My one year blog anniversary was on 20th of this month, I have had a crazy couple of weeks so I couldn’t publish anything.
In celebration of one year in WordPress as a poet and writer, I take you back to my very first article and my favourite one.
Of course I have grown so much from the girl who was hurting and self-absorbed after losing her mom;
The room is dark
I can’t see
The air is musty
I can’t breath
The room is small
When I stretch out my hands I can touch the walls
The floor is wet
I can’t sit
My mind is clouded
I can’t think
There is no door
I can’t leave
I can’t escape
I need to call for help
But I can’t make a sound
The walls are so high
I can’t even see the roof
I am trapped!
And the only light I have
Is the hope that somehow
Someone will rescue me.
….to the girl who cares for people other than herself; the girl who wrote this;
The pains of the African woman
Being an African myself, born and bred in Africa, I can say that I have had the displeasure of witnessing/seeing firsthand what the African culture/society has done to its woman.
Sure, I happen to be lucky enough to have a mother who made sure I know that my place isn’t the kitchen, that I can do anything and be anything I set my heart to, but that is not the case for every girl. The average African girl is brought up with the mentality that she is inferior to her brothers both young and old.
She has to serve her brothers as her masters. She has to serve them food and water even if they walk in when she is in the middle of her meal, and when they need a refill, she has to ‘pause’ eating and refill their plates. She doesn’t have a ‘name’ until she gets married and gets her husband’s name thus making marriage her biggest dream and highest achievement. Therefore, she learns how to be a ‘good wife’ from as early as she can walk; she learns to cook, fetch firewood, balance a pot full of water on her head cause, these are the qualities the man’s family will look at when the time for marriage comes.
If she falls pregnant while still in school or before marriage, she gets ostracized by everybody around her, while the boy, who made the same mistake as her, is treated with some sort of reverence because he has proved that he is a ‘man’.
When she gets married, she becomes her husband’s property. She is expected to just be seen but not to be heard. She can’t make any decision regarding the children, the family or even herself except what they are going to have for breakfast, lunch and supper. If the husband turns out to be violent, she is expected to receive every beating graciously because, well, there is no better show of ‘affection’ than a beating from your husband.
In the cases where the husband abandons her and the children, raises her children but at the end of it all, it’s said that the children belong to the man. If one or a couple of them end up ‘not doing so well in life’, then those are hers cause its assumed that they must have got it from her or she simply didn’t raise them well.
Video clips of cats drowning while trying to rescue their kittens, or dogs getting hit by a car or pleading faces of street kids begging for food are as sad as hell, but there’s nothing as heartbreaking as watching an African woman going through all this and so much more with a brave smile on her face.
I dedicate this one year anniversary to my mommy whose love for books was so infectious that I fell in love with reading and writing.
Of all my achievements, this website is my favourite one and it wouldn’t be running without your support, so thank you wonderful artistes and friends for your support.
Happy blog anniversary to me and this little website of mine !