips.

His attention, his smiles, his affection-

reserved for those who do not make him feel ashamed of his own existence.

His conversation, his loving touch

for those who validate his struggle to climb to the respect table

where I should be but could never attempt/ing to reach.

Too much has happened here

He has left the smell of polite smiles at my efforts to be worthy of acknowledgement.

He has eaten in putrid quiet that reeks of anger at his childhood, while she has scrambled around looking for her way out in festive dishes and perfectly set tables.

I hear his fear in the hallways muffled by her regret and suicide attempts.

She has mopped over them with parent-teacher meetings, over investment in our lives or over loving everyone and the attached parts of herself.

Too much has happened here

We have fought over clothes and accessories

We have competed for titles that nobody told us were birthrights

We have placed the judgment of our worth in him, her and the institutions that massacred him and her - left them in present bodies, drowning in wells of broken down barely breathing unsure souls.

Too much has happened here

I left.

I have identified, then co-identified to find I mis-identified for the books to tell me not to identify at all.

I have nightmares of the boy I let touch me

Strum his curious tunes across the keys of my skin

To unlock his unreadiness and flee from too muchness.

I have nightmares of the love I felt for him and the disdain he felt of me.

His was always a lock I picked apart while the mirror in the keyhole made him cringe with memories of too much happening in his mother’s home.

He has replied emails and love letters with one word answers while he questioned everything about hating how much he needed to love me.

Too much has happened here

We wake up in sweat in the middle of the night

Panting

We hear whispers of failure and gossip about how we did not win the competition for titles nobody told us were birthrights.

Nobody ever yelled love at us

Nobody ever shook respect into our hands with stretched out palm.

Nobody ever painted peace in green walls around us.

I do not want to be alone in this apartment.

Too much has happened here.

-By mw.

Ten Long Years

For ten long years

we spared no one

on the theater of war,

where no glories were won,

only the wasted lives of our kinfolks

and the tired frame

of a battered nation,

where we were prey and predator.

From humble Bomaru,

agony rode through our veins

to the death of heroes and villains,

when blood relatives of this land

hunted one another

with apocalyptic grudge,

fighting to conquer themselves

in a land divided against itself.

We had forgotten the peace

once shared in the noise children made

when they played hide and seek

on nights illuminated by moonlight,

when adults sat around the fire

sharing legends of their land

and the illustrious heroes

whose bold steps cleared our path.

We had strayed too far

from the luminance of Naimbana

and the bravery of Sengbe and Nyangua

to where we became lab animals

in the murderous hands of intoxicated children

controlled by savage hands,

possessed by evil spirits

conjuring our bloody end.

When our neighbors

in green and blue helmets

arrived to keep the peace

our fire had burned too far.

Those with any life left

rose from cinder

like feverish zombies

groaning and trembling to life.

Now let our ruin be our rebirth

as life itself springs from death,

a new country consecrated with blood

germinates with zest and courage,

with a firm commitment

to never again

turn to violence

to settle scores.

-Joseph Kaifala.

Joseph Kaifala is a lawyer , scholar and human rights activist from Sierra Leone.