ek’s net ‘n swart kind (i’m just a black child), a black venus, a see-line woman, a strange fruit, an angry black woman, a Mkabayi, a hot venus tot, a conjurer woman.

ain’t i woman?

“That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain’t I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain’t I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man – when I could get it – and bear the lash as well! And ain’t I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen them most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother’s grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain’t I a woman?”

~Sojourner Truth

Four Women

My skin is black
My arms are long
My hair is woolly
My back is strong
Strong enough to take the pain
inflicted again and again
What do they call me
My name is AUNT SARAH
Aunt Sarah

My skin is yellow
My hair is long
Between two worlds
I do belong
My father was rich and white
He forced my mother late one night
What do they call me
My name is SAFFRONIA

My skin is tan,tan
My hair is alright its fine
My hips invite you daddy
and my mouth is like wine
Whose little girl am I?
it is yours if you have some money to buy
What do they call me
My name is SWEET THING
they call me Sweet Thing

My skin is brown
and my manner is tough
I’ll kill the first mother I see
’cause my life has to been too rough
I’m awfully bitter these days
because my parents were slaves
What do they call me
My name is PEACHES

~ Nina Simone – Four Women


i am that word in
red, blue, blk ink
mating pen and paper
giving birth to seeds
that plant, let grow, ravage and
fester in your mind.
i scribble, dance, twist and swerve
across the page in the bloody rage
of the red that waters the roots
of this earth, raining
down to bless with a kiss.
this red flows, oozes, bursts
out of my womb with all my
unconceived art and i see
red thinking of all their unfound fathers.
these seeds fester, gnaw, ravage and eat
your brains if they are not spoken
not for tokens, i’m not jokin’
for when i vomit blue ink onto paper
staining your soul in patterns that
look like all your cursed women
i breathe peace in pieces of
broken speech teach
the unbelieving that believing’s got
nothing to do with some god and his son.
i paint in blue for the few
that live the rage and passion
that flows through artistic veins
to burst into multiple orgasms
epiphanies coming again and again
in a ripple effect.
i breathe into you the blues
that we all choose  let
(con)fuse our rhythm with hallucinations
of levitation while searching
for elevation in oblivions dark space.
don’t you know that blk ink
is the absence of colour and the mixture all colours
blk’s with you even in light
make peace and embrace blk
man and woman
child and elder
coz don’t you know
sleep is time travel in space
dreams blk and white
i highlight in blue and red coz
blk was, is and always will be in space
in this race for blood
only the word
first in the design of my DNA
then at the tip of my fingers oozing
out in red, blue and blk onto the page
this wordfest don’t sleep
it manifests a rage on the stage
and i spit fire for change
scribble, twist, dance across the page
rewrite herstory redefining this age
make clear mother nature’s face
for the blk race in
blue, red and blk ink.


©  zamantungwa

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