I once thought that maybe this is it;

 All is like this, those that have are meant to have and those that don’t are meant to suffer.

Is it really that crazy to think of a humane society one that doesn’t illuminate on one and turns to piss in the others’ mouth?

I think of our lives are so vulgar because there really isn’t a single thing that is pure or holy about them.

Living like pigs scrounging for scraps, is this what we call life, a thread of uncertainties.

Imagine being so dehumanized and made into monsters yet we are dying like flies. We have been broken down to the last atom made to dance in our filth and call it normal.

It isn’t normal.

 Nothing about this is normal.

Where is that rage or that love and pain?

Who are we to stand at the side of the road wearing out camouflage clothes disguised by dying bodies and choking on their rotting flesh?

We have made a virus that chokes us and we sniff, it’s addictive like some Beverly Hills cocaine.

The world is slowly dying or it has always been dead, maybe the only reason we are seeing it now is because it has stopped trying to replenish its self.

It has started to enjoy watching us devour each other build mansions on the backs of others and build legacies with stolen words, broken promises and big fat lies.

Maybe it’s the end.

 I am religious so I believe that there was a beginning so there is bound to be an end. As the elders say everything that has a beginning must come to an end and what goes up will eventually come down there is no trickery in this. It’s my truth.

So, are we looking at the end of society or the beginning?

We live in a congested democracy an overlooked autocracy that demotivates ideas and elevates stupidity.

I give you to get.

I get to give.

Living a designated life of transitions from black to white to black again but usually, this relative change is subjective it’s for the haves and maybe the fortune.

You hear about the village boy with big dreams who was discovered, but you never hear about the one with shattered dreams that went to mine in the depths of Zvishavane and got cut open after he had swallowed an uncut diamond. He was born violently, killed violently and his story is told silently.

They tell you about the stuff that gives you pity and not nightmares, they cushion us with buttered lies and entice us with click bate.

The game of monopoly is peaceful, whilst we are here playing dungeons and dragons one wrong move and you will be burnt.

What if all those that say they are Saints showed they are saints?

What if all those that said they are better knew what it is to be better?

What if all those that are called heroes were heroes?

We parade them that wear false caps and glass masks.

What if we finally looked into the mirror and realized the evil we are?

We keep feeding this social indigestion and cry on the verge of an illegal constipation. Blasphemous vagabonds are our pillars and thieves our patrons.

What can we build on quicksand?

How do we protect ourselves from storms in a house of straw?

Are we still going to rely on this vulgar hope?

Assent into Queendom.

We need women who are so strong they can be gentle, so educated they can be humble, so fierce they can be compassionate, so passionate they can be rational, and so disciplined they can be free.” – Kavita Ramdas

What is FEMALE?

What is a WOMAN?

What is QUEENDOM?

I have lived on this earth for approximately two hundred and forty-five months. I have gone through the tribulations of life as a WOMAN and I have been Judged and graded as a FEMALE.

Allow me today to vent my tribulations along with my ideas and at least make the world know that there is more to WOMAN because this is what I see in me.

Am I the female of my history?

I am FEMALE which means I am of or denoting the sex that can bear offspring or produce eggs, distinguished biologically by the production of gametes (ova) which can be fertilized by male gametes. This is what Google had to say and honestly, this definition is neither vague nor straight forward it points out the validated distinction between a male and a female. The biological makeup of the other is different from that of the other hence why it is borne within the definitions. Yet when I walk in the street and ask a random person what a female is, I may get ludacris answers that do not even mean or compliment the actual definition.

A female to others is usually related to gender roles which are completely different from one’s sex which is female. One is then made to believe and be produced to think that a female can only be equated by the way one acts or one behaves. This view which is never subjective but rather impartial goes well with the notion of birds of the same feathers flocking together.

If you are not flocking you are not a bird.

If you are saying no and not yes you are not a woman.

Pardon me for being unladylike society but I am pretty sure what you say has never stopped a man from raping me or has stopped that man from acting mean.

We can never defy the culture can we,

Oh no if you do that you will not find a “good husband”, you will not be a “FEMALE.”

Is it really what being female is, fractions of an indoctrinated identity yet we are full of other phenomenal outstanding women who defied a norm or a belief and built themselves up to be THE FEMALE?

This second part of Gender wars is one that I want to fully exploit the beauty of WOMAN and the history of women particularly my African sisters.

“I am a strong woman. I don’t sit around feeling sorry for myself, nor let people mistreat me. I don’t respond to people who dictate to me or try to bring me down. If I fall, I will rise up even stronger because I am a survivor and not a victim. I am in control of my life and there is nothing I can’t achieve.”

Unknown

We look at the valiant Queen Nzinga of Angola whose name receives affirmation across all borders (despite the controversy that circles her rule). She was a diplomate that had one of the strongest political fightbacks against the Portuguese and was raised like a warrior. She acclaimed her QUEENDOM, she built herself in the world of violent patriarchy, she spits in the face of society and dressed like a man, despite what she had given she was still reminded how much of a woman she was, by being made sterile and her only child was murdered.

She made her QUEENDOM, an independent inspirational image one that was built of bravery, will, and determination.

I often hear people say if you are a feminist you are moving away from your culture; But is this true?

Is my culture built on the timid woman who bows before society and does not express their ills? Is our culture truly suppressive or it has been put in the hands of those with a suppressive mindset?

We are fighting a violent and stubborn war that refuses to end, it denies the logic by wanting to fulfill hypocritical fantasies.

Women still work to pave way for a world that sees their capabilities; it didn’t start now it started a long time ago but they failed to listen and you are here and still failing to listen and understand it!!

Despite the clear footprints left behind by the likes of Princess Iejue who due to her interest and devotion to her father’s rule was given the bracelet of power as her father saw her growing potential as a leader. Despite her being a focused and goal-oriented woman, she chose to become a wife and ran the kingdom.

Why is it an ideological taboo for a woman to want it all?

We look deeper into Yanengu of Ghana who was an exceptional warrior and a horsewoman and a master in archery. She was the golden woman and she had her dream but instead of a society celebrating her, they imprisoned her by denying her request for marriage. She rebelled fled and found her own kingdom that flourished and is now known as Burkina Faso. She dominated QUEENDOM and they lost their golden woman.

A bird needs to fly.

Looking at this a truly inspired FEMALE should not be defined by another but oneself and that FEMALE must make a splendid and unapologetic QUEENDOM.

Are we ok with having our predecessors look at us and feel shame or still okay with birthing children into this broken system? A world where words are violations and gender is a target mark. I refuse to be a statistic, a puppet to a broken puppeteer, and watch as the world chokes me. I want to break a cycle finish building the fortress that was laid down for Us. I want to truly Assent into my QEENDOM.

Poverty; the state of being extremely poor.

Poverty to me has been dictated as that big ball of exaggeration by many, made so unrealistic by its reality. We are unable to stomach the actual devastation which is poverty hence many write about it as if it’s a mythical creature that stays in a cave up a tall hill, yet that monstrosity is the pet we keep in our back yard and train to bite our neighbors. It’s a human inflicted disease and growing affection that many refuses to see but yet if you show me someone immune to poverty, I will show you a pig.

The world is silent and ignores the prominent war that never allows you to die with dignity. this I derived from the thoughts of Gandhi who stated that ‘poverty is the worst form of violence.’ It causes the explosive and dehumanizing push in one’s lifetime yet we all chose to ignore it and indulge in our comfortability like parasites in a host.

We refuse to see the crown fitting to our overgrown heads, pompous as those that hold our crowns eat and dance in the dust of poverty yet we glorify ourselves in this disgusting sight. Learning to give only when given and to act only when threatened yet not all can rise to denounce this ravaging monster poverty. The French, the slave, and the Japanese knew this, they did not let themselves choke on the gathering dust but rather stopped dancing to the dirty tunes. I truly believe that everyone is responsible for the next. Your actions cause a chain reaction in the woven books of destiny, where yours can interlude and collide into another’s and due to our selfish humanness steal theirs.

Poverty is a human-created bomb that was woven on the principles of greed, laziness, and inadequacy. Nelson Mandela once said ‘Overcoming poverty is not a gesture of charity, it is an act of justice.’ I pondered on this phase before I wrote this piece trying to figure out what he meant. I noticed that no one chooses to be poor but is born a millionaire and that money wastes away not only because of one’s independent decisions but also because someone is high jacking your choice to stay rich and the choice on what to do with your million.

I once watched a young girl carry her sibling on her back her boney frame bracing the small figure that she held like gold and I saw the pain that screamed from both of their eyes they were together but inadequate to have each other or care for one another. She braced the child as if her life depended on it. This haunted me when I walked, talked and ate, I thought to myself ‘if poverty was a man, I would have slain him’ these being the word of Ali Ibn Talib.

 When you look directly in the eyes of poverty you forget and feel the guilt that comes with the realization that it isn’t solved by a donation or feeding a child today because tomorrow, they will still be hungry. It is more than that it is in the way you think whilst you are alone in your room under clean sheets and on a bed that your roll in with no constraints about the uncertainties tomorrow brings in every second (the freedom).

I have seen myself and been surrounded by people that have become so absorbed and drown in privilege that their mentality is forged of having and anything that doesn’t have is qualified as incapable or undeserving. This yet again becomes a different kind of poverty the was expressed by mother Theresa the poverty of emotions. The inability to cap emotion, have sympathy and see no need for change. This poverty is the one that tackles those that feed of others and create the undermining endless chain of pain and suffering. Whilst they gallop in the dust of poverty and step on the feet of those that brand the ground with their feet bare.

‘Poverty is the greatest enemy to human happiness; it certainly destroys liberty, and it makes some virtues impracticable and other extremely difficult’ Samuel Johnson

This not only creates the disruptive world we live in where for one to get to the top they have to milk another and feed off the souls of the weak like a hell condemned succubus. Erasing the harmony that was so much seeked by Karl Max’s (his long living vision of equality).

A feminist resignation letter.

‘A feminist is a person who believes in the power in a woman as much they believe the power in anybody else.’ Zendaya

‘People call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat or a prostitute.‘ Rebbeca West.

For the longest time, I have been recognized as a feminist and I have also recognized myself as a feminist.

I believed in the economic and social recognition of women. I believed in them being given the full amount of respect that their counterparts get in every aspect of life.

I believed that women are oppressed. I believed that women have the right to speak, be heard, and have their ideas vetted by society in the way are for men.

I still do.

I share the same vision of Gloria Steinman that ‘A gender-equal society would be one that the word gender does not exist but rather everyone is free to be themselves.’

This distinct narrative has been to me fully diluted and has led to the demonizing of genders which is what I like to call gender wars.

When I first said I am a feminist I had the idea that I was doing it for that girl who was cramped up somewhere going to a foreign land to be sold into prostitution. I had this innocent idea that feminists were for all women and not just themselves. I wanted to speak up for the countless women raped India, killed in Africa, with their only crime being their gender.

I wanted to bring to surface the gender pay gaps that overruled the value of, and highlighted women as unworthy and too incompetent to receive what a man gets doing the same job. I truly believed that feminism was to make the world a safer place for everyone. Not just women but men too.

I didn’t think it was supposed to create a wedge between people. Whether man, woman, and sadly even amongst women

My biggest feminist role model is/was Chimamanda Ngozi. I spent countless hours reading her books and admittedly became a May Belief Philosopher myself. I quickly created feminism that was built on her perspective and abandoned the principles that made me want to become a feminist in the first place; to speak for those that are not given a voice.

Feminism became painted as something to be centered around man-hating and belittling of others. It became less of a mandatory cause but a luxurious sport. It perpetuated and engineered a new kind of woman, one expected by a new society and not an independent individual with the right of choice.

I once scrolled through a famous woman rights advocate who was perceived by society to be feminist because of her views. She, met a fate similar to the many others that aligned with the feminist philosophy. She was crucified.

That box that women have been trying to break out of has been replaced by one that is newer, shinier, but exactly the same. Old wine new wineskins, and by the bondage has been created by a newfound feminism, women no longer have a voice that isn’t regulated or crucified by anti-feminist or feminist. I refuse to live that way. In constant fear of what or who is going to be affected by what I say about both women and men. Starting from even the smallest grievances, for example, uttering that I love men, two notions may be derived. Either I hate women or I am a slut.

Being feminist shouldn’t remove your right to choose. You still have a right to denounce man hate when you feel it’s wrong. You still have a right to speak up against self-objectification when you see the terrible outcomes of it. Feminism shouldn’t be an excuse for women or men to perpetuate anger, hate, abuse, and push selfish ideas.

So I write my feminist resignation letter, albeit with a heavy heart. I don’t want to call myself a feminist only because I fear that when I choose to disagree with something contrary to the society of a progressive feminist, I will be called out or cancelled.

No person has the right to infringe on the rights of the other. No one is allowed to take away the choice one has in making their own independent decisions. Hence, I resign from this new wave of feminism that creates a choking environment that limits the woman it claims to protect. The environment that engineers this “new” kind of woman as if the old one was flawed. The environment that removing one’s right to choose.

I wish for feminists that celebrate all kinds of women and their independent decisions for their lives. Let our feminism not be hypocritical and self-centered.

Let us stop becoming the society that oppressed us.

For we are unstoppable in our uniqueness.

‘I am not African because I was born in Africa. I am African because Africa was born in me.’ Kwame Nkrumah

‘If you think you are too small to make a difference you have not spent the night with a mosquito’, is an African quote that inspired me to denounce the world’s view of African relevance. To remove the mind of us being a market but the giant we are. If I could write a letter today on the 25th of May the day, we not only celebrate our continent but also celebrate being African, this is a day that is set aside to appreciate the gift that keeps giving within u and beyond us. I would tell a story about a lion that fights in a jungle, the African pride, and my denounce identity. I would continue with the story of a rich culture vast and diverse responsibilities it has. I would talk about the different colors I see when I close my eyes and dream about the beating drums of our ancestors. The sameness we have from the migrations from the north to the west to the south and back up north again. I would retrace the steps of the many kings and queens that triumphed and never gave in to an enforced destiny.

My letter wouldn’t be because I am from a certain tribe or a citizen but because my blood is fed by the land I roam on and my spirit illuminated by the whispers of our solemn ancestors. My African narrative is about beauty, love, and color. It is about laughter shared amongst dancers as they indulge in the vibrance of unity, peace, tranquility, and joy. I see a society diverse but the same with the same stories being told in the brown eyes for we might not share a country but share the same history. For he who overindulges in the world independently has not tasted the different fruits it has to offer and will never know which is good or poisonous.

My African narrative is the one about identity not only for and individual but as a continent. I see us build ourselves to more than what the world says and sees us as for our identity is branded in our souls. For we give the world the gift of Africa they so desire, hunt, kill, and lie to acquire. When you close your eyes, you should see that sacred fire that burns, a gift from God perceived by our ancestors all over Africa. I see a continent not painted by poverty and war but look at the wonders that bring joy to those that know joy for its true form. We live behind the narrative we are given by others for he who beats the drums for a dancing fool is also a fool.

I sat down and googled what it means to be African and the answer I got from our trusted companion was disappointing. It told me of a person and not an African it described us the way the world is bound to see us. It comprehended us to a few lines that lacked identity, the African voice, and our capability. It created an inability to see the objective of our ancestors that cried for liberation and independence. It infused us with the world that watches and feeds of our poverty and disease abandoning us with wounds of their exploitation.

My African narrative is that of the proverb ‘when the roots are deep there is no need to fear the wind.’ So, let us the generation of the new Africa fasten our roots into the soil that was enriched by our ancestors’ roaring chants of victory power and vision. Let us acquire the courage of those that fought for the unknown and died for it. Let us be the African person we are meant to be for us, no longer the slaves nor the receivers of oppression. Let us liberate ourselves from this inflicted bondage that cradles us like a baby and let us suckle on its poisonous tit.

• 

‘Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation’ Oscar Wilde.

The countless books and monologues that have been put out into the world have become the shape of one’s mental build-up.

One creates the enveloped mentality of what life is supposed to be based on another person’s mind and not their own.

I too, am a victim of this.

And while sourcing vast amounts of data can be a good thing, it has also turned our lives into reoccurring loops of other peoples’ minds.

And, it’s one that we cannot break but surely do something to change. We grow up being fed and raised on borrowed knowledge and neglect our independent thoughts. Forgetting to look at the inner voice that speaks for us before we speak for it.

I am not rebutting or denouncing the way of life that we have been adopted too but are they our thoughts that guide us. I have seen how on my previous blog may belief philosophers we hoard our thoughts, it’s because these thoughts are not ours, they are not built to our cores. They are like bubbles that float around in a vacant space with no pull, a force if I can call it.

We lack the courage and lie on our vulnerability and fail to feed into a greater purpose.

You hear someone say, I am a feminist but forgets the mandatory need for equality not only for women but man.

I am a communist you hear someone say but they won’t fight the system that feeds and clothes them.

The thoughts we feed ourselves through reading with our minds and not our judgment have made us zombies to a mentality, an illegal union. We have become abominations to humanity through our selfish utterances and hypocritic analysis.

These are all heresy ideologies we govern but don’t want to implement, we preach the gospel of equality but yet we want to be equal by pushing one down and it is sad to say that we have more content being put out there that feeds into this newborn zombie mentality.

We become by being told what to become.

And maybe I am also doing the same shoving my ideology down your throat as you read this and tomorrow morning you will wake up and burn every book and free yourself from influencer bondage. But I advise you read this with clarity with the need to comprehend, judge, see a link in you and then you paste. Unlike a normal person you have to put forward the question of necessity, is it truly necessary that I sacrum to this person’s mind. That lives us mentally constipated with ideas that reflect someone else in the mirror.

Still our lives will continue revolving around the beautiful art created through forgery and plagiarism. So, I will always be the one to judge myself to be my voice in this world of the mirror effect where all one desires is to have minions and not create an unconquerable army of change.

Growing up I never like being left in the dark. I remember how every time I went to sleep I would always ask my father to keep the light on. He used to keep the lights on and come back to switch them of an hour or so when I had become so deep in my dreaming I couldn’t hear a thing. This was my greatest fear of being left alone in a dark place.
I had always been comforted by the light, always enjoying my day times more than the night times because that’s when all the monster would come and have their way. I remember the day I found out what deceit was. It all emanated from my fear of the darkness, surely they have a scientific name for it but I rather stick to the less tongue-twisting stuff. I was fast asleep in my room the light bright and warm, I could feel it touch my soft skin. It warmed me. Then in that light, I felt the darkness slowly devour me and my eyes jolt open, a reflex I guess. My father had come in this darkest of nights and did his daily routine of assuming my slumber he had turned the light off. I remember hugging myself tightly and making a mess of the bed so that the monsters wouldn’t see me, Till this day its a nasty habit. The following morning I acquainted myself with my pet cat, I don’t remember his name because they were many after it, I started hiding him under my bed before my bedtime usually luring him with a treating. I was already becoming distinctively human than I thought at that time I could be. I would go to sleep and call him on my bed and he always knew where to place himself right above my head, so that I could hear his purring or those rumbling sounds cats made. I would defiantly get a good night’s sleep and wake up the next day to enjoy the sun and light.
Till now I look back and laugh I still hate the dark but not the literal dark my metaphorical darkness. The darkness of emotions, thoughts, and action, this darkness that seems to not just have monsters but bloodthirsty spectators. I hate this darkness so much and the worst part is as I have grown I haven’t had my father or the cat that acted as my guide of a pillar if I can call it. That’s why I never wonder to far out of my light because the ones that wandered too far into the woods never came back or discovered new things. Hence bring me to the beginning of my blog a look into what we fear, we see, we speak of and refuse to fix but find the alternative easy called the easier way.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton