The black woman may be
de mule uh de world.
but did you
know?
that the female mule is
stronger
than a
stallion of similar size
that her endurance is
unrivalled
she requires less
nourishment
to carry the same
load
as any sinewy
male horse
and for
longer distances
she is
independent
her solitude
only
reinforcing her
power
yet she is still
ridiculed.
mocked.
denigrated.
and
dismissed.
still.
she carries the load
long, far and wide
knowing that she
(de mule)
is pure
black magic
.
when we
come together
at coffee
shops in this
colony
they stare
and glare.
wondering
if we are
queer,
affronted
by the concen-
tration in the
colour of our
skins
our uninhibited
laughs scare
them.
they pull out
their phones
and take pics
"look the mon-
keys have
gathered"
we occupy.
we occupy.
we occupy.
it terrifies
them.
"excuse me,
what do
you
all think the
future of this
country is
going to be?"
in response:
silence
a burst of prop-
osterous laughter -
our disbelief -
their
fucking
audacity
we become the
spokespeople
for their deepest
fears.
Swartgevaar
is real. And
apartheid
never died.
they think
they own this
place /land/
but
blackness is
rising. and it
starts with us.
Our sister-
hood.
Our mother-
hood.
Our saint-
hood.
Our shoulders
touch and
I play with
your hair
tenderly
between
the two of us
there is no
"don't touch
my hair"
because I am
a part of you
and you are
a part of me
we connect
without
speaking -
our lived
experiences
coalesce
and create
an entity
of their own
a universal
understanding
of fear, pain,
deep love,
intimacy,
care,
independent
but ubiquitous
trauma, fetish-is-
ation, and
oppression
we come together
through it all
and nurse each-
other into a well-
being with a love
so deep that no-
one without
melanin will
ever understand
it is eternally
safe and the
only heavenly
thing that we -
women of colour -
have in this horrid
and despicable
world
Gurl, I say,
touching
your glowing
skin:
You (we)
are
life.
You
kiss
my
hand.
i return
again
expending
all my
energy
on the
masculine
i am a
sucker for
its strong
seduction
its suction:
it takes and
takes and even
in its giving
there is limited
re-ceiving
the void
is tempo-
rarily
filled
/phallic/
disruptions
to my psyche
i vow to
erect a
wall -
but they
scavenge
and what
feels better
than being
picked
from a littering
of others
just like
me. The
fleeting
feeling of
being
exceptional -
a wonder
its deceptive
power only
fills the void
to widen
and expand
it
when and
(if) they
leave
there must
be a song
for
those who
speak the
language
of
unrequited
love
distant
closeness
proximity to
a hazy dream
of what could
be
the longing
to
just
graze palm
against
dorsum
or finger
against
temple
the desire
to be discovered
and perceived
space
to be free,
unbounded
and
true
to slip -
for a moment -
into the other
soul
and
exist
Bismillah
I say under
my breath
when the mist
of uncertainty
rises into
my chest
I don't think
I believe in:
a god, gods,
a deity, a man -
born 2000 years
ago in a world
that is three
times
that age.
I don't think
I
believe in
the
universe, an
inter-con-
nect-ed-ness
of spirit-s
But then
why do I say
insha-allah
when hopeful,
or resilient?
Or
masha-allah,
at the site of a
baby born outrage-
ously moral
and
alhamdu
lillah,
in the dark
hours of
the night?
when I wake
to find my heart
beat-ing
of its own accord
drum-ming
a silent rhythm
in my chest
I don't believe
in your God. I
can't. But I
do believe in
mine:
Compassionate. Woman.
Loving. Tolerant. Wild.
Free. Tender. Stern. In-
tuitive. Out-landish and
Funny. Oh, so funny.
A
Resistor
in the face of
your existence
designed to
oppress
mine.
A light. A guide.
A miracle.
G-race.
Sometimes the
silence in
between
two
mountains
says more
than a vibrant
volcanic
eruption
does in the
dark quiet
of the night
