Lillian Akampurira Aujo
MY YOUNGER SISTER (HOW THESE THINGS GO)
She is the size of my palm the day I first see her
writhing in white slime, hair slicked back
like wet maize tassels on her head.
for a few weeks her skin sheds,
and we joke about how much the chunks of dead skin
on the soft spot of her head, weigh
when she clocks 18 she is a Cap D
her waist is 32 inches – her hips 46
and the men are starting to say, hey
when she is 20 and in a strange city
a man will creep into her bed,
because that bed is in his house,
he will try to slip his hand up her thigh
and he will not hear her when she cries, No.
when the sun is up,
there will be no shame on his face,
as he calls her a cab.
He will phone her once,
to ask if she has arrived home safe
then he will text one word, Shh!
Susan Nalugwa Kiguli
MOTHERS SING A LULLABY
Mothers sing a lullaby
As the dark descends on trees
Shutting out shadows.
The sensuous voices swish and swirl
Around shrubs and overgrown grass
Hiding mountains of decapitated dead
And the glint of machetes
That slashed shrieking throats.
In these camps without happiness
Mothers maintain the melody of life
Capturing wistful wind
To sing strength into the souls of children
Who have never known
The taste of morning porridge
Or heard the chirrup of crickets in the evenings.
Mothers sing a lullaby
For the staring faces
Who cringe at the sound of footsteps
Whose playmates are grinning skeletons.
Mothers become a lullaby
Silencing the sirens of sorrow
Restoring compassion to the nation.
Roshan Karmali
I AM
I am Mixed Race, Half Caste, Half Breed and Colored.
Any way you look at it,
His blood mixed with her blood,
Mixed with their blood,
To make our blood.
And now all that blood runs through my children’s
Tiny beautiful veins.
We are the New bloods.
African Bloods.
We were colonized and reorganized
yet we still walk barefoot
through thick, red soil.
I’ve got biracial hair
Mixed race eyes.
Hips, lips, thighs
you want to jump into but can’t admit to?
I’m about to switch that up.
You want to categorize me
Make me feel more “comfortable” with my own kind.
But tell me
Where are you going to find
A part Ugandan, Part British, Part Indian
Not to mention a hint of you to name a few.
Not black enough to be wife.
Not white enough to be a sugar mummy.
Not Asian enough to be in your circles.
But this poem isn’t a bid for your acceptance.
This poem isn’t an attempt to rally those ‘like’ me
under one victimized umbrella of our parents’ consequences.
This poem is simply a testament of my truth
my reality.
All those tears for all those years over my individuality?
Not yet able to see the beauty, in my uniquity.
But I don’t want your sympathy.
I just want you to hang up those preconceptions your forefathers fed you
in your booklet at birth.
Because my skin color is not a representation
of my Aims, my goals.
My skin color is not a representation of my soul.
All my parents ever did.
Was try. Something. New.
Make love to each other
fall into each other
and celebrate the product of their beautiful union through me.
Knowing that one day
someone would feel pride whilst
walking with my spirit.
So whether I’m a freak, a geek, goth or a whore
I’m free
So tell me
You want to try be with me?
Arinda Daphine
REBEL QUEENS
Milky waters crawl down my fingers
As I discover layer after layer
Of flesh,
Of tightness,
Of warmth,
Of beauty.
My own garden wets as I gaze
Dazzled by her delicately sculptured folds.
Her fruit bursts with juices and flavor.
I snake lower charmed by her feminine aroma
Lips plant kisses on petals;
Beautiful black petals, pink on the inside.
I mouth O’s
I inhale uhhhh
the warm and cold contrast on her clit
Jerks her body in shivers.
Walls contract,
Juice oozes
My tongue tastes.
I flick and suckle,
I pause and she spasms,
Breath coming in short gasps,
She yields to my gentle thrusts,
Grinds on my probing tongue
And morns to its swirl.
I trace the beginnings and ends of her slit
And right at the end I find an escape,
The queen is a rebel,
A confident brat,
Reeking of self knowledge,
Not afraid to be herself-
The free will-
Utter disregard
To propriety and perception
Complete freedom
And stubbornness;
The rejection of ‘correctness’
She is a revolution
Storming down walls of convention
The rumble of the crumbling barriers
Thunders in my chest
…beckoning…
…beckoning…
Revolution beckons
But I cannot riot
I cannot abandon all reason
I am locked to conventional wisdom.
I watch her take on the world
But I can only watch
The will
The zeal
To be wild
I do not possess
I am powerless
I am
An impotent rapist.
So I look to the wild one,
The Rebel Queen
And I recognize myself in her
And I want to belong
But when I wake up
To a world without walls
The SELF shrivels, afraid.
Why are we afraid of them?
The wild ones
The Rebels
The non conformists?
It is a stupid fear
Premised on a misconception
That to conform
Is to be good
Is to be cultured
Is to be peaceful
So we create peace for those around us
And give way to a tumultuous rage within
A rage at consistently confining the SELF
Cuffing her hands and legs
Forbidding her to leap
So I watch her,
Rebel Queen,
And I recognize myself in her.
In Rebel Queens,
SELF finds an escape.
Carolyne Afroetry
HYPERSEXUALIZATION OF THE AFRICAN WOMAN
Fetishized; my worthiness is
measured in cup sizes and big booty.
Integrity is compromised and dismissed.
Body parts named- policed and sexualized.
They say; “it’s the sway of my African belle derriere,
the clumsiness of my breasts, the thickness of my
lips and the arch of my back”.
Objectified by the media,
my nudity is
plastered on billboards, social
media and marketed in raunchy music videos and
sex magazines.
Bartered in foreign currency for
a bit of the exotic experience.
Perceived as promiscuous- sold for consumption.
My body is just entertainment and a peculiar
scientific breakthrough.
I am a product of disrespect.
The streets mock my pride.
Patriarchal society trashes my
name with a twisted perception
of my body.
Lewd; incapable of love.
A belligerent woman with an insatiable sexual
appetite.
My tinted shade is salaciously appreciated with
sexist comments,
but not pursued.
I am only good enough for an experiment.
Grope me in public- bring me to
my knees because somehow my
history conditioned me to be
a sex slave and the rape culture is nothing but a
myth.
His ego must be massaged.
Stereotyped; I am the proverbial angry black woman
waving the blood stained banner and cussing out at
everyone like the world owes me something.
The world owes me nothing!
Baptized with sperm as “Jezebel”- promiscuous and
hyper-sexual.
Archetypes of my history are
smudged on the walls of public
lavatories as a legacy of colonialism
and imprinted on my consciousness.
Voyeurs of my ancestors lined up
on the auction block come back
to me in sepia each time my black
femininity is masqueraded on the
stripper pole.
I am a symbol of trauma and degradation.
I wear the shroud of shame that
Sarah Baartman wore when she was
paraded in the freak shows in
London and Paris.
“Too much”, they say!
My body is too much!
“Carolyne, that dress is indecent.
It doesn’t flatter your body size”.
“Your hair is nappy; you need
a few lashes of lye on your scalp”.
See, i can’t control the way my
rebellious curves riot inside my dress.
I just can’t stop my belle derriere from bouncing
when i walk.
Anecdotes of my femininity now catalyzed by
stereotypes leave
shards of my identity dripping
over my thighs.
Affecting the way that i see
myself in the presence of the hegemonic depictions
of my Afrocentrism.
I am not a object to be fetishized – or a part of the
body shaming brood in twisted society’s
hypersexualization
of the African woman.
I wear this beautiful body with pride.
Rashida Namulondo
WHEN IS IT RIGHT TO RAPE A WOMAN?
Why,
Silenced cries
Sealed behind doors of blame
Her breasts linger out
Like ripe mangoes
Sending me invitations
Her big thighs barely covered by
Her skirt made my blood hot
Her eyes said she wanted it
A piece of my manhood
Thrusting thrusting thrusting
That’s when it was right
When is it right to rape a woman
They laugh,
To them it’s merely another conversation over a beer
Another joke in the men locker room
We fade into crowds
Turning into prey for their amusement
Our beauty turned into sin
Blamed for turning men into animals
Uncontrollable beings tearing
Forceful into vulnerable skin
Thrusting thrusting thrusting
Broken torn Disgusted
Reduced to dirt
When is it right to rape a woman
They echo in unison
Their laughter shatters the walls like the serpent
When she wants it
I see her eyes say yes!
Though her lips say no
When she is ripe on a full moon
Ready to serve my needs
But she was eight barely grown
She was firm, her purity mesmerized me
Such smooth skin holding my manhood
Her screams filled me with ecstasy
Eight but fully blossomed.
Big black fingers prolong from my soul
Their laughter
Breaks my soul
Ridiculed, broken, torn,
My body reduced to dirt.
When is it right to rape a woman.
They echo in unison
Their laughter shattering the walls like a serpent
Dispersed, distressed
We long to find our center again
Demons now possess our streets
Demons that now pose our bodies
We wear our skins like old torn clothes
It’s our fault, they say
We are to blame
We preach to our girls
To cover up, sit straight
Not to speak up
Not to shame themselves
We craft them to shun away
Why should they keep watch?
Like small dears targeted
We step on their esteem
To raise the man’s ego
Why
Why not capture the perpetrator
Why not teach our boys
To cover up seat straight
And craft them to know
It’s never right to rape a woman
All the poets presented above are part of the Uganda section of Afro Women Poetry, for more information about them and updates, please refer to the Afro Women Poetry website and their Facebook Page. We thank Antonella Sinopoli for making the poems available to us, through La Macchina Sognante which is one of the partners of the project.
