My home, Africa. My home sweet home,
The home that birthed the strong “African woman“,
The one that is taught to “work hard”. Hard enough to take care of her home from the second she can breathe, patient enough to put everyone else before her, humble enough to express herself a little as possible, so she is regarded as virtuous, ambitious enough to dream, but carefully and consciously, to get the ultimate, marriage.
Africa my home, has betrayed me, again and again,
Africa my home has shown me again and again, that my strength is in my tears, my happiness in a man, my worth lies between my legs, my freedom in the hands of a man.
I have somehow been found by the mercies of civilization, yet still enslaved to Africa, as she is all I know. Hence, my thoughts are betrayed by my actions.
The trauma and reality of what a strong African woman should do is my worst night mare. I can’t help but dread the one thing I am supposed to dream about and want so badly.
Oh well, since my home has trained me all my life how to start another home, I shall, but on my terms.
I do not believe in marriage , I believe in understanding and rationality.
I am no African woman, I am a proud black woman, strong, beautiful and intelligent.
I am no feminist, I an the half-baked feminist.