hearths of womens hearts.

love has sculputered a relentless heart. a seeker who desires to discern truth in totality. in loving, the chambers of disuse are opened. i come in the prescence of parts of myself i was not sure existed. i lay claim to the nuggets of acceptance. i grow towards myself. photosynethesizing the light of day + with it, i am forced to glance at the parts that are dark. afraid. intolerable. in great disuse.

i have been in silence. with the hope of gaining solitude and a sense of bearing. i realised the greatest barrier enacted is not that which is fashioned in the hands of others, in the name of intolerance. rather, it is that which is erected by the blocks of fear that reside within me. as one who identifies as queer, i have discovered in platitudes that i gravitate towards that which is alike forgetting that love, in its variety arrives in clothes i may not be familiar with.

loving women has never been a thorn as realising that men too can be as loving. considerate.intimate and tender. an ephiphany of sorts.

i'm also not sure whether i have anything left to say, or think. or feel. yes, i am depleted.

my son killed your daughter are the beginning sentences of my current read. even as a child, i was acutely aware of the prevailent injustices committed in south africa. it could be that there a similar thread that transposed throughout the continent. an consequently, their struggle was our struggle. we shared a common pain. when madiba was released in early ninety. i did not attend school. instead, i joined the tens of thousands of other wananchi to hear him speak as a free man. it was electric. there are hardly any other instances, then and now, i can think of that elicted such a response.

women's words have always been held suspect. african authors are no exceptions. reading sindiwe's book, reminds me of the miriama ba's so long a letter. small, dynamite book that was an essential in my coming out as an african womanist. in their words, i have been enveloped in the sweetness of mothers milk. i have drank and lay satiated in the knowledge of a sisterhood.