@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...
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