indoafrikanqueen-blog - Tumblr blog

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princess nokia // brujas

“witchcraft, bitchcraft

light magic, it’s nothing”

[indoafrikanqueen-blog]

Mirrors

Entering a hologram of perception and morphed deception. There is only one way to know what is real. That is: to touch (palms to thighs), to breathe (nose to abdomen), and to feel (in the way only you can) for your own heartbeat

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The Falsitude of Creating

Is it possible to write and not be a thief? Or is the very act of existing stealing from the lived experiences of others - not always those brighter or bolder, but those dull and dimwitted too. Stealing. From those with everything. And stealing, even more, from those with nothing. Perhaps this is the true nature of the world. Theft. By each and for each. Until we sit together under a common blanket of creativity - each weave threaded by yarn stolen from her neighbour's wheel.

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On the Anniversary of My Death

The 19th of May 2002. I died a certain death. You killed me. You, the man I didn't trust but had no choice except to. You broke not only my skull by my spirit and my soul, for at least a hundred years. Today. The 19th of May 2023. I sit adjourn to you. Why? I ask myself. I don't know. I'm almost pleased at the thought of your death, I think. No, I correct myself. I couldn't be. I still don't know that you weren't pleased about mine. What I do know is that neither of us asked for this. You didn't want to break my skull nor do I want your chest cavity sawed open. The difference is you made a choice. I was endowed with a burden, that came wrapped in a deceptive silk bow. In it three adjoining parts;                          forgiveness,                                   responsibility, and the smallest but strongest called                                                           love.

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Learnt Language

After being held captive for an entire existence. You've become so accustomed to the pain that instead of wailing a grimace forms on your face as natural as a smile and tension pulls the corners of your mouth closed. The whip cracks skin open and a sting permeates. Blood barely drips before the next crack strikes - Effortless. Fluid. Whip-pa. Whip-pa. Whip-pa. All of a sudden you realise that the lashes and lacerations are at your own account. It's not a betrayal of your body unto itself. But the only language it's ever learnt to speak.

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Wings

So much of my energy, life force, chi, is used in daily combat against the oppressor. What would happen if for one second I expended all that energy inward. How high would I soar until they decided to clip my wings and have me plummet to the ground?

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What's in a name?

Mine. Has three syllables, whose sounds combined are my soul - who I've been since birth. Maybe even before. They, can easily say things that define them like: aveugle  and sourd.  But still dare to get me wrong.

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Oasis

- Within - Darkness. A room, a field, an expanse of black. Inside it a certainty, that things are not okay. Never will be. Quick sand at the center, a box - made of the bones of ox. Without a key. Demons dance inside it. All night and rest in the day. - Without- Sitting in the inflection of the valley. Calves folded in, neck extended over knees. Spiritual tremors overtaking breathing - involuntarily. Hair flowing upside down into the pool of salt water streaming out of eyes. Mountainous walls rising above in all directions. Bare back facing the distant, unreachable sky. Not being broken. Just being.

Dew gliding seamlessly out of glossy ducts into the swirl of vivid algae kissing legs. The box one with the pebbles - a granite carbon complement - softened and smoothed over eons by gentle streams of water. The animal. Nursing its wound. Naked. Bare bottom folded into a an acute hug of self-preservation. Blinking and realising that no matter how hollow or cold or dark the box is. It is a part of this oasis: the hideous marriage of demons, mountains, quick sand, the sky, ox bone, salt water and human blood. This. Oasis. Here. Where the animal is abundant. Rich.

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Mural

For at least nine years, he stood, in his woolen hat at the concrete corner junction asking strangers for money. His dwarfism, may have been the reason for his struggle. Or just one part of the injustice of being born coloured into this sick society. The years embedded wrinkles onto his eyes. And now he's become immortalised, by a mural in Oranjezicht.

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Magnificent Splendour

Splendour. Tiny waves lapping - not crashing - against the shore. Toes digging deep into grainy sand. Sweaty hands on the face of a rock, knees bent, body heavy. Squinting in response to the glare as a large glint of sunshine pokes through a thick grey cloud. Splendour. Not a child's laugh, but the throaty giggle made when defenses come down in front of a lover. The sound of the black keys piercing gently through the white when a piano is played. What a daisy looks like when held up against the blue sky. The sun bouncing off your best friend's eyelashes. Sharp canine's sparkling as you throw your head back in laughter. Splendour. Sensory seduction at the birth of spring. Swallows in a swoop above pylons at dusk. The light touch of your sand papery palms on my cheek. Splendour.

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Gift from the Sun

Does it make you feel powerful? This distancing you do. Withdrawing from the full brightness of the sun, not to hide in shade - or rest - but to enclose yourself in a molehill of experience. Don't you know that the sun's sole purpose is to highlight the vivid blue of the sea thrashing itself against that one jagged cliff. Gifting you with the luxury of watching it from above - or immersing yourself in it forever.

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Monsters sans masks

My eyes were stitched closed so that I could not see the perpetrators of the wounds A thousand paper cut lacerations stung deeply - everywhere Confused - unable to make sense of where they came from Not realising they were there until I felt them come alive with the lifeblood of a hot burn days later Bathing them in salt water - solitary - until they would heal. It became ritual - Recovery Then one day - body piercing all over - My hands reached up of their own volition And picked each stitch carefully from my eyes - Pus oozing out through scabs and crusts Lids heavy, my retina adjusted. The slime coagulated to the bottom And for the first time I saw their truly hideous faces and set myself free

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Ma (Grandmother)

Your cataracts blinded you from seeing what your son had become. The torment he inflicted on the five women in his life. Your big curly white hair, wild and unruly, like your spirit in the face of late night screaming matches. The FBI are not after you, mummy, he would say. No-one is trying to steal your identity. My teenage angst led only to anger. Seeing you as a burden. I sit here, in wonder, at the woman you must have been. What it took for you to raise a house full of children, a child yourself, a victim of a bearded patriarch with a red hot staff in his hand. His death, leaving you with nine mouths to feed, then their premature deaths. Rebellious entitled sons. If only you lived another life. I like to imagine your potential. Then I remember that you do. Through me. Not for a second, do I forget that my life started in your womb.

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Letter to my (broken) beloved

I knew you, from before the moment you tottered taking your first steps toward your mama. I followed you, a bird perched on your shoulder, chirping as you picked up the scissors to cut your hair yourself. Little hands trembling. I held you. By the arms, stopping you pulling brows from your face, only moments after your first fight with sweet Adele. I never left your side when you immersed yourself in the joyous pleasures of young adulthood. Waiting for you to return home so I could stroke your hair, and wipe the expired mascara from beneath your eyes. Then, when you stumbled over your own feet into your first true love I drew arcs over your head with my toes, making a halo for you.You never needed to look up, but I was always there. And I’ll be there - I am here - now that that love has morphed into nothing more than the withered root of an orchard still attached to beautiful but already dead blooms.

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Rage (Part I)

Head heavy. Cranium full of lead. Frontal cortex bursting with pressure. Rage. Fills my body. Rage. From the numbness in the tips of my fingers to the roots of the ache in my lower back.  Rage. Is the sound of the scratched echo that plays inside me. Rage. At the thieves who've stolen my emotional land. At those oblivious to the difficulties of our condition. At those who dare to be their authentic selves without consequence. Rage. At the injustice of this affliction. Rage. At it all. Except there is no rage towards my melanin.

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The Opening

I have never felt a vulnerability like this before. A listless ache behind my eyes and a raw opening of every door inside me. People wandering through the corridors of my soul while I watch from below. Mute. Emptiness follows their footsteps as I float ceaselessly through space.

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The Rose Garden

I stood naked on the ground, feet sinking into the sponge of the dewy grass. He met me there and sprinkled the seeds around me, in a loose circle. We agreed to water it together The sun set on that summer and the roots that sprouted began to spread. with each sun set and rise millimeters of green veins were added. We learned that for the roses to flourish they would need support so we added a metallic arch over my head - naked body still enduring seasonal shifts With autumn came the first buds, the bloom glorious. Tiny blushing drops eventually spread open, filling my nostrils with the scent of molasses. My thighs and hips were covered in dustings of nectar as he pruned, watered and tended to the new born sprouts It continued this way - and by the seventh cycle the archway was laden with the weight of roses so dense that a single flower would weigh down the cup of your palm As the garden flourished, I kept looking up in awe of the beauty that we nurtured, only rarely ever taking note of the large and heavy vines that entwined around my waist and breasts, coiled around my feet - cramping my calves and aching my back It was a byproduct of the beauty, a cost at which the garden came. In the winter I even took solace in the tight green shelter - it offered welcome protection from the frosty cold. I was safe. But all this time, I failed to see that as the roses grew so too did the jagged, thick and sturdy thorns. Blinded by the velvet plush petals, it took me by surprise how the thorns stealthily grew so large that they barely noticeably pierced their way through my rib cage, puncturing my lungs. Making it impossible for me to breathe.