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“…you had the kind of hands that moulds women into sad plots…”

 

Some households ask that you leave your shoes at the front door before you enter,
My friend’s cousin asked that I do the same with my feminism.
Did he not know that my knees no longer knew how to bow down to the myth that women fell out of their mothers’ wombs to exist as mere ash,
And men the relentless raging fires?
And so I said:
“I am whole and finally do not know how to be otherwise, so I won’t be leaving pieces of myself out on any doorstep.”
“You are the kind of woman that men run away from, and hardly ever towards.”
“Then it is men that I will pray for the most at night.”
“Bitch.”
“Luke 23:34.”
“What?”
“I said, Luke 23:34.’’
“‘Father, forgive them for they do not know what they are doing.’ Get to the point.”
Father, forgive them for they do not see that they have made warm homes out of prisons.
Father, forgive them for they do not yet see that it is the invisible shackles that are the deadliest.

 

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Post image by Daniel Lobo via Flickr.

About the Author:

IMG-20161002-WA0008-1-1-1Letlhogonolo Swaratlhe is from Johannesburg, South Africa. She is a young robust feminist on a continuous journey of learning and relearning how to be whole, a ‘baby academic’ who holds a BA degree in Politics, Philosophy and Economics, and is currently studying towards an Honours degree in Philosophy, with interests centered around African ethics and the African aesthetic experience. She has made a religion out of words- written and spoken.

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I hold a doctorate in English from Duke University and recently joined the Marquette University English faculty as an Assistant Professor. I love teaching African fiction and contemporary British novels. Brittle Paper is the virtual space/station where I play and experiment with ideas on how to reinvent African fiction and literary culture.

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