Mama Africa2 minute read

Someone  somewhere  tells  me  that  I

am  his  African  queen.

That  I  am  his  goddess,

That  my  body  is  bountiful.  That  my

body  is  rich  with  a  fertility  blessed  by

40  days  and  40  nights  of  rain.

 

That  my  woman’s  hips  carry  a  history

of  a  thousand  men’s  past.

That  my  woman’s  hips,  are  a  crafted

masterpiece,  borrowed  from  rib  of

man,  ground  into  powdered

submission  and  kissed  into  life  by  the

almighty.

 

Someone  somewhere  tells  me,

That  my  woman’s  hips,  dance  a

rhythmic  path  of  delicate  imprints.

Imprints  of  heel  and  toe  coming

together,  married,  on  this  canvas  of

earth.

 

Someone  somewhere  tells  me,

That  my  woman’s  hips  were

Brushed  into  existence  by  Wangechi

Mutu’s  contemporary  strokes  of  the

feminist  narrative,

Brushed  into  existence  by  caricatures

fashioned  in  the  likeness  of  Saara

Bartman,

 

A  sister  of  the  KhoiKhoi  tribe,  forced

to  dance,  to  sway  HER  woman  hips  to

the  rhythm  of  French  exhibitionism.

Brushed  into  relevance,

Acceptance

By  controversial  palettes  and  oils  of

Renoir.

Flesh  into  colour,  colour  onto  canvas

Canvas  onto  flesh.

 

Someone  somewhere  tells  me

That  my  woman’s  breast  pours

passion  into  the  hearts  and  spears  of

my  tribesmen.

That  my  woman’s  tears  shower

devotion  into  the  arms  and  legs  of  my

brothers  and  fathers,

Enabling  them  to  cultivate  the  soil.

 

Someone  somewhere  tells  me  that  I

am  his  Nubian  princess  with  my  long

twisted  braids  that  swing  to  the

rhythm  of  my  waistline

That  he  cannot  help  but  drink,

Drink…

my  sweet,  plum-­‐tasting,  golden-­‐

quilted,  cocoa-­‐scented,  silk-­‐struck,

ebony-­‐ransomed,  wine-­‐tasting…

skin.

 

Yet  someone  somewhere  tells  me  that

the  pearls  in  my  eyes  have  celestial

ties,

That  cry

With…

Impregnated  prophecy

A  Biblical  Odyssey

That  forsees

A  new  Alkebulan,

A  new  Africa

 

Someone  somewhere  tells  me  that  I

am  mother  Africa.

That  my  body  is  bountiful.  That  my

body  is  rich  with  a  fertility  blessed  by

40  days  and  40  nights  of  rain.

 

That  my  woman’s  hips  carry  a  history

of  a  thousand  men’s  past.

That  my  woman’s  hips,  are  a  crafted

masterpiece,  borrowed  from  rib  of

man,  ground  into  powdered

submission  and  kissed  into  life  by  the

almighty.

 

Someone somewhere tells me these

things.

 

 

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<p>Mwango Moragia is a Kenyan born and raised woman who is currently based in Vancouver, Canada. She has a deep love for food, fulfilling conversations and comfortable silences. She especially enjoys mood music as she completes her DIY projects on Sunday afternoons.</p>

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