Raped — One Pamela Pusumane

The air is bit heavier today.

Smiling is a cross — heavier than the last one

And I am not ready to fall.

I don’t think I have the energy to get up for another swing.

My heart is heavy today.

Great-grandmother told me God is up there somewhere

But I now know for sure, God never did anything to help me.

She just sat there, still and unmoved.

As if She had roared and the earth waited on Her next instruction

But for now, everything remains still, up there.

I scream till my lungs vibrate, my throat dries

As my voice screeches and claws its way out.

I don’t know who wants to escape more.

My voice. My soul. My mind. Or the whole of me.

But for now, let me try to be visible, be a body, be worthy being noticed.

Time doesn’t exist. Seconds become ions and nothing ends.

I wait under the shower, waiting to disappear with the water.

To embraced the drain, to be welcomed with open arms and feel not like a prisoner.

I want the water to notice me, for my past lover to remember it’s not his fault

That I confuse him for the monsters in my dreams sometimes.

I wonder if God flinched when they came for me.

She could have warned me in time with parables and prophecies.

I paid my dues in church, gave all I have to everyone up there

But still that wasn’t enough. Is there anyone even listening up there?

To my cries, to the imprints I try to scrub off everyday.

Is anyone watching up there? How I jump from stanza to the stanza?

Because getting myself to jump off rooftops is a task I haven’t gotten up to yet.

Does God notice when I drown in liquids till my vision becomes blurry

Because that’s when the red flags become invisible and the monsters go to sleep.

Only then can I crawl into bed with past lovers and not have my body be an every-day apology.

© One Pamela Pusumane

Bio: One Pamela Pusumane is a young creative writer an poet from Botswana who is passionate about writing pieces that push the boundaries and get people talking about the things we tend to shy away from in our daily lives. She is currently pursuing her BA(Hon) Social Sciences undergraduate degree at the African Leadership University in Mauritius. You can also find her work on Instagram, Facebook, and Hello Poetry.

Bad Touch – mahish.asur-mar.dini.

At eight, I used to read the newspaper aloud.

I read, “A GIRL OF 3 RAPED BY 7.

My aunt, horrified, said, “Who puts such news in the newspaper, people don’t have sense.”

I searched for the word in the dictionary: dominance / conquest.

I asked my mother to divide my hair into six plates and braid them into two. I was gonna make a fake path at the center of my head, “Lest a bad king with his army might attack my boundaries and break open the gates to poke his flag into my grounds, I may not be dead.”

Later that day, I wept when uncle waved at me his flag, again, and my fake path didn’t work. He knew secret tunnels.

I was the queen of another castle and I couldn’t rescue my grounds. So, now my kingdom must accept or else, the kingdom in my legs would be burned with cigarettes and their harsh smoke;

If I told my mother, my head would be cut off and stuck on a pole at his lands.

I saved my life. I kept quiet.

Another game of hide-and-seek,

Another blame of eye-spy-cheat arrived even when I disguised myself under an ugly face, a dead body fumed up with high fever, I showed him a 105° point thermometer.

Years passed by, one day, uncle left the world.

I was the happiest girl on earth.

My demon left, so did abuse, pain, conquerors, and theft.

My family had their lament.

I spent a week on my bed.

I had started a cemetery in my scalp and his tombstone stood tallest.

Now, my hair grew wild, a freedom flag. Now, I was a blood-feasting goddess. Now, I awoke my unrest, and a lot of power. Now that my demon was gone, I fell in love with graveyards for they could call upon all the bad in people and all the bad kings and their armies.

.

At eighteen,

I used to teach little children. My cemetery now held numerous buried flags, hands, and heads. Many bad kings were dead.

I taught my kids about #BADTOUCH. “We don’t need any more #METOOs,” I said.

 

Bio: mahish.asur-mar.dini: I gave myself this title a short time ago. I have always felt it in me; I am meant to cleanse the world of its neck-gripping flaws that suppress women. mahish.asur-mar.dini – it’s a Sanskrit word that means ‘killer of monsters’. I hope to kill them in my poems. I hope to kill the monsters in the minds of people.  I am change; I am breaking every glass ceiling I see. I will make this world better.  You can also check out my work on Instagram: @nidhie_saini