Dear Mr. Afrikaaner Man....

---I come from a hurting people. Still. My people have risen from a history so sensitive and so deeply-rooted in inequality, we only ask that we be given the space to deal with our emotions-rightfully. To deal with the pain, the hurt and the anger. Before there was reconciliation, did we we lash out?---

 

Dear Mr. Boer Man,

I have no business writing this to you but you see wherever I go I seek peace and maybe, just maybe this may be some form of closure for me.

Mr. Afrikaaner Man I do not know you, not personally anyway, I only know of you, I have heard stories of your encounters with my ancestors, many of which have passed on, but I’m sure you would not be bothered much about that because from what I hear, you have never cared for anyone but yourself. Oh how selfish you have been made out to be Mr. Afrikaaner Man, I can only hope and pray that the stories I have heard of you and your people are only that- stories. But still I doubt that very much.

At this point, I know what you are probably thinking, die idiot moors my tyd, at this moment you would rather be in your big ass farm, shouting away at you buss boys and girls for getting the crop lines all twisted, right? In this instance you are now turning purple in the face wondering why this letter addressed to you is in English when it’s not even your first language. Right now you might be at the brink of tearing this letter away because it has absolutely no relevance to you, but before you do…

Before you do, let me clarify this… I do not hate you. I have no grounds on which to hold any grudges, I have no scores to settle, no reason to seek any kind of revenge, as a matter of fact, I have no reason sitting here writing this out like you might actually give it the time of day should it find its way into your arms. Mr. Afrikaaner Man, although I do not hate you, I cannot stand you, excuse the brutality of my honesty but in this space it is never compromised.  My instinct tells me you almost certainly do not care but somehow you may wonder why I can’t stand you…well for what may seem like obvious reasons but still, it may not be so blatant to others.

Mr. Baas Man, you are a cruel and cold creature. As heartless as they come, you have taken my people and subjected them to nothing less than animals, made them slaves of your own, you have robbed my ancestors in broad day light and as if that was not enough, you went on ahead to ensure that they go through a lifetime of suffering. You have monopolized this land that once belonged to everyone that was born to it and now you have made everything your own…you have driven grown men and women out of their homes and into your backyards, have them working like slaves for close to nothing. Not only have you ripped grown men of their dignity but you have also had the satisfaction of stripping them of their cultural pride, their language and their origins. You have taken my people and programmed them to think like you, speak like you, be like you and act like you!

Mr. Boer Man, I’m really trying to be politically correct here, to put things mildly, your aura induces a feeling of great discomfort, you know…one I would probably get if I were to ever find myself locked in a sty with a bunch of swine’s. But then again this should come as no surprise to you as you know all too well about treating my people like animals, your only shock right now may be why unlike many of them am I not kissing your mighty high, khakhi shorts wearing buttock.  

Fortunately I was raised to respect those that respect me back and not those that forcefully beg it out of me. I was not raised to obey bullshit laws without first questioning them, I raised myself into a brave heart hence I have learned about the struggles of my ancestors and have felt every last thrash to their flash, every chain that held them captive and every demeaning phrase you spat out at them, I felt it like I was there, it hurt my bone, my soul and my core the same way it did them, probably more so because I can’t take back their suffering, I can't scream on their part or curse at you in moments of heated rage or angry outbursts. Mr. Afrikaaner Man I cannot do any of that because I seek my peace, not from you or your people but within myself and in my people. I’m tired of replaying the scenes of brutality that you exposed them to in my head, I no longer want these tears rolling down uncontrollably caused by feelings of guilt over situations I had absolutely no control over. Your past obscenities stop controlling my thought train today!  

Make no mistake, this is no call for reconciliation, unlike those that came before me and after your victims of oppression, I still think it’s too soon. The wounds are still too fresh and ripe; we as a people have not healed yet. We need to come to terms, get some closure and at least try to move forward as a people before we start forgiving. I embrace anger; it helps with the healing process. I don’t expect you to either care or understand the fact that I am still angry but I forgive you, for the sake of peace. My peace.

So many things I’m still unhappy about and so many situations that my people still find themselves in that cause a hard lump in my throat but oh how therapeutic it has been to write this out to you. How this has elevated my emotional stability. I do not care for your thoughts on it, only that I wrote it and that this tension I have held has now escaped me into the Universe.

Because until we deal with these unresolved emotions, find peace within ourselves, then our understanding of forgiveness will always carry out elements of fear.  

Regards,

An Angry Black Woman  (1977)

 

Until next post....

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...

The Lady that Used to Write....

---"Writers write, for yourself. Writers write. Not for instant grat but just to write. Write on"---
@SistersWhoWrite

I once knew of a lady who used to write. This lady...I remember her in all her glory, she was my sunshine, my own living goddess- she wore on her, the brightest smile and when she spoke, her opinion was always firm. Her fist? Clenched tight while she held it sky high. Oh how I loved this lady who used to write. Write stories of blue skies and sunshine's, she wrote of children roaming freely in these streets, of mothers and fathers who led black nations to victory, of black revolution and an empowered people. She wrote of rainy days and green grasses, of beautiful jazz melodies that awoke each one of our love senses.

My smile perfectly carves at the thought of this Lady that wrote. 

She was my best friend but she never knew this. See I never got the opportunity to holler at this Lady that jotted isms and schisms on wrinkled pieces of paper. I was far away, lost in lands where she would take me to and then leave me there. The Lady that wrote took me on travels. She knew of places non-existent to me, of deep seas and the highest mountains. We walked the world together, hand in hand living out our dreams and building memories in our memories.

But I loved this lady who wrote for me and for mine and for ours.

I loved her cause she knew of me. When I read her stories of struggle I found myself in her. We never met but even in these different paths we chose we lived like Siamese. The lady that played with syllables and toyed with words to evoke this feeling in me that died so long ago but I still hopelessly long for left me with a lifetime of confusion and pain.

When this Lady died. I died with her.


I still long for her company, how her gentle voice breathed itself from those lone pages and into my soul, igniting fires of positivity. The Lady that used to write went astray, she up and left and echoed no warning signs. She left me raged, shredded and in pieces. She does not know that I breathed her words, her tales inspired me, to me they were life. It did not matter what subject choice she wrote about but what I cared for was that she wrote. I had become loyal to her craft, it was my best friend. But as easily as she had breathed life into me, she sucked it right out.


Rumour says Lady stopped her story cause no one heard her.

But not only is this untrue, its also unfair to those that found peace of mind between her perfectly ranged vowels and consonants. I was one of them and I know I speak for others as well when I say that the Lady that wrote was selfish. She wrote her heart out and then she stopped. Stopped feeding our hearts with stories of hope and inspiration. And that killed not only us, but also our nation. When the candle that brightened our days and kept our flames afloat burned out, we were left in darkness. Even those who wanted to write their stories down themselves seemed lost.

I need you to remember one thing.

So. To you, the lady that writes. That writes from the heart and writes of her heart- breaks, trips, leaps or smiles. The lady that writes only of truth and whose words depict the days we lead in these dusty streets. Our lives portrayed in your every title of the songs that you write in speech. I plead that you continue to write. To document the histories of our people and to predict the coming of their freedom. To tell us of your lonely days and about better times of reaped joy.


Writers write indeed. Not for gratification, not to prove a point or to please anyone but themselves. Writers write because they're angry, because they're happy and because they cannot afford to be selfish. Writers are therapists that you pay nothing and go nowhere to consult; They are the stones of support that we lean on for escapism into lives that seem better than the ones we lead. They are the visionaries that paint for us the hopes of a new a day, a new era.

Yes. Writers write. But writers also Heal. And build. So Write on Sister.

Live. Be inspired. Then You Write Sister!

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...