16 poems on activism against gender based violence

16 POEMS ON ACTIVISM AGAINST

GENDER BASED VIOLENCE ANTHOLOGY

[ COMPILED BY THUTHUKANI NDLOVU ]

CONTENTS Welcome Note Appreciate thick thighs : by Xolani Msimango Answers : Mystic Idealist Bitten-Reality : Hape Mokhele Breaking the cycle : Synik Violence Against women info-graph 1 Nomathemba : Thuthukani Ndlovu It’s a shame really : Brown Skin Nono In the cold – Through window : Sand.ile An Abusive Timeline : Sasha Violence Against Women info-graph 2 You Versus Me: K.Mystery Shall we dance : TBMunyori Today, I will not bow (Together, WE Rise) : Juliet ‘Kego Sorrows for a mother : Rasmunroe We just are : Blackbirdzen Trapped : LaFaye Munetsi Genderless : Usha. R Goodbye Letter : AWA Violence Against Women info-graph 3 Heart Break Stories [Short Story] : Queen Wordsmith Contributors Taking Action Against GBV Info-graph This book Is supported by Thank you note

4 5 6 10 12 13 14 15 16 17 22 27 28 29 32 33 34 36 37 38 39 41 45 48 50

Welcome Note Dear reader Thank you for taking the time to download and open this anthology. “16 Poems on Activism against Gender Based Violence” is our 10th book for the year 2016, and we are delighted at the progress that has been made so far.

We decided to publish this anthology in support of the annual campaign: 16 days of activism against Gender Based Violence (which runs from the 25th of November to the 10th of December each year). It’s quite alarming when one looks at the statistics pertaining to Gender Based Violence related issues, so this anthology aims at addressing and making people aware of the issues that are faced by many women and girls around the world. This time around, we only selected the best 16 pieces from all the submissions, so making it onto this publication was more competitive than the previous anthologies.

The Radioactive blog takes pride in creating platforms for creatives (such as artists, fashion designers and poets etc) to not only share their work but also have the opportunity to address social issues that do not make living in our communities equally conducive for everyone. I personally believe that it’s imperative for creatives to always play an active role in their communities, by assisting with the provision of information for those who may not have easy access to it, supporting the fight against the different social ills that affect our society, and sharing stories/advice/ testimonies among their spheres of influence. On this note, I sincerely hope that you are not just delighted from reading what this book has in store, but that your mind is further enlightened around the issues (problems and solutions) related to Gender Based Violence. #StayBlessed,

Thuthukani Ndlovu Compiler & Blogger www.radioactivetuts.blogspot.com

Appreciate thick thighs I don't wear jeans for longer than a year and if I do its made of the stuff that remind my thighs that when Levi dreamt of jeans he had no clue what my African genes demanded to keep them covered Just like Africa my thighs they are thick and full of life.

Just like Africa too my thighs have been used to dehumanise me.

Again like Africa these thighs I have known from an early age that they don't belong to me...

He was old enough to be my dad.

Looked at me like a prize to claim Dug into my dignity and came back with the diamonds of my once intact purity.

Again like Africa I had buried these pieces of me so deep.

But the Lonmins that walk around disguised as a saving grace.

They mine my dignity until the only thing that remains of me is a hollow shell they massacre.

My genes don't obey the rules of Levi's jeans even if they come in diesel.

These diesel engines have stolen not only from Africa drilling deep into her belly These diesel engines they stole me walking to campus sent chills into my mother's womb as she watched pictures of what could have been me splayed across the TV - missing, because of these thighs.

I never understood what they meant that Africa was a woman until my thighs started to curve.

Then I witnessed first-hand how the body of her daughters relive her pain on the daily.

It was about a week ago that I swore never again to wear shorts again.

I love mama Africa but I refuse to be used like her.

He was old enough to be my dad.

He was old enough to be my dad.

He looked at me like a prize to claim.

They stood there watching.

Now I know too that we could have saved you Africa but we stood watching. Š Xolani Msimango

ANSWERS The clock ticks down To yet what is to come Frowns on the face of clowns Teeth clatter as they laugh out loud They seem to be laughing out loud They seem to be tearing at the seams They seem to be enjoying one another’s screams I ask myself how could this be For some unfathomed reason I doubt For in the back of my mind this can’t be as it seems But how would I know?

When I’m only five years old I switch on the TV And search for the answers on the screen I could ask my mother But mother’s not around I fear with anguish the monsters that lie under my bed But I sleep safer with them Than the nightmares you have cast on my bed You walk in and forget to keep your beasts at bay But leaving the door unlocked you condemn Then you pound on me and have your way Just like heavy metal sleigh pounds on pure white soft untouched snow You leave your blood-thirsty marks on land you invaded like a terrorist

You are a terrorist in my eyes As you invade my body with foreign weapons Paralyze my mouth as no sound comes out Shoot grenades into my heart And capture my mind in trepidation Ripping the sheets off like a tractor rips trees from their roots Your ghastly fingerprints pressed into me like rusted metal on fresh dew Sisters, you leave the rope of Hope around the neck of her sister, Mercy Squeezing the last of Joy until her existence ceases And so the nightmares on this bed continue…

I must indeed thank you for your generosity For not turning me into a pulp like you had my mommy Do you still remember how she was your training exercise Together, frothing incest between sadism, savagery and bloodshed desire As your hands tirelessly hammer Like a drilling war-machine onto the skin of my dread-filled mother Because of you I found comfort in fear Peace in despair Skin crawling in agony to be pieced together Broken, body, mind, soul, even character How would I know when I’m only five years old?

This is because the doctor and psychiatrist told me so I switched on the TV And searched for the answers For years walking around like a flowerless vase Unwanted and was shamed by those who merely laid their sights on my face I switched on the TV And searched for answers I saw roses growing with thorns I believed I was the thorn inflicting pain on beauty and splendour I switched on the TV And searched for the answers I roamed the Earth and starved myself of its wonders Because the terrorist made me build my life on being a humiliation and a burden The monsters come out, twist and turn All around me, tweak and tug A veil they removed around my head A blank canvas they put over instead I saw what was in front of me The Lion King standing before me Fierce and passionate with flames in Its eyes With anger it ran towards to me With unsympathetic claws in all four of its paws Its arm rocketing like a sword and attacking It wasn’t attacking me; it attacked and defeated the terrorist enemy….

One day, I switched on the TV I searched for the answers All along it was on the screen The first thing I saw before I switched on the TV The one thing stopping me from the answers The one thing I feared I could clearly see All along it was on the screen All along it was me I switched off the TV I opened a Book I searched for the answers And I only found one That my whole life was nothing but a lie As physical and horrific as it was – it wasn’t who I am I had lost myself in the torrent of the deep waters I had believed in earnest the vile self-fulfilling prophesies claimed over me I had washed in baths of my tears and wished to be slaughtered I loathed and thought myself unworthy to be living I cursed at the dirty deeds and tore at my flesh day in and day out The terrorist and the clowns had lied I found strength through my mother as she rose like a phoenix and rebirthed She cries and gets broken But gets up and walks golden We no longer stand on shifting sand but solid rock As princesses and no longer prisoners we walk The blank canvas is my identity The Lion, a King of beasts And I, the child of the Lion King I am no longer a thorn in the rose But a red rose growing with flames inside herself And a pen to author her destiny…

You lied to me terrorist and made me believe despicable things I could hate you but I don’t want to My mother doesn’t hate you either We forgive you We pray over you Hoping that you will forgive yourself The clock ticks down To what has come Smiles on the faces of people Hands clap as they witness the grandeur of Your will. © Mystic Idealist [Joy]

Bitten-Reality May I entice you with chants of yelling sorrow?

It was with the lids of her eyes she confessed As her bed fumed with discomfort and linen cold as dew Tossing and turning had done her injustice for the game of playing hide-and-seek chasing sleep was no more It was in the early hours of the morning, she grew courage to let go As renaissance speech in her mind breached Birthing pulse to a thought dead heart A reincarnation of bread-moulded bones, tendons and ligaments With buttered blood, sweat and tears It was before the fifth hour, briefly after the fourth And shortly prior landing on the floor What then seemed for the briefest of moments The most accommodating place of comfort What a pleasure it had been at times to lay on the floor With just a heartbeat to keep sane And in need of nothing more I love you, he said, and she hopelessly believed I care for you, he said, and she forged a smile I adore you, he said, and the fluttering butterflies sank to the pit of her stomach I want you, he muttered under his breath and she froze For he then said if he could not have her then nobody else would He began what he called kissing but her lips were unresponsive Caressing her thighs hoping to ignite a spark though unresponsive‌.

Forcefully grinding his body unto hers though unresponsive She sighed, heaved and ran short of breath…

She said stop, but he didn’t She said stop, but he couldn’t She said stop, but he wouldn’t She said stop and he continued…

As balled fists carved on her back a map with no destination A hint of summer showered her palms As they grasped unto a deceiving ground A piercing screech rousing horror deafening all with ears to hear As if dragging her by the strands of hair wasn’t enough As if banging and beating her wasn’t enough As if shoving and kicking her wasn’t enough As if suffocating her and knocking the air right out of her lungs wasn’t enough His words seeped in through her bloodstream and there inhabited Though burned at what she had thought was regularity Blurred what she had understood And before her very eyes, patches of reality departed No more unsolicited disgusted looks, grimaces and sarcasm No more pain, cuts and bruises that came with oversized pieces of clothing

No more hovering ghosts of ripped souls that gave into someone who consistently fails you Oe, bitla ha le nyonye, ha le hlatse - let the graves become engrossed and regurgitate For how many lives need we lose for the stigma to be noosed?

Silver and gold won’t make it any better Add what you like to the list and it still stands Nothing will ever make it any better. © Hape Mokhele

Breaking The Cycle Another excuse for the bruise below her eye Dark shades when she’s going outside, It doesn’t hide The missing fire, coz now she seems timid and small Had big dreams and the means for achieving them all But her man’s show of strength only exposed his weakness Through physical blows that left her soul in pieces Flowers and apologies and hospital visits She hangs on, just hoping that its gonna be different But it doesn’t stop, and then she missed her monthly Oblivious, he continued putting fists to her body Hope died with the child she never got to hold And she realised, in order to survive she had to go Outside of that poisonous environment she healed Returned to being a woman he had attempted to kill And she never understood what he was boxing her for Until she saw bruises on her former mother in law It’s a cycle… © Synik [Excerpt from : The Pages of Syn – A travel guide for the broken] The album is due to be released in 2017

Nomathemba Nomathemba, she was just a young girl, Who just wanted to conquer the whole world, But then she had a lot, running through her mind, Coz peace in the home was always hard to find, So what she found, was a lot of violence, And of course it was hard to break the silence, Coz she saw her dad, beak bread with the cops; Those who walk and those with the sirens.

She felt like she never had a choice, Whenever her dad would raise his voice, Coz anger filled his mouth when he spoke, As she stood there emotionally provoked, So he became the one to fear from, One whose words cursed her eardrums, And made her cry in her sleep, Coz like the cuts on her wrist, his words cut deep.

Nomathemba, still the same young girl, She feels like she’s being conquered by the world She asks (herself), “Why is life not fair?”

Coz she’s sick and tired of living a nightmare, So she wonders, “What is the remedy?”

Coz it feels like she’s running out of energy, She’s about to lose hope, Coz even her mum is forced to sleep with the same enemy.

The enemy that cut her lips And bruised her body when ever he tightened his fists, Now all she has are suicidal thoughts Coz her life can’t continue to suffer like this.

Her mind can no longer take, The pain that was caused by all the rape, But who’s going to help her, Coz I’m sure there are many other girls that can relate…? © Thuthukani Ndlovu

It’s a shame really...

It’s a shame really, That you will never get to know me as anything else besides the monster I became seemingly out of the blue.

The fist that punched all the beauty the good gods gave to you The head that head-butted yours until you fell into the ground unconscious and the feet that kept kicking, kicking, kicking Like our baby that could have been living, there is no more blood to Spill.

I could have been everything that embraced you that gave you courage, that held you softly, that picked you up gently But somehow the demons caged me, Your beauty threatened me Your strength annoyed me The way you carried yourself revealed all my shortcomings and I felt like the whole world was watching, eyes accusing, opinions emasculating Like the shame became the very skin I was wearing.

To be worthy of your throne girl I was failing, so no matter how many times you said it I had no reason to believe you would indeed take me But you did and in more ways than I would have ever imagined You nursed the child in me as I constantly spat on you You covered my shame, regardless of my failures you had this man’s back You picked berries from your scared garden and gave me the sweetest jam Then I yanked it right from your hands only to drop it on my feet and watched shamelessly as the red juice ran down your chocolate tinted legs, It’s a shame really, That all I ever did was take. ©Brown Skin Nono [Notsile]

In the cold: Through window Greedy skies uttering violence as peak of fear visits and stands bold in blemished clothing Lost in earth’s direction as man lay hand on mother and child; what happened?

“Patriarchy forced me to” says man, “How?” asked the universe, now man is angered against ask All these happenings seen through the corner of my window, “Neighbour needs help” I think upon “But how do I stop a giant?”

I inquire further to self. See, to help was theme but the man, I feared more “I could have saved them” I ponder, “Is it now late to do so?” I ask, “Why didn't I react on time?” I continue to ask When the clock beat down, it was then I realized how much they needed me, now they elapsed, I blame self “He killed them!” Tears of mine are plenty, “I could have been of help” sobbing in regret, “I'm a hypocrite” I concluded.

© Sand.ile [Sandile Shongwe]

An Abusive Timeline It started with this scar on my heart, This one just above the miniscule cleavage I have, This scar in the shape of your words, Raised slightly like the text on the front of a greeting card.

These words‌they shot out of your mouth, Pierced the skin on my chest, Sunk into my soul, My once pure, open, loving, carefree soul.

How could a string of words so foul Escape the lips that uttered the most delicious sweet nothings, Lips that whispered comfort into my ears in times of distress, Lips that breathed life into me when I wished for death?

Lips that kissed my miniscule cleavage before slipping off my dress.

How could such hateful words come out of a mouth so loving?

It progressed from a string of words to a collection of sentences.

A paragraph, Two paragraphs, Three.Four.Eight.Twelve.

A monologue.Then a speech.

The way you spoke to me now, your tone, your vocabulary, When compared with their former selves, All these things bore no resemblances.

You were never critical of me like you are now.

Not once did you belittle me, Not once did you mock my interests.

Not once did I think you would stop saying these sweet nothins And exchange whispered comfort for a beaten brow.

I never lost faith in you I assumed you would return to yourself.

I assumed you were lost in your own troubles, In a phase that would pass.

Dust that would blow away.

How nerve-wracking, soul shattering, that my wish never came true.

It developed into shouting and then morphed further into hitting the wall.

Right here is the hole you punched into the door.

Your hand penetrated its hollow core Three inches from my face.

How long till you hit your target? I was not so sure.

Here is the empty space you left on the Welsh dresser; There used to be a beautiful sapphire vase there but you smashed it.

Here is the remaining glass in a set of six that I bought; You threw the other five against the wall, or just thrust them to the floor.

Here is where you held me once, Right here where my immunization scar is on my right arm.

And here is where you threw me on the bed after pulling me down the hall.

You locked me in there to stare at the walls Like a child that has been given the dunce.

This white kitchen tile here is the very tile I stood on When you told me you would never do that again And I believed you.

But this tile, three up and on to the left of it, Is where I stood when It became slapping. Just here on my left cheek Was the first bruise you made on me.

Here on the highest point on my cheek bone You made an oval shaped, rose pink mark When you thought I was cheating on you With my best friend at the beginning of the week.

You told me to stop talking to him.

You said he did not respect our relationship Even though he was the one who helped you Reconcile with me when we had a long period Of arguing over issues that truly meant nothing.

You told me to stop talking to all my other male friends All my male friends who drank with you, My male friends who always came to your aid,

My male friends who had your back when you got into fights.

Because you thought they only kept me close So they could bring what we had to a miserable end.

Then you told me you did not like my female best friend, My best friend who helped me look after you When you were so ill and I did not know what to do.

Who helped you find your current job, An act which you describe as “a means to an end.”

We had grown apart as you wanted, my female best friend and I By the time you had struck me thrice, Four times.Five.Ten.Fifteen.

Each time for a ludicrous reason.

But I held back my plans to leave you; Each time you apologized, “Sorry” was made into the most delicious word a man would utter, Because the way you said it to me Made everything I said after hearing it come out in a stutter.

But now when you say it, Its only in a half hearted mutter.

Here look.

These are what remain of the pain I inflicted on myself.

See how the lines are deeper, thicker, on the side I placed the razor blade, And how thin they become by the time I lift it off my skin.

It’s the only way I could cope with what you did to me Because it was futile to cry “Help!”

Look at this one.

This was the first one. Also the thinnest one.

I was scared to do it. I couldn’t move the razor.

Let alone put it on my skin.

But I couldn’t stop myself once the first line was done: A thin line the width of a single hair of my Labrador’s fur.

It looked like a scratch.

It would be suspected by no one.

The sting was oddly pleasing, but it was not enough.

This is the second one I made, Slightly longer, slightly thicker. Not a scratch.

This one bled properly. Or sort of…

Little drops of rose red blossomed on the skin of my arm, Right here where my vein disappeared into my body, The green line sinking into my brown skin…

The sting was surprising. Surprisingly satisfying.

Luckily I could cover it with my long sleeved shirts; The sixth time you hit me was because I was wearing something “too short.”

How ironic that your favourite short black dress Became something you despised.

How could you suddenly hate the way it hugged my body When previously that tightness had you hypnotized.

And here is the third, made on the fourteenth beating A whole millimeter thick, three and a half centimetres long.

The ones that followed were of similar dimensions.

It ended when you had beaten me for about fifteen minutes straight.

Everything you held back came out with each punch Everything I did that irritated you was dealt with.

“Look what you made me do!”

You said this often when you didn’t want to say, more clearly, “The things you do make me act like this.”

These two sentences replaced “I will never hit you again, I promise,” and “I don’t know what came over me.”

You got tired of lying and practiced your manipulation, Blamed me for your evils.

It ended when I realized this was not my fault But yours.Your fault.

When you were done, you went to work.

When I was done crying, I packed my clothes, All these ugly, long thins you bought for me Because you didn’t like me showing my body.

I packed my other belongings.

I stole some of your money; you took mine.

“I provide for you. You don’t need it.”

But if you provide for me, why is there more alcohol than food in this house?

I crept out as quiet as a mouse So the house help would not see me, But she did. Yet she simply Grabbed one of my bags and helped me.

The gardener also came to our aid And carried the heaviest bag….

We took one step at a time, us three, One, two, three.

Six, nine, twelve, fifteen.

Till we got on a cab and told the driver to speed As far away from you as possible.

The police did not help me.

Apparently even though this is against the law, It’s not always punishable.

Its normal to be a punching bag it seems, To be free only in your dreams From the unfair treatment you receive For “not being a good girlfriend.”

For “not being a submissive wife.”

Is a man hit for not being a good husband?

I’ve not seen this yet in my life.

Teach your sons that they cannot beat anyone into submission.

No one is their slave or property.

They do not have the permission To lay a hand on a person who does not do their will.

They are not kings who must be obeyed at all times.

They are mere vermin if they threat a person so ill.

Teach them accountability.

A man who treats his lover like a dog Is not one of nobility.

Teach them entitlement is wrong, Nothing is owed to them And to them, no one belongs.

Teach them true respect for themselves And for other Lest they desire to be punished for a façade of it With an eternity spent in hell. © Sasha

YOU VERSUS ME It’s you versus me, once again I have to choose is it you or is it me? Do I lose or do I win? I’m confused.

Do I remain silent or do I ask questions about where you’ve been?

Do I go through your messages and calls to find out what’s the deal?

Who’s the woman replacing me, what she looks like and where she lives?

But fear has got the best of me If I get caught the mind knows where this can lead You get defensive and irritated, right hook over my face and my nose bleeds They say a woman has power in-between Perhaps I lost mine when I failed to produce a child from within And you keep on reminding me Every day that I’m nothing, I should say nothing, and I have nothing So here I am powerless, voiceless, childless, useless, nursing invisible wounds inflicted by you because you are heartless And one other thing, sexless, deprived of what I came here for because I am seedless Lying in bed with a man that I always called my sweetness All night but our bodies remain motionless The situation is intense And they say I should hold on These are marriage things life goes on Respect and cherish him nothing will go wrong But I choose not to listen, I will not be a victim of submission I choose not to accomplish this marriage mission There is something that’s clearly missing so now I am leaving I could have lost my beauty, my time, my happiness, but at least I didn’t lose myself It had to be me or you, I had to win or loose I’ve made my choice. © K.Mystery [Kudzai Vukomba]

SHALL WE DANCE ?

Shall we dance ?

But it’s a party , aren’t we supposed to?

Our only sister is married!

Married to a rich wealthy man .

Is it moral for us to dance?

Why not ? isn’t it a party?

How can we celebrate when she is conditioned to prematurely marry; Worse still, a man twice her age against her will?

Shall we celebrate mediocrity?

Because of our greediness We shattered the dreams of young lady We plucked up the flower before it could bring forth fruit.

Is money worth more than freedom, hope and a future? © TBMunyori [ Brighton Taruberekera ]

Today, I will not bow (Together, WE Rise)) Today, I shall be born and my mother will not weep When she beholds the folds between my thighs And my father will not stare at her with accusing eyes.

Yes, today, my father will not hunch over, And hiss out loud, brokenly; ‘It’s a girl!’

To the soft hum of my mother’s searing, silent cries And his half-brother’s pitying glances and mocking sighs.

Today, he will proclaim to his kinsmen, Hitting his hard warrior chest with pride That a first-born child is gifted to him, A child who’ll inherit his history, cattle and farmlands A girl-child who will be free to love and to learn, The secrets of kings and the traditions Of his land, of red earth Today, I am Queen, cherished and respected I will not be bartered off to any willing aging groom.

I refuse to be battered, stoned with cold rocks And killed (in honour), -By the callused hands of beloved brothers and uncles On whose knees I once bounced with joy In whose warm arms I was lovingly rocked Today, I refuse to be sentenced to a life-prison, that cold-room of resentment, bitterness, gloom and doom.

Today I will not bow, to the voices telling me to hush stand still And watch passively as my dreams disintegrate and die before me.

I shall not live a sham version of life, feeling fractured and broken.

Today, I will honour and nurture the seeds Of my daydreams and night dreams Today, I choose to bloom….

Today, I will not bow!

To the sounds of the bullets piercing my body, Because my spirit is still strong and unshaken Today, I will not bow!

Not even when I am attacked and maligned By lost souls, shackled by their own fears, Who turn my eyes away from the pages of life Afraid that I may discover new worlds and adventures -of Achebe, Adichie, Tennyson, Tagore -Marie Curie, Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti As I dare to find pieces of myself, in Whitman’s song of myself, In citadels of learning, within the sacred halls and walls of life

Today, I will not bow To the drums of the shriveled village medicine woman As she leads the crazed dance, and at its feverish peak They restrain me down and crudely hack off The tingling bud of my maidenhead!

They cannot stomach the sensual powers of this woman-child.

How they fear the fires of desires hidden in my shapely hips.

And the heavenly bliss waiting in the un-suckled milk Of my beautiful, budding, bouncing breasts.

They seek to silence my tongue so that I shall not question The ineptitude of the men who ride with no skill They seek to strip me of the source of my orgasmic deaths of life, Sentenced to an endless, aching waiting, -that never comes.

Today, I will not bow To the diseased, dirty, old village chiefs My bridegroom? Stealers of my childhood, Who take me, a mere 13-year old, for wife, -A slave-child bearing another child.

Today, I will not bow Not in guilt and definitely not in shame to the cowards (They, who call themselves soldiers of faith and religion), Who greedily plucked and sucked away all the fruits and juices From my plush innocent gardens, even when I screamed ‘NO!’ Leaving me there, by the dusty, dirty roadside, dead and dry.

There are many days yet ahead for bowing, Many days gone past for crying But not today This is the day that I will not bow Today, I rise for every woman-child Ancestors gone before and the unborn, after me I stand here, and hold sacred space in the gap.

And together, with my sisters’ spirit to guide me I declare that we are all worthy -Man, woman and child!

Yes indeed, tomorrow is yet unknown, And yesterday not yet forgotten But today?

Today is NOT the day I bow!

Today, I cease to hide under the sweeping skirts of my mother’s fears, Ma-jestic; a free-spirited Gazelle chained in life’s choking barn, a fierce tigress, caged in; breathless I choose now to awaken, run my race, Breathe and live my dreams instead Today, I shall stand tall on this stage of life I AM me, authentically me - W.O.M.A.N: Wise-strong-weak, Opinionated-extraordinary-ordinary, Ma-jestic, Accepting, embracing the Newness of all I co-create And when I’m done, I’ll gracefully take my bow.

Yesterday, I was nameless, faceless, dreamless, and voiceless And today? I am re-born anew by a-ma-zing grace [(♪, ♫)] I am Amina of Nigeria, I am Malala of Pakistan I am Rawan of Yemen, I am Damini of India I am Farkhunda of Afghanistan I am a little girl lost in Chibok… and today I shall not bow Today, I invite you all and together, we ARISE! © Juliet ‘Kego Ume-Onyido [ Audio version: https://soundcloud.com/julietkego/today-i-will-not-bow ]

Sorrows for a Mother She cries endless when night comes, With the setting sun her cheerfulness transforms to gloom All hope is lost Her screams at midnight signal his arrival Falling pots and pans tell the fight is on its high end You would mistake groans and moans for love making Alas it is the sound of pain from the raining punches Ma is at her best suppressing screams of pain As pound after pound Pa delivers his purported love A home once built of love has been transformed into a fighting ring Where Pa’s hate, scorn and maliciousness reign supreme As undefeatable champions A body meant to be worshiped and adored is now a punching bag A soul deserving love, care and protection is rewarded neither As abuse is dished across all planes...

When did it all go so wrong?

What did she do to deserve this?

I shed a tear and say a prayer.

Lord God! Stop Pa from abusing Ma and Sleep snatches me away.

I awake to the sound of the birds A smile on Ma's bruised face Remind me that Pa is now a monster. Š Rasmunroe [Cliff Muroyi]

WE JUST ARE Like bones with no homes And homes with no souls We are nothing but Fading laws.

We have migrated out of simple norms We now walk in hate Talk with regret.

And slowly losing recognition, of who we are And what we are supposed to be.

Our hands are tired like bow ties Its stylish that way , that's what they say.

Our voices have hid behind closest Fearing torture and losing loved ones Our only last right is writing poems with encrypted messages its sad but we have learned to live with it We are here, we just are. Š Blackbirdzen [Zenani Masuku]

TRAPPED Shackles on my feet Buried beneath the heat I drag myself Can’t feel my feet It’s been six weeks and no safe place to retreat This has become home, this has become my fate Tears do me no good For a human heart they have none I drag myself With shackles on my feet Bound to this place, this is now my fate Night comes and they cannot see I try to flee But the shackles on my feet Keep chained in one place I cry, “It’s been six weeks this CAN’T be my fate” With shackles on my feet No safe place to retreat Buried beneath the heat I know I must flee But the torment and torture have me bound This is my reality, this is home Trapped No one seems to know where I’ve gone Six weeks away from home This can’t be life I drag myself to a wall Try hard to end my life But my life as it were ended the day I was trapped Psychologically I’m dead Emotionally I can’t be reached Physically I’m of no use….

For the torment and torture have stripped all of me With shackles on my feet Buried beneath the heat Tears do me no good This is now my reality, this is home Trapped! ŠLaFaye Munetsi

GENDERLESS 'DEATH' a great Leveller.

In LIFE lets rejoice.

'SEX' let's enjoy in the bedroom, Coz., GOD meant it that way!

Rogues, Rapists and philanderers, In womb, exterminate...

Mother, sister, wife, daughter...

In them why see competition.

Neither can live without the other.

All men prejudiced, incapacitated!

Truth! Accept, Respect and Introspect. Don't Discriminate...

Or remain unborn, kin less, a Nobody, widower & Genderless. Š Usha.R

Goodbye Letter Dear dad….(or should I even call you that) I had to scribble this letter so don’t expect any greetings, Mom is leaving because of the cheating and the beatings, Right now she is hastily packing, her heart still aching, And I can tell that deep inside her soul is breaking, Don’t blame us when you walk in and we are gone, This hell of a home is all we have ever known, You treat my mother like a domestic animal, How can you be so inhuman like a cannibal, Every kick and punch, Bites away her joy and pride, You have even mastered how to hit her, Making sure that you silence her and never bruise her face or her arms, Because you want people to see you with perfect eyes, We won’t fight back, we are too weak to face a monster, If I could change one thing I would change being your daughter, I am only fourteen but I have seen enough, To gladly leave this house and we will start a new life, I will finally stop watching you paint my mother’s eye blue, Every time she bleeds my heart bleeds too, My pen is running out of ink, And I hope with every blink, And every clock tick, This empty house will give you time to think. © AWA – African Women Arise

Heart Break Stories For years I hid the fact that I was raped by a relative, I could not tell my mother about what had happened until I was sure. As time went on I got to understand and see the truth in it all, I was raped and I could not keep this to myself any longer. As more time passed on, I could not help but resent the man that did this to me.

Dear God I was only 7 years old, how could he have done this to me? I was a child who knew nothing.

Eventually I let it out and told my mother, I couldn’t keep it inside, it tore me apart and started to have an effect on my life. Subconsciously this played a role, the decisions I made were influenced by this incident.

My heart breaks and it brings tears into my eyes thinking about how my mother reacted. How could the woman I loved, who was meant to protect me from it all say what she said without caring? How could she just not care and say that to me? How could she say, “Hayi wethu seyiyenzekile akhonto eyinokwenzeka” (Translation: Oh well it’s done and nothing can be done about it).

Never have I cried as much as I did; the pain and anger that soon flowed throughout my body made me do the regrettable. I charged at her, I continued to hit her and hope she too would die like the little girl that died when I was raped.

Beating her to a pulp was only a mental thought, physically I was numb. I did not hear what else she said; I had those words replaying in my mind over and over again. I could not believe it at all, I walked out and left her. I left home, I needed to go out, it felt as though the walls were closing in on me and I could not breathe at all.

Never had I driven like that in my life in quest of getting alcohol, I could only think of one thing, either I die sober or drunk. I couldn’t bear to face another day with this feeling and knowing my reason for living other than me can be so cruel. I couldn’t help but cry and I tried looking beyond the tears to see where I was headed…

By some grace and intervention I made it to the nearest liquor store, I parked right outside and began to drown my sorrows. I survived the road sober; I have never consumed so much alcohol in my life. I wanted to die, the more I drank the more I was on the quest for pills, suicide was the way out. I searched endlessly for pills and eventually found sleeping pills, I vaguely remember reading how sleeping pills wouldn’t do much but I still tried it anyways. The pills and alcohol mix did nothing but numb my body, nothing seemed to work.

Why would God allow me to go through such pain and yet keep me alive?

Why is this son of a bit#@ hell bent on keeping me alive? Can he not see that I can’t do this anymore; can he not see I’m at my lowest?

I needed a place, someone to talk and drink with, I had to find someone. I eventually found someone.

I found you.

I spilled every single bean about who I was and my entire life yet you too betrayed my love and trust. I thought you were my superman and you were going to rescue me through it all. I guess my heart is meant to be broken and remain that way.

Days later I finally got what I had wanted, Death! I had no other choice but to rid the world of such men, I had to kill them all.

You are all dead to me.

With time, therapy and great friends I was able to live once again.

Mom, you hurt me but I forgave you but you will always remain dead to me. I will bury you and ensure you are in that coffin, I don’t hate you anymore; I just simply ignore your existence in this world. ©Queen Wordsmith

Full Name: Sanelisiwe Owethu Ntabeni Stage Name: Queen Wordsmith Nationality: South African Location: Cape Town, (South Africa) Occupation: Junior Social Community Manager Link: www.simplysanelisiwe.blogspot.com

CONTRIBUTORS Full Name: Hape Juliett Mokhele Stage Name: Hape Mokhele Nationality: South African Location: Bloemfontein (South Africa) Occupation: Environmental health student & Performing Artist Link: Facebook & Twitter [@HapeMokhele] Full Name: Xolani Msimango Stage Name: X Nationality: South African Location: Bloemfontein (South Africa) Occupation: Student Link: www.reintroductionofme.tumblr.com Full Name: Juliet ‘ Kego Ume-Onyindo Stage Name: Juliet ‘Kego Nationality: Nigerian-Canadian Location: Toronto (Canada) Occupation: Poet & Leadership Consultant Link: www.julietkego.com Full Name: Gerald Mugwenhi Stage Name: Synik Nationality: Zimbabwean Occupation: Artist Link: www.soundcloud.com/synikzim

Full Name: Kudzai R. Vukomba Stage Name: K. Mystery Nationality: Zimbabwean Location: Bulawayo (Zimbabwe) Occupation: Unemployed Link: Facebook Full Name: Thuthukani Ndlovu Stage Name: Thuthukani Ndlovu Nationality: Zimbabwean Location: Bloemfontein (South Africa) Occupation: Student & Blogger Link: www.radioactiveblogspot.com Full Name: Joy Mokgoroane Stage Name: Mystic Idealist Nationality: South African Location: Bloemfontein (South Africa) Occupation: Student Link: Facebook

Full Name: Sasha Leigh Coutinho Stage Name: Sasha Nationality: Zimbabwean Location: Kitwe, (Zambia) Occupation: Student Link: Twitter [ @Bad_Bunny97 ]

Full Name: Fay S. Munetsi Stage Name: LaFaye Munetsi Nationality: Zimbabwean Location: Johannesburg (South Africa) Occupation: Student / ESL Teacher Link: Twitter [ @LaFaye__Munetsi ]

Full Name: Zenani Masuku Stage Name: Blackbirdzen Nationality: Zimbabwean Location: Bulawayo (Zimbabwe) Occupation: Student Link: www.blackbirdzen@wordpress.com Full Name: Cliff Zivanai Muroyi Stage Name: Rasmunroe Nationality: Zimbabwean Location: Midrand (South Africa) Occupation: Junior Pre-Sales Architect Link: www.rasmunroe.wordpress.com Full Name: Awakhiwe Sibanda Stage Name: AWA Nationality: Zimbabwean Location: Bulawayo (Zimbabwe) Occupation: Rapper Link: www.soundcloud.com/femcee-awa

Full Name: Sandile Shongwe Stage Name: Sand.ile Nationality: South African Location: Pretoria (South Africa) Occupation: Student & Poet Link: www.msandishongwe.blogspot.com Full Name: Usha . R Stage Name: Usha. R Nationality: Indian Location: India Occupation: Lecturer in Commerce Link: Facebook Full Name: Notsile Nelile Nkambule Stage Name: Brown skin nono Nationality: Swazi Location: Siphofaneni, (Swaziland) Occupation: Unemployed Graduate Link: www.twitter.com/Brownskinnono

Full Name: Brighton Taruberekera Stage Name: Tbmunyori Nationality: Zimbabwean Location: Harare (Zimbabwe) Occupation: Student Link: Facebook

This book is supported by The 16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence is an international campaign originating from the first Women's Global Leadership Institute coordinated by the Center for Women's Global Leadership in the year 1991.

Participants chose the dates November 25- International Day Against Violence Against Women- and December 10International Human Rights Day- in order to symbolically link violence against women and human rights and to emphasize that such violence is a violation of human rights. http://16dayscwgl.rutgers.edu/ The Purity Challenge is about proposing and promoting a 'lifestyle' of purity, through the pursuit of high standards of morality, respect for self and society. Furthermore to promote and cultivate an awareness and commitment to the development of self and society. The project is mainly focused on the youth. http://www.puritychallenge.co.za/about-us/

Our Empowerment and Self-Leadership Coaching programs are more about clear ACTIONABLE steps, CREATIVE solutions and RESULTS-based outcomes for our clients/members! We aim to provide members with a compelling 'call-to-action' on issues affecting their overall well-being. Our vision is to raise a new generation of Transformational and Creative African Leaders and thus, create the society of our dreams! https://wholewomannetwork.org/ The South African Arts and Culture Youth Forum is an organization for young artists in South Africa. The organization aims to raise awareness for the support of up and coming artists in the country and advocate for youth in the cultural and creative sector. Our mission is to creative an enabling environment for young people in Creative Industry to thrive and discover their crafts. https://www.facebook.com/South-African-Arts-CultureYouth-Forum-378811078996396/

This book is supported by #CultureFix is a global network of artists, cultural producers, and influencers who use art and culture to create social impact . We help artists figure out their social impact strategies and break into new markets.One of the ways we do this, is through online chats, using the hash-tag #CultureFix every Tuesday at 3pEST. https://twitter.com/CultureFix_ Campus Achievers is a UFS student organisation that assists students from disadvantaged backgrounds with the adjustment from high school to university.

The Real Zim’s mission is simply to promote Zimbabwean lifestyle, arts and culture; & show the positive side not usually seen or portrayed about Zimbabwe & its people.

Their vision is to create a platform for Zimbabwean creatives to share their unique Zimbabwean stories and showcase their creativity through different forms of artistry. http://therealzimbabwe.co.zw The 1980 Alliance is a network and platform for young Zimbabweans who want to challenge themselves and each other to make a difference. We’re going to Dream and Do – to approach the many issues that young people face in Zimbabwe with unrestrained imagination and unlimited enthusiasm and drive. http://the1980.org/ Free State art fusion: a platform for all artists to be able to display, perform and sell their work. The concept was based on the currently overwhelming demand for opportunities for unemployed and disadvantaged artists.

This platform therefore caters for visual artists, musicians, poets as well as small businesses(eg local Clothing brands) to come display their products. https://www.facebook.com/FreeStateArtFusion/

Thank You Note Dear reader You have come to the end of this anthology, and I would like to thank you once again for taking the time to read this book. I sincerely hope that you have learnt something from the well crafted content that has been compiled.

I would like to thank all the poets who submitted their work (even those that did not make it onto this publication – your poems will still be shared on our social media pages). Without your contributions, this anthology would not exist. The second group of people I would like to thank are the organizations that supported this book. It’s really an honour to get support from such great and influential organisations from different parts of the world, that are making their communities (and the world at large) a better place to live in . Thirdly, I would like to thank Fay Munetsi for agreeing to co-edit this book, as this not only made my job less difficult, but also ensured that the book meets a standard of excellence. Last but not least, I would like to thank God for helping this anthology become what it is. We’re all blessed to be a blessing to others.

Your feedback on the book (or any of the poems) would be highly appreciated, So please send your comments to the following platforms:

Radioactive Facebook page @2tukani on Twitter radioactivetuts@gmail.com www.radioactivetuts.blogspot.com Well, that’s about it for now. Look out for more anthologies coming soon. You can read all our previous publications online by clicking on the back cover of this book, and if you are a poet who would like to also contribute to our next publications, make sure you like our Facebook page and subscribe to the Radioactive blog. Please feel free to share this book with friends, family, poets and other organisations. Let’s continue to fight against GBV. #StayBlessed, Thuthukani Ndlovu [Compiler & Blogger]