A moment of silence for the death of childhood.

My despondent face looks into a camera. I ask why I have to be here. I wonder why I idolised adulthood in my mind. If only, if only, if only I was a grown-up. Now I’m here. It’s bleak. The hardest part of adulthood is the whole part. The mixed messages, constant desire to prove oneself, assimilating into a home place – a community. I ask why I have to be here. Where everything isn’t as it seems. Where everyone says what they do not mean. Why did I have to be put here. The biggest depressant of all time, the abyss of adulthood. The growth spurt from constant known to constant unknown. Who can prepare anyone for a time like this? I ask why I have to be here. My despondent face is the total explanation of my views of adulthood. There are structures in place in the forms of culture, tradition and ‘how it should be’. But who decides those and why were they placed before me. I had no say to exist, yet I must, my obligation is to keep going. Out of fear of nothingness. When I discovered what death meant. Oh wow, why was I born. Life is beautiful I lied up until eighteen. Afterwards the mediocrity of a family, house and work became too much to me. What do I exist as beyond the outside structures set up for me and why has the existence been hidden from me. I can’t figure out why I have a purpose pre-destined by the world for me. When did going from child to adult become so crippling to self-esteem, why were my mothers words not even enough to save me. I am listless in this place of unseen.

I’m born out of a womb that is not mine. I inhabit a body that was carved by microscopic fragments of intangible, malleable desire. I am art created by authors who have signed off on me with their signatures and their ideas and their thoughts, yet somehow I’m supposed to me. Does my body even belong to me? What a gift if I am constantly having it taken from me. Either pain, pleasure, hate, criminality, desire, perversion, spirits, conversions, something, oh something constantly wants to inhabit me. Am I so special or am I so functional? Who or what am I if I don’t even know who created me? I am told through others, feelings, passages, scriptures that all are so foreign to me. I inhabit a land that is totally alien to me. Yet I’m supposed to appease others by the gesture and tonality of my physicality. I did not choose the box I got stuck in. I maintain it as well as I can. I don’t even know how long it will last. Is this is a horror or a fantasy? I have this main role yet things appear to happen to me.

I am always faced with the same question. Twenty-three years old strong and the satisfaction of success feels so dry to my lips. I tried to be everything that society and elders and people in authority tell me to be. I give my own existence up to exist for people who won’t die with me. Is this biggest ballad of fallacy? I am not simple minded enough to just sit down and shut-up. I am not simple minded enough to keep quiet – keep those lips shut. I am an animal. I am conditioned before I even consider my conditions and yet I’m supposed to manage this with proficiency. What is the systemic problem that keeps tackling me, throwing me into the ground into dirt mixed with oil and gooey lust, leering and jeering from men and women alike, rubbing the soil all of the my body without me batting an eye. I see traps everywhere; I see dark spies.

What is the point. I cry up to the sky. If I live to breath and then that breath is taken from me. If I have a voice and it’s ripped from within me. If my soul is existing yet truly it’s trapped in this body I was given. Where is my peace? Surely. Everyone has a fucking opinion. Everyone is a fucking evil minion. Pushing their constructs onto my pale brown skin. ‘You are’… well, how could you, fellow human, know who I am? How could to take the hole of me and give it to me in a piece of your hand? How can you tell me my future with your own malicious air and the expect to saunter away and not care. I hate these figures of lies wrapped in white skin, I hate these men who test and test and try to get me to give in, you take parts of a whole and then replace them at whim, what the fuck – even women do the same. Who do I owe but the essence that brought me from dust and sin. Who do I owe but science created by a unfathomable thing, and who has the right to tell me where I start and where I begin?

When I was born, power was within. All the world seems to show me, as adult, is that it counts for nothing unless I prove it physically. What a fucking ridiculous story to be living in.


When you get drunk on wine instead of doing your assignments.


If I have a heart, a gift to me, why is it corrupted?

If I have a brain given to me, why is it corrupted.

If I have love, why is it taken away?

Why did I make man into idols. Why did I make man into an idol.

Why do we fight, marry, steal, kill, destroy and hurt?

For everything at once.

I’m sad, I attached to a fallacy and it hurt me.

I emotionally connect and yet… get MAD at me?

It’s like these experiences try to make me… HATE me?

But I can’t hate what God gave me. I put too much hope in the man below me.

What a –

what a –

what a ballad of fallacy.

On marriage, the illusion of love, family and procreation.


I’d hit a tree trunk. My body collided with an immovable force. I ran brutally into it. This force was the materialisation of the other me: the thinker, the mover, the curious one. It appeared I’d spent a long time running from her. It appeared I couldn’t even see her coming.

I am twenty three years old. I am more curious than before. I look around. I analyse my family. I analyse my home. I analyse my friends. I analyse my boyfriends. I analyse my job. I analyse my speech. I question what I know and I wonder about what I don’t know. I am beginning to open, my petals curve outward. They look as if they welcome something. I see the word ‘whole’. What is this.

If the universe ever spoke, a trunk was the clearest message I would hear. She was solid, I was weak. She was confident, I was small. She was a toughened object, I was soft. This other me was the result of rejected fear. She rejected fear. The mental fear. It was not real. Fear was tangible: a weightless force inside her skull was not. It was nothing but wisps of air, one she refused to make a heavy fog. If this was me, then who was… I?

I am a young black woman. I question my lovers. I question my friends. I question the people in my sphere of existence. Without my existence, where would they be? How would they live? Are the real – are the subject to my reality? If so, I could remove them couldn’t I. What didn’t fit. What didn’t fit?

I figured something about sound and voice. Sound was intimate and voice instrumented for sound. A voice was determined by DNA of a family. I was listening to ancestors, tribes and lines of generations just by the strings of a person’s vocal chords. No wonder my identity had become conflicted. I was as easily pulled as the muscles of chords yet, not in my own control, just a subject to others whim. The voice of the coloniser and the voice of fear followed a similar tone.

What was this moment. What had I begun to connect? Deeply instilled in me was the desire for truth. This truth I could not hide underneath my skin any longer. My external form was the representative of my home: the origin. So, I questioned who were you all those years ago? And who was I? I tried to identify your name. I smacked into a tree and I awoke dazed. I knew your name. It was oppression.

 The dots had connected. I was the trope. The trophy masqueraded as an other. Trophy masqueraded as proof of validating lies or ideas or ancestral guilt for something previously done. Could you ever love me or me as the idea? The image substituted the source. Internal form was too deep. What could I do? Where do I speak? Who will hear me? I remembered a verse about, those who have ears, will listen. Your ears weren’t crafted for my voice, did you notice this?

Multiculturalism will not defeat the sores of the colonials. 

I hit this trunk when I realised who silenced my voice. We say we can speak up. We say we say what we want. But what do we do when these words bounce against cold, white, steel walls? What do we do when these words disintegrate against invisible concrete boundaries? We are hitting against something immovable.

But it is not me anymore.  






















I am not a token for your slot machine.

I am not a measurement of your ego.

I am not a part of your hierarchy.

I am not a part of your racial validations.

I am not the point of safety. I am not your security net. I am not your self-discovery or your self-experimentation.

I will not be a passive member in your congregation of selves.

I will not allow you to talk down about my sisters… my brothers… my mothers.

I will not allow you to occupy my space,
I was gone but I’ve returned whole.

I will not allow you to keep me stranded, isolated and fragmented to not understand the politics of the system. The glass system.



I will not allow the stupidity of one person ridicule the illumination of my own place.

Because, whether I like it,

whether you like it,

whether we like it,

my responsibility was thrust upon me at birth and to acknowledge my self is to acknowledge a fight. To see this fight is to see there is opposition, which means I must be the other and means I must speak.

Because my voice has not been muted,

so in turn I switch it to repeat.

my ring finger bursts.

the blood has been boiling, hot and red
pushing against the dam of my brain
and eventually flooding out,
breaching all security measures taken to contain it.

can I contain this?
you helplessly look.

why do you push this out
you enrage me to the point of which i want to rip my skin off of my body
pull my hair from its root and scream, ‘enough!’

because i can’t figure out
because I’m changing and everything is changing and

will you still be here?
you helplessly look.