We would like to be represented, she said,
a passive question to a revolutionary leader,
hanging on his every word, on tippy toes,
hoping that his response would truly see her.
He spoon-feeds her cultural lines,
how African women have always been kept top of mind.
Look who does most of our campaign work,
who feeds our children, cleans our homes, attractive girls you are fine.
He leads her back to African queens,
framing inequity through walls of the top floor.
She seems satisfied, a bit shy,
but why then is she, we, asking for more?
Because he missed her point completely, that’s why,
it’s not his fault he’s sleeping,
most men, once boys, struggle, conditioned not to see us as equals,
well-wishes deny the South African reality, girls left weeping.
Young women, dark, light, and shades in-between,
from south, east, west, north regions,
if you’re asking for sufficient space, you’re making a mistake,
rather, come to the table in your mass legions.
Stand as one before the boardroom table,
leaning your hands on the surface you cleaned,
your sisters at your back, on your sides,
focus on better channelling those inner screams.
Listen buddy, say you,
friend, lover, brother or uncle Sam,
you acknowledging our unpaid, paid labour,
is cute, not good enough, no matter how big a fan I am.
Here’s how this is going to go,
in a world where we make up 50% in sheer numbers,
we are owed equal paid work, education,
corporate, government equal space,
the right to wear whatever we like,
we don’t need your permission or approval to put up a fight.
I know you like the look of us, you love us,
your mothers, grannies, your daughter, Betty Boo,
but we don’t need your love,
or appreciation, right now,
actual change is why we are talking to you.
You misunderstand us though,
we don’t need to ask,
in this Africa’s southern south, we outnumber you,
by about one million, they say,
we don’t need women’s political leagues,
female SRC chairs,
awards for best mother, best lover, hip hip whatever hooray.
In a country where we are the majority,
fully human like you,
we expect our needs and desires,
our voices at the table,
no more mere faces, token numbers, your assistant,
the usual few.
Don’t hide justification for inequity,
behind cultural practices, policies and rules,
a culture should evolve, it must,
we women are not born to be your cooks, slaves or fools.
Let’s not insult the intelligence of lacy bras,
we know about the court case involving lions’ trust,
charging rent for culturally stewarded land,
or Rahube warriors, pushing against cultural pride,
that made a home grab muss.
Ukuthwala is no joke,
child marriages, child rape,
built into customs,
practised post ’94, many a girl-child forsaken.
When an old friend, a Muslim flower,
complained to the Muslim Council,
telling them a gun was pointed at her,
the all-man team of cultural experts,
told her to work on her marriage,
smothering her with a wet towel.
And so when women want to drop the hijab,
in South Africa, Iran or any other,
their choice is what matters,
if they’re making the rules,
it’s not freedom if equal decision power,
institutional power is not honoured.
Cultural history is good, religion too,
but romanticising feminine struggle,
our work, unsupported, unpaid,
your comfort with being served,
serves you, buddy,
this may not be our collective future way.
Before we talk,
about the one African queen you can name,
from the hundreds of chieftains,
noble men,
let’s discuss why still religious bodies,
dominated by you not us,
make rules for the collective,
that we—only some—rubber stamp,
a marketing token folly.
The issues women face go beyond ripple effects,
of historic ideas of entitlement and possession,
baked into religions and cultures,
is the fear of power equity,
that causes men,
to attack flowers challenging domination.
It should come as no surprise,
that as more and more African women,
economically emancipate,
the business, political, religious systems,
come under threat.
Who will define the rules?
Will the rules be changed?
For the traditional controllers that’s the bait.
But do you really think we are less capable,
of leading you and our sons,
soft, delicate, bad-driving creatures,
who do you think decides and makes your lunch?
How many of us decide how we live,
making choices that juggle multiple interests.
In South Africa, millions of women,
raised families alone.
We are no flying Icarus.
So sweet girl, black child,
African born,
stop asking, waiting, passively hoping,
for what is rightfully yours.