I lived in solitude and in quiet but not peace.
I lived in a world where women were perceived to have very little worth.
I lived in a world where your body index, your body’s colour determined your status; above or below.
The median was never really clear… was it a white woman with pale skin or a white woman with tanned skin?
Women of colour always on the sidelines, forgotten.
I lived in a world that had collapsed long before I arrived.
I lived in a world where if I said ‘no’, I was disobedient.
How hard it was, as a good girl, to then say ‘no’ to the perpetrator.
How hard it was to assert my authority when my culture subdued my very nature.
I lived through an ever-changing landscape of protests, people parading the streets, fiercely fighting against this world that had been created.
A world I didn’t recognise to be my own.
I lived in an apartment in the city… where people walked around numb, looking at each other like foreign-strangers.
I lived in a world where people disconnected from themselves, from nature, from love.
They told us to plug into technology, you’ll find connectivity there they said.
Lost in the world of instagram?
In a dick pick?
I lived in a world where love was conditional.
Conditional to my obedience.
Conditional to my skin colour.
Conditional to my behaviour.
Conditional to my skin’s softness.
Conditional to my views.
Conditional to my skin’s clarity.
Conditional to my decisions.
Conditional to my body’s weight.
Conditional to my dependence.
Conditional to my body’s height.
Conditional to my smiles and pretty faces.
Conditional to my body’s curves,
the good ones.
I lived in a world where we treated women like nature.
Because we were considered more natural.
Some bleed blood.
Some carry milk.
We are soft and tender.
Fierce and strong,
all at the same time.
We sway around, like the branches of a tree.
Breathing to better ourselves.
I lived in a world where nature was getting destroyed.
I lived in a world where the art became messy and stagnant, conceptual they called it.
Conceptual of what? Our lack of imagination as we slowly die alive?
Conceptual of our decay.
I would have told them, but God is the mother of all things bright and beautiful like the purity of your unborn soul. But to them, God is man — a white old man — who dictates our every move, watches over us like CCTV cameras.
I lived in a world where cursing was neither good nor bad.
Language had lost its meaning, just in the same way our interactions had.
And as our language faded away, so too did our history and our thoughts.
We started populating the earth like an uninvited host of terrorists.
We trapped our animals, banished them and hunted — for the sake of a term they called ‘fashion’.
Fashion became an emblem of identity?
But could you really call the clothes on my back mine, if they allow rapists, sexual abusers and foreign hands to grope me, drug me, accusing me that my appearance invited them.
Can I call fashion a part of my identity when it destroys the earth.
Like our lake that has now dried up.
Or the women in countries where they work on minimum wage, sewing up my jeans, under conditions where being able to see their sick children is cause for beatings, firing, death.
Dying, for the comfort of us finding our identity, not within ourselves but within our materialistic objects that serenade us in the forms of brands. I thought N*ke was for the cool kids and Z*ra for the high-street offenders.
See I lived in a world that was made morbid, by society, by culture, by unreasonable thinking.
Now, I live in the same world but with a different spirit. A spirit that helps create a change so that this old world of ours doesn’t suffocate us in the way we suffocate ourselves.