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Poetry Potion 10: This Woman Is…

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ISSN 2304-8107

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 Contents
Poet Muse
6 Gladys May Casely-Hayford

Poetry
9 Anthea Paelo Only a woman
11 Modest Dhlakama Where Love Resides
12 Christopher Kudyahakudadorwe Daughter of Eve
13 DeeAnds Beyond Reasonable Doubt
15 Kariuki wa Nyamu Forget Not That Woman; Wangari
Maathai; Mami Witu; Our Mummy Dear
24 Tshepi Makhatha The Leaning Tower of Patriarchy
25 Redscar McOdindo K’Oyuga she was born saharan dry
something like twine and cotton; there goes miss
universe!; portraits of mama mboga next-door just past
her latest teen
29 Megan Ross Vodka
32 Caitlin Spring the credit
33 Makhanani Jagged Smile
35 Norbert Góra This Woman Is Like A Fog
36 The Motion Woman.
38 LeseLovesLord My mother is a woman who...
39 Kela Griot Burning Black Lotus
41 Ruth Everson Aroused; 41 Washed Up
43 Maimoonah Gori Unleasing of her soul
45 Katherine Naiker Indecent Women
47 Shannon Hopkins Post-Modern Survival Wench
48 Cami Scoundrel Things that need speaking
50 Gameedah Riffel I wish you were more like me
51 Soul’o Rocks Who is she?
53 Hazel Tobo Morgue; Raging fire
55 Judy Croome Winter
57 Kearoma Mosata Backbone
59 Xeezy Take me back
60 Chestlyn Draghoender The Preacher; This Woman is
62 girl who fits out mirror

63 Nqaba Dano She is a woman

65 Elle Warren Consolatio; Apologia
69 Linda Busuku This Woman is Dressed in Size Tens
70 Gaamangwe Mogami Alchemy
71 Themesha Khan Time for the Phoenix
73 Mapule Mohulatsi Rumours
 Poet Muse

Gladys May
Casely-
Hayford
(educator, writer, 1904-1950)

My lips were buds of innocence until you

    came one day
And drew a fountain from my heart and
    careless went your way1

8
Born in Axim, Ghana, Gladys May Casely-Hayford
was the daughter of a Ghanaian writer, lawyer and
politician J.E. Casely Hayford and Sierra-Leonean
activist, feminist and writer Adelaide Casely-Hayford
neé Smith. Gladys May grew up being called Aquah
Laluah and is said to have not liked studying but
enjoyed reading, singing, dancing and poetry from an
early age.

Through her mother’s endeavours, her first poems

were published in the Atlantic Monthly. She was also
published in The Philadelphia Tribune, and her poems
Nativity (1927), The Serving Girl (1941) and Creation (1926)
have been widely anthologized2.

Gladys May wrote about subjects such as women

freedom, pride, erotic love between women that were
more controversial at the time. Her only collection,
Take’um so, was published 1948. She passed away two
years later in Freetown, Sierra Leon from blackwater
fever.

1. From the poem titled My Lips http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/

poets/a_f/casely/poems.htm
2. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gladys_Casely-Hayford

9
Poetry
Anthea Paelo
Only a woman
Today I was once again reminded that I am “only a
woman”. It happened when at the store buying bananas,
I felt a hand rub against my butt. When the hand’s owner
looked into my eyes as I turned asking if I like bananas.
I felt like “only a woman” when he laughed and laughed
and laughed. I felt it in the silence of my mouth when
my mind couldn’t find the words to express my recoil. I
felt it in my legs when I decided to simply walk away and
in the hundreds of moments I berate myself for inaction
afterwards.

I was reminded once again when as I lay on the doctor’s

table for a general checkup. As I felt his hands linger,
over my throat, on my breasts, over and under them. I
am not sure what he was looking for but he must have
found it when his hand rested on my stomach just under
my shirt. He must have found it because his hand rested
on my tummy as he told me that a girl as beautiful as me
must have lots of guys chasing after her. Perhaps, I was
mistaken, perhaps this is the way it is. But when I asked
a colleague afterward if this happened to him, if when
he went for a checkup, the doctor looked for sickness by
drawing patterns against his skin, he said no, I thought it
must have been because I was “only a woman”.

I felt like “only a woman” when at the next checkup at

another doctor, he wouldn’t prescribe to me a particular
method of birth control. “It is better this way,” he said. “If
you wanted to have a child the next month, you’d be good
to go.” Repeated assurance, that I was in deed sure that
children were not in my immediate or not so immediate

11
future were met with a heavy gaze of disapproval and a
firm refusal. I felt it when he told me I’d change my mind
and then I would be grateful to him.

I felt like “only a woman” when I heard on the news that

a woman had had her face and private parts slashed by a
boyfriend. I felt it when I thought to myself, I’m the lucky
one.

12
Modest Dhlakama
Where Love Resides
He has abused her humility
Taking it for stupidity.
He has taken her patience
For mere arrogance.

She has loved without doubt

Though she has been doubted.
She has been dog loyal to him
but he has betrayed her.

She has fought many battles

Without any weapons but silence.
She has shed rivers of tears
But has always been seen smiling.

She has been abandoned and rejected

But with her very elastic heart
She still walked with peacock pride.
Her beauty wasn’t about appearances
But it could be seen deep in her eyes
That led to her heart where love resided
Giving her an inner strength to endure
The bruising fights for an existence.

13
Christopher
Kudyahakudadorwe
Daughter of Eve
Welcome, woman, to your poem;
You woman, daughter of Eve, welcome.
This poem is for you, woman,
Mother of man, wife of man
Comforter of all teary souls
And all terribly troubled hearts.

You, woman, the seedbed

Of all humanity, rejoice;
The world today belongs to you
You are the future solution
To the ills of today’s mankind.
Get up, woman, your day is here
Waiting to be lived by you.

Shake off those shackles

That make you subservient.
Go out there and empower yourself.
Cut off the bondages of tradition
Dorn on your fearless feminism
And take the horns by the bull.
Welcome, daughter of Eve,
To your poem this August!

14
DeeAnds
Beyond Reasonable Doubt
This woman is... Numb.
The hand on my neck tightens it’s grip, life threatens to
flee.
I’ve gasped before, but I’m resigned...
Anxious even for Befallen fate to go about its way.
This woman is... Still.
Lifeless Doll mannerisms;
As violent on violent blows fall.
Attack number five begins ... could be one and the same;
They are all alike - eyeballs tattooed with hatred’s ink;
livid with anger and drenched in the thick putrid stench
of death.
This woman is... Absent.
Perfectly timed out of body experience... Now-
If this room, these four walls; if they had eyes… and ears;
What tale would they tell?
Recounts of joy born of babies’ laughter, the pitter patter
of tiny feet; love consummated by two souls sworn to holy
matrimony?
OR
Would it recount the brutality of horror’s slithering tail?
This woman is...Wondering.
When will the attack end and the semblance of normalcy
trickle in?
We’re at number seven now, finally!
In no time, these deranged beasts will seek fresh prey;
yellowing eyes already widened with anticipation’s
excitement.
This woman is... Hoping.
I hope and silently pray my young neighbours are out
gallivanting as they always are;

15
That just once that their promiscuity would spare them
fate’s hand.
This woman is… Shrieking!
And howling in terror as latter horrors outdo the former!
Who would have thought?
Who would have known?
My beloved sun-hogging windows,
the very reason the apartment had appealed; my dear
scenic view window… It shatters!
As my body collides with the flimsy glass.
This woman is... Reflecting.
I ask myself;
As the mass of my flesh bows to gravity’s prowess;
I reflect on my poor decision making skills.
Why did I fight to own that apartment,
why could I not settle for the third, fifth or tenth floor?
Even the seventh floor would have wrapped up this
ordeal quite neatly.

16
Kariuki wa Nyamu
Forget Not That Woman
Forget not that woman
who toiled and toiled
to raise you and your siblings
when your Baba got swallowed
by city brew and women
for never has he returned!

Forget not that woman

who on foot
could traverse hills and valleys
to attend your high school’s parents’ day
bringing you nduuma, ngwaci and sugarcane
as your classmates were brought
chapattis, chips and chicken!

Apparently,
you’d hate it,
but hey, she could tell you
that that’s all she could afford
she could tell you
that one blessed day
‘Good things, you’ll surely have,
if only you read smart’

Forget not that woman

who never ceased to put you in prayers
she could always remind you
that you’re the family’s only hope
that your younger siblings,
it is you they look up to
‘Reading wants no jest,’ she could reiterate

17
and as you were parting
you thoughtlessly quarreled her
for leaving you twenty shillings note only…

Good heavens! She broke into tears

as you watched,
your heart and mind seemed unmoved
for you paid no apologies
Ugh! You didn’t even bother to say goodbye
or thank her for coming!
Yes, you just let her dejectedly walk back home
asking others what was said in the meeting
her relentless love for you
having driven her to stay on
even as speaker after speaker spoke English!

Forget not that woman

who in her ragged dress
endured the mockery
of the village
which rebuked her
for sending you to KU
thus compelling her boss to sack her
arguing that that would compel her to rob him
in order to school you!

Forget not that woman

She who’s amazingly made
She who for all time stood with you
even when Kianjuuku village was convinced
that none in Kunyiha family
could academically make it
they waited for you
to eventually drop out of campus
days turned into months

18
months into years
and to their shame…
no lack of fees was registered
thank thee God of Kirinyaga!

Thank thee God of Kirinyaga

for you ultimately got done with school
and secured a big city job
but hey,
forget not that woman
who toiled and toiled for you
while you were helpless

man, visit the village often

one gets fired!

Wangari Maathai
(A tribute to the fallen heroine and Mama Afrika, with lots of
reverence)

Breaking news from the city in the sun

the land of cool waters
report you’re gone to glory
you who fought many life battles
but fought unsuccessfully the battle with cancer!

Wangari Maathai
the ideal face of African womankind
you who stood before man and God
roared forest conservation
to the deaf ears of atrocious regime
you who welcomed detestable speeches
from the One Party State legislators

19
your speeches declared dangerous for viewers
consumption
You who struggled in body, speech and pen
for democracy, sound governance, Multi-party system,
Mau forest complex restoration…
and for the record
your indomitable spirit of women liberation
and empowerment speaks volume
that even to date
the hard of hearing comrades still hear!

I was tender then

but Wangari my lovely mother,
tells me she wept
on seeing you strip naked on our city streets
as you ceaselessly fought against
the State’s give away of Uhuru Park
thence you were declared ‘a mad woman’
by the seemingly Life President
you who vocally rejected the sixty storey building
the city’s world class package
you endangered your life,
in Karura campaign against deforestation
you mobilized the poor contemptible people
to ensure Karura is today
lost a spouse for your selfless battles for our nation
went exile and became a visiting Mwananchi
and lastly and most importantly,
you victoriously fought for our second republic
O Maa, what greater price can we pay you
than to relentlessly trumpet
your love for Nature?

Prof
a heroine who stood the test of Time,

20
a true Kenyan patriot and Pan-Africanist,
a no-retreat, no-surrender woman
you were reviled at home
but revered abroad!

Maami witu,
Forgive us our shortsightedness
for we’re awfully sorry
for you always found yourself
on the wrong side of Moism,
the world saw you on State TV,
anger and hunger-camping at Uhuru Park
you spearheaded the Greenbelt Movement
and to be sure
whenever someone mentions ‘Greenbelt’
everyone screams…
‘Wangari Maathai!’

Oh Maa, we can’t say more

than pray for your bravado and legacy
to live eternally
in the heart and soul of Afrika
our dear motherland

Mama Wangari Maathai,

You were our Shujaa in life
and still are,
even now that you’re fast sleep
your inspiration will forever be painted on our hearts
the gift of your life with us on earth
Long live your arduous works on earth
in our hearts and souls
till we meet in eternity!

21
Mami Witu
(Kuri Mami witu, Mrs. Veronica Wangari Nyamu, na manyina
mothe thii handu yaruma, na wendo muingi na gitio)

Mami witu,
Wendo uria ngwendete naguo ni munene
O wee wagirirwo gutugwo na wega
Thengiu nikujiara,
ona kundungata riria itangiehotire
Thengiu nigukorwo murutani wakwa wa mbere wa miario
Na kundera wega na njira ya Ungai ngaigana
Na kunyendera maundu mega hindi ciothe
Ona riria unini-ini wakwa
Ndagukararagia na ngeeka mugaru na wendi waku
No ndwanogire kunuunga mithiire
Thengiu ni ukiririria waku, na ngoro yaku ya tha
Na ta korwo no ngwire,
Mahoya maku maria utatigithagiria
Nimo matumite nginye haha nginyite!

Mami witu,
Hindi ciothe ugutuura wi kirathimo kia bata na gitari
thogora
Tondu ni ma guku thii-ino gutiri ungikira goro waku
Gutiri mundu wa thii ingicenjania nawe
Wendo waku nduri muigana
Wi kiheo kia goro kuri ithui ciana ciaku
Wi makiria ma uria ingihota gutariria
andu othe ituri-ini ciothe cia thii
Tondu ona ciugo ici iri irebeta-ini riri
citingihota gukua uritu wa ngatho ciaku hari nii
Kwoguo Mami witu, menya ati hindi ciothe
Wi wa magegania

22
na nikio itangikuhanania na uu kana uu!

Mami witu,
Oro hindi ciothe ninguririkanaga mahoya-ini
Ngahoya Mwathani ari iguru akurihe ruo rwa muciari na
wirutiri waku
Jehova akurathime irathimo itari githimi
Akuongerere matuku maingi muhuro uyu wa riua
Agutanahire ugima mwega wa mwiri na meciria
Akuhingirie meririria maku moothe
Araramie ikumbi riaku ria magetha
Akwambararagie na agutongoragie utugi-ini wake mukaru
Atwaranage nawe ukiumagara na ugicoka ya mucii
Akweheragirie mihinga ya mithemba yothe iria
ithugundagwo ni thuu
Aguteguragire mitego iria yothe yambagwo njira-ini yaku
ni mucukani
Ngai akoragwo nawe hindi ya mega na ya mooru
Urorima guukumia
Mami witu, umuthi ngwendaga oo kumenyithia thii yothe
Ati ningutuura ngwendete
Matuku mothe ma muoyo wakwa!

(English Translation of ‘Mami Witu’)

Our Mummy Dear
(To our loving Mother, Mrs. Veronica Wangari Nyamu, and all
mothers the world over, with lots of love and reverence)

Our Mummy dear,

My love for you is immense
You who deserve credit
for giving rise to me
and nurturing me when I was a helpless thing.

23
Thanks a bunch for being my first speech tutor,
raising me up responsibly and in God’s way
and ever wishing me well,
even when in my boyhood
I’d stubbornly do against your will
but you never got tired of streamlining my conduct.
A credit for your enduring and compassionate heart
and if I may let you know,
your relentless prayers
have seen me this far!

Our Mummy dear,

You’ll forever remain a precious and priceless blessing
for none on earth can outshine your worth.
Your character is admirably irreplaceable,
and your love is immeasurable.
You’re a treasure to your brood
You, who’s more than I would manage
to explicate to people the world over
since not even the power of these poetic words
can sufficiently convey the extent of my gratitude to you!
So, Mummy dear, know that you are always
Amazingly marvelous
And that makes you incomparable!

Our Mummy dear,

I always remember you in my prayers
That Lord in heaven may reward your motherly pains and
sacrifices
May Jehovah bless you in abundance
May he affix you countless calendars under the sun
May he grant you fine health and a sound mind
May he fulfill all your wishes
May he enlarge your granary
May he uplift and steer you in his plentiful grace

24
May he tread with you in and out of home
May he get rid of all misfortunes premeditated by the
wicked
May he set down all traps the devil may lay on your way
May God be with you in times of good and bad
May you till to yield
Our Mummy dear, today I just wanted to let the world
know
That I’ll live to love you
All the days of my life!

25
Tshepi Makhatha
The Leaning Tower of
Patriarchy
The first wave came in August of ‘56. When women of
different colours, classes and creeds convened on the
streets to march for their right to speak. Their right to
walk free and to earn an equal fee.

Armed with stones carried in handwoven baskets, 20

000 heroines challenged tyrants with deep pockets. They
challenged the ‘lords’ who sat perched atop of their Ivory
Tower; sipping whiskey and marvelling at their own
power.

Row by row women hurled stones at the erection and

stone by stone they shook patriarchy’s very foundation.
Man’s power structure trembled, until it tilted, but the
force was not enough to annihilate it from existence.

But soon, very soon, this tower of power will tumble to its
root. From the rubble and ruin we’ll commission a castle;
a kingdom built with ample room. Gone will be the days
of status, castes and classes. There’ll be no masters or
structures to separate the genders.

The power of femininity is not located in laced bras,

lingerie or high-heeled boots. These are misguided
perceptions we need to teach to the youth. Real power
lies in the knowledge that we’re born equal no matter
your views. But somehow humankind lost the ability to
see this inconvenient truth.

26
Redscar McOdindo
K’Oyuga
she was born saharan dry
something like twine and
cotton
she was born with sooty steel wool popping from follicles,
born simple & brought up in a kitchen with a towel
around her neck and a hot comb hissing, born half past
a yellow bone with fine tooth combs that broke upon
third use, born – with beadies at the back of her neck
brushed quickly in the morning. she was born saharan
dry something like twine and cotton in her grandmother’s
hands, taught with beeswax and pro style gel stored in her
sister’s backpack; she was born natural, permed, for one
summer thick strands strung out on chlorine in nairobi
swimming pools crying for the thick to come back and it
did in between press and curls sweating out and the boys
who liked the long-haired girls, she was born with people
in her hair, in her ear, wishing it shine, wishing it sheen
and straight; born wiry-hot headed dirty brown-haired
girl and brittle without oil twisted in the morning and
touched by white women for luck, born light and nappy,
not knowing the hair and handing it to someone else. she
was born with afro puffs and camp counselors who said
they were ugly, born bantu dry spice and daddy’s nature’s
blessings to soften her edges, born with bad ends and
rope twists, born – with a blow dryer busting on the floor.
she was born of a knot-haired capricorn and a balding
libra in a suit and hair that wouldn’t obey a rubber band.
she is in the bathroom combing for hours in heat a thick
universe of coils that grows from her and down her back,
laughing. she was born with straight parts down the

27
middle and beads with foil on her braids, born with equal
pints of keratin upon her dandruff-prone scalp as is atop
her lady parts. she was born natural

there goes miss universe!

she rolls lumpias wearing that tiara, that much mascara,
and her fave black skinny jeans. she shoots selfies with
millionaire ballers, starstruck by her sequined glow. her
eyebrows so sharp, they slice you so clean, you don’t
have time to remember to bleed. she sprints up your
mountains in her five-inch pumps. she trained herself in
seven. your ass is in the dust.

she steps into the room, native looms get clacking.

clopping cobblestone. swishing silk. her genteel
countrymen swoon. her jusi couture, her capiz shell terno
has siete cuchillos, if only maría clara could have cut like
that. her evening gown’s a river plunging, you cannot
fathom its depth. its gemstones shined by typhoon, rush,
and the rawest force of will.

you cannot airbrush her. there is no need. you cannot

translate her. she commands your tongue. she thwacks
your knuckles with her curling iron, when you do not
step back. she sing karaoke, loud, and off key. no, you
really can’t quiet her

28
portraits of mama mboga
next-door just past her latest
teen
she is ruined without ether
or violet smoke, covers her skin
in jewels. she is the taj mahal,
she’s what happens to little toys
in the dark looking for their toy trucks
and invisible friends named Mogoks
or Bobo. she covers her sapphire bruises
in trench coats and tobacco, covers
her communications with purple and thyme mist.
her crystals are shattered mirrors, her face
barely forming in their cave
like facets. the cut covers her lip. you’d marvel
how she’d look without an eye,
a head. see slashes so deep and red
they hit bone complement her
complexion, her mouth, her lunar eyes.
if she were an angel her wings
would be numerous, supported in
complex architecture from cardboard
and wire hangers they are
monumental, scabrous, mounted by a series
of connections from wire to skin, the thick
of her butt. in her past life, a marine creature,
mammary, her skin aquatic, drifted the ocean
floor feeling like a fossil, like the earth
swallowed her and held her in its belly, a holding cell
for the afterlife. it is wondrous how her skin would look
in a morgue, with her nostrils sliced open, brow bone
in shreds. you’d see it matches her betrothed’s
pearls and floral. you’d say her eyes were charred

29
smoke and bushfire, smoldering,
skin breaking like a shell, or tribal scarring,
ritual sacrifice, two matching bruises on her
cheeks. the folds of her wings
are scented slaughterhouses, she rides
a donkey of purple thread, its eyes are embers.
her former life, a dog, in a construct of cement and
uniforms
because her teeth, which must have devoured
everything in her periphery. let’s say
what now flock her temples were once manes
or whiskers. let’s say she wasn’t born
she bubbled

30
Megan Ross
Vodka
Vodka
The first time
I drink it
I am fifteen
and too young
to buy cigarettes.

My uniform
is denim shorts
and a white vest
I will later learn is
called a wife beater.

I don’t wear shoes.

This is the year

I will learn
what it is to be
catcalled
called out
named
shamed
what it is to
walk the walk of shame
and hear
pussy
thrown about
like it is
both good,
and bad.

31
You pour it:
glass bottom
thick with
clear liquid
burning
stripes
down
our throats.

We drink it neat
no Coke,
until we lose
our padded bras
to the shallow
end of the
swimming
pool.

We laugh
dance
revel
with gawking
boys
we invite over SMS.

I’ll do anything,
we tell them.

And we do.

Morning after
brings
cotton mouth
and memories
we lock

32
in the
damp space
between us.

33
Caitlin Spring
the credit
my favourite parts of us
were actually
my favourite parts of me
and they still existed
even after you left
how silly
to give you all the credit
for the ways
that i love.

34
Makhanani
Jagged Smile
This woman is
Beautiful...some say
Her smooth brown skin
Her big intense eyes
Curves where they should be

Intelligent...they say
She earns her place
Places her words
In Tswana, French and English

Blessed...they believe
A suburban house with persian carpets
Beautiful kids in private schools
The passport of a global citizen

This woman seems

Perfect...some wonder
Everywoman
Mother, Boss, Lover
Activist, Sister, Partner

Beneath her faint dimples

War...rages
Disappointment and Despair
Attack and ravage

Dreams long deferred

Flutter in dusty cages
Lost...in the recesses of a mind
Occupied.

35
By all she must do
Just to get through today

Her teeth crumble in her mouth

Eroded...by acid reflux
Words rejected, denied, swallowed
Burning a bitter path
Inside her

Frustrated.
And Silenced.
After all,
Mosadi o tswara thipa ka bohale*

And this woman

This Everywoman
Is slaughtered every day
By the serated edge of her life

*Translation: a woman holds a knife with the sharp edge

36
Norbert Góra
This Woman Is Like A Fog
made of my tear
with elements of deep fear
she appears like a fog
in the middle of the treacherous bog

first I am overwhelmed
by her sweet innocence
then I succumb to her, addicted
resistance disappears, there is no defense

soaks into the heart

bloody raindrops of her enslavement
she writes sentences inside as on the card
mocking my amazement

suddenly fades in the light of male desire

my soul cries, so empty
there remained the insatiable fire
tears from my eyes fell more than twenty

this woman is like a flash of the stormy branch

an invisible flange
comes and leads away
after she left, everything is gray

37
The Motion
Woman.
Known merely as a rib taken out of the chest of a man.
But truth is, she is the key of that cage which protects his
heart.
She is...Woman.

Known merely as a neck, whose work is to keep the head

on hold.
But truth is, she is the root of head whose is dependent
on the warmth of her womb.
She is... Woman.

She is the fearless one,

and stand below none.
She holds the sword by the edge and endures the pain -
for her offspring a silent heroine.

a mirror to reflect upon -

a melody whose lyric we chant whenever we lack a song.
a helping hand in our time of need -
a teacher of wisdom and courage and in her presence
indeed we are freed.

Who else can bear the wrath of the air of the universe?
and still bring happiness within the soul of her kids?
She is the one who stand with pride to honour her
breed?
She is the glory which shines brightly among nations to
praise her King.

She is hard-working, self-less and disregarded.

She is a Queen, loving, caring and power-personified.

38
and yet is known simply as Woman.

39
LeseLovesLord
My mother is a woman who...
Wears a crown adorned by jewels of love, joy, persistence,
patience, elegance and beauty
A beauty birthed in the core of gentleness

She faces every situation fully armed in the armour of

God

The belt of truth fitted around her waist

The breastplate of righteousness guarding her growing
heart
The sandals of peace covering her pedicured feet
The helmet of salvation adorning her innovative mind
The shield of faith fitted in her left hand as a momentum
of trust in her God
The sword of the Spirit to slay the enemies attacks.

She is a woman born and raised in poverty , and like a

seed planted by God she bloomed into a rose
A prized possession in her Saviors hands

40
Kela Griot
Burning Black Lotus
A heart was served on a plate
Mouths waited watered ‘round it
It landed with a thud
Telling of a heaviness buried
Its aroma slinked up the nostrils
And up into recess of the forgotten
Minds flared.
Memories like movie reels flashed...
It smelt like innocence
And laughter unravelling from
the tugging of lazily pursed lips pursued by joy
Like your old house on Sunday morning...
Cobra polish.... Grandma’s porridge....

This heart was lined, the fissures on

its surface were a painting unfolding
An exquisite work that was on the
verge of metamorphosis
orchestrated by the forces that hold
our centres

The meat came off easy, this heart

was tender.
The mystery of the pieces symmetry
Lay in those very lines
They were fissures caused by
deep faults locked in this vault

A piece for wounded souls

A piece for those who seek
the wisdom of owls

41
A piece for a child soldier
A piece for the haunted house they
would become as they grew older
A piece for severed dreams
A piece for their silent screams
A piece for angels with mangled
human feathers

She was knived with seven lives

Time lies for she’s lived them
all at once
All the mouths that watered ‘round
the plate were fed the taste of fate
And now walk about as
mismatched petals of a burning
neon lotus
Blue, red, green, violet, yellow,
indigo, orange
Melting black to selves
Burning black.
Her beauty was always in
the cracks of her heart.

42
Ruth Everson
Aroused
You!
Rampant with righteousness
Will correct my love,
Driving into softness
Thrusting your truth into me,
You leave satisfied that the job is done.
It is not.
I will rise to claim my name
Again and again.
You have aroused me to anger!
I will not kneel at your altar/alter
I will love -

But I will not love you.

Written to those men who believe in the strong medicine of

corrective rape.

Washed Up
Drawn down into the great coil of the sea,
Rolled by the currents and pulled by the moon,
A castaway returns to the shore.
His father set sail on a wave of hope,
His mother fastened the shoes
And smoothed the blood red shirt.
In the Wasteland of the world,
The Politicians come and go.
Yeats’s rough beast rises from the sand,
Carter’s vulture circles the shape,

43
Nzima’s shutter is jammed with despair,
A man stands alone in Tiananmen Square.
Ring-a-ring o’ roses,
A pocket full of posies,
A-tishoo! A-tishoo!
We all fall down.

On the shores of all the wars,

The mothers wait in vain.

44
Maimoonah Gori
Unleasing of her soul
Aspiring and journeying to new heights,
Amidst turmoil and tumulus thoughts,
Betrayed and deceived,
Cascading in deep doubt,
And shackled,
Shackled within her own soul,

Falling powerlessly and searching helplessly,

Grasping weakly and clinging desperately,
Determined to succeed.
Fighting and rising.
Crushing the invisible barriers,
Unleashing and probing,

Unlocking each knot, so tightly interwoven,

Meshed and tangled,
Deprived of existing.
Forlorn and forsaken,
Now Emerging,
Stumbling and faltering,

Slowly, cautiously,
Struggling within herself.
Her mind battling,
Questioning and reasoning,
Searching for a way out,
Layer and layer of knots unwinding,

Releasing and freeing,

This bondage, trapped and suppressed for so long,
Now finally released,

45
Feeling light hearted,
Soaring to new ventures,
To freedom and triumph.

The End

46
Katherine Naiker
Indecent Women
“I’m looking for a nice decent girl, who can cook well.
She must know how to behave at family functions and be
modest in her dress. She must not drink or smoke.

She must be a virgin. (Non-negotiable.)

Lonely Indian Man”

Dear Lonely Indian Man

I’m not a ‘nice’ decent girl

groomed to be your bride.
I’m educated and liberated, but I will stand by your side.

Sure, my roti’s are round, and my sari is tied just right,

But we will groan with all sorts of secret pleasures at
night.

I will smile sweetly while serving you your tea,

But I’m also a woman who likes whips and chains, screw
Anniston, I’m Jolie.

I sit on the grass, swim in the ocean and I’m not

squeamish to cut bait.
I don’t care if the sun darkens my skin or that my hair
isn’t always pin-straight.

I have drinks with my friends

And play pool with the guys, I’ll puff ‘n pass and swear at
the TV while chowing down on fries.

47
But I will wake up early to help your family grate carrots
for a prayer,
and smile and curtsy, at the right times, don’t fear.

I’m not a virgin and you aren’t one either.

So quit with your double standards, and welcome to 2016
my dear.

Regards
Indecent Woman

48
Shannon Hopkins
Post-Modern Survival Wench
This woman, she is smoke
and she is fire.

Sensuous as a hot bath.

Dangerous as the sea.

She knows how to shoot a gun

and works like a man.

Feral.

Hunts with the hound

hides with the hare.

Takes her own glory, never mind if it’s fair.

49
Cami Scoundrel
Things that need speaking
These things that need speaking
That make me bite my tongue
That well up in tears before I have begun
Thinking about looking you, looking you in the eye
Taking in the features
Taking in the features of your kind and loving face
Then tearing us apart by telling you I was raped
By someone that I loved
By someone that I trusted
Who didn’t stop
when I screamed no
He carried on and thrusted
Biting my neck harder
My screams on repeat
Then he left me lying there
Rolled over went to sleep
I don’t think I realised at the time
What he had taken that was mine
I guess that’s why I carried on like shit was fine
I guess that’s why I carried on like shit was fine
But now every time I see his face
I can’t help but look at myself
with anger and disgrace
It builds up inside of me
Cracks my facade
Feels like my mind is a racing deck of cards
Shuffled from hand to hand
by the devil’s dealer man
Shuffled from hand to hand
by the devil’s dealer man
Then you’ll find me crying

50
In the corner of the club
When you look at me
Do you still feel love
Or do you see what I see
The broken thing I have become
Or do you see the other woman
The one who stands strong
The one who stands strong

51
Gameedah Riffel
I wish you were more like me
I wish you were the type of woman who paid more
attention to her hair.
The type that spent countless hours, deciding on what to
wear.
The person who cared too much about what everyone
else thought.
The girl who always wanted to be a size naught.

The teenager who spent her days dreaming of the

opposite sex.
Caring if she looked right, whether her hair was a mess.
The girl who begged her friends everyday for some advice
Just so that she could find the courage to talk to a boy she
liked.

The strong independent woman who always fought for

what she believed in.
The type that followed her dreams and chose the career
she wanted to be in,
The one who wore the prettiest clothes, shoes strapped
and eyeliner on.
Ready to accept proposals from men who worshipped the
ground she walked on.

I wish you cared more about what other people think.

I wish you wore makeup more often, with mascara
brushes staining the sink.
I wish you cared for your appearance more and what
other people can see.
But most of all mother, I wish you were more like me.

52
Soul’o Rocks
Who is she?
Who is she?
Who is this being that came from He?
One who has learned to be free
From the chains of what she wants to be.

Who is this lady

Who is never lazy?
One who embraces the fact that she’s amazing.
From the tasks; so multiple and never failing

From the mirror she saw and started smiling

Such that the moon and the stars started crying
For the glamour they witnessed - even wolves began
howling

She’s special... Brenda Fassie noticed her on weekends

She’s worth it; she deserves it - power
She earned it like the Weeknd
She’s a believer; She’s Jehovah’s witness
As she stands firmly beyond the Watch Tower

Who is this woman?

Where does she come from?
For without she, he can never rule a kingdom
For without her brain, his success is forever seldom

She’s smart, self-less, so remarkable

Her movements; her actions - unpredictable
Her voice - like the keys of Alicia, unthinkable
Her strength - like the great pyramids of Giza, unshakable

53
Who is this being that I’m seeing?
For her melodious spirit has kept me singing.
It’s her daring mind that keeps me thinking
Her soul and her drive afloat - never seen her sinking

This woman is a part of me;

as she was set from the cages inside me
To be free and to be with me.
This woman means a plenty to me.

Wisdom is her name as she dwells

In my head and I ain’t ashamed of her
For she leads me, and she needs me but less
Than I need her, she’s my comfort
More like the southern
And I don’t conform to these trends
Because she has no friends but me
And no man but me, no body but me
She lives in me I repeat
Don’t get lost through this feat
Just get a long with the beat
As I complete these patterns
Put a twist in it
Like lemon trees
Making vanilla treats
And I’m sure of these patterns
They make a nigga weird, weak
And that’s what me saddens me

54
Hazel Tobo
Morgue
Help never came
So until today they sit still
Wearing shivers in their dark rooms of afflictions;
Old boxes of destitute filled shoes
Granted all sorts of journeys never embarked on.
Their homes have become prison cells, conjured.
Their skins lay as foundations for their worth to be let off;
They have become immune to sharp objects
Like bitter words and burning hearts.
Their little huts forgotten by even the kindest of
Samaritans,
No more are their attempts to live;
They are dry rose patels in summer.
They stay still pondering within darkness devouring all
peace,
Delivering despair to their feeble souls;
Praying for endless enlightenment;
Their knees scratched and tired;
Unable to continue kneeling;
Skin sagging and life lacking;
Flees flying and darkness dominating.
Little do they know that light hides a lot of things.
It is within darkness like theirs that bodies meet
To make wonders out of love.

In darkness like theirs we shed of all pretence.

In darkness like theirs colors stay true.

55
Raging fire
A flame born of wild fires,
Still sole in companionship prior to external company.
To know her is to smell smoke before eyes cast upon her
glow.
She, a raging sea of dreams awaiting to live
To be lived.
A life threatening desert when angered,
Shaken, you dare not test her.
A pool of love,
A rose, delicate and strong.
She is summer rain,
The milky way, mysterious.
She is her own,
Falls only to stand again and achieve.

56
Judy Croome
Winter
this woman is at autumn’s end
sitting in the weakening sun
wrapped in a gay orange blanket
swirled with nut brown polka dots

she watches the branches, bare

except for a few tenacious leaves
clinging stubbornly to their russet gold,
straining against the last loosening
of the cords tying them to their roots

she soaks up the sun

through the newly wrinkled skin on her hands
that, just yesterday,
seemed youthful despite her middle age
her uncombed hair now, undeniably,
more grey than chestnut

between yesterday and today

she shed the last of her youth
when her husband died — a heart attack,
the too-young doctor said, not unusual at his age —
startling her for, like the subtle shift from season to
season,
her spirit had not seen the signs of old age
and she had still a heart full of a child’s zest for life,
gone now between yesterday and today

gone as quickly as the last autumn breeze

shakes the last leaves off the branch
she watches them drift down to the dying grass

57
and huddles deeper into her blanket cocoon,
wondering how she’ll cope with all the days left
between now and the end of winter

58
Kearoma Mosata
Backbone
Woman.
I want to hold your strength in my hands when I walk
through dark alleys
alone and my brothers lurk in the darkness waiting to
torment me because
they just want to say “hey”.

Woman.
I want to hold your strength in my hands when they tell
me being who I am is
wrong and a sin.
I want to shield myself
from the slurs of “being a black sheep that doesn’t want
to have children”
because I love women.

Woman.
I want to hold your courage in my hands when I look at
myself in the mirror
wondering whether my outfit is too revealing.
Whether I am “dressed like a hoe who deserves what’s
coming her way.”

Woman.
I want to hold your perseverance in my hands
when I speak out about the injustices of women.
I want to have that same perseverance you had when he
walked out and you had
to raise five alone.

I want to have the same rock-hard strength you had when

59
you got up from the
cold hard floor with a bloodied mouth and a five year old
who kept asking
why daddy was being mean to you.

Woman I want to stand up and hold the same light in my

eyes you had when you
carried that baby on your back and walked back home
because hearing “you
have to be patient with him” and “you probably provoked
him because he’s
never been the violent type “ was not making the scars
you had disappear and
it definitely wasn’t making the blows to your face stop.

Woman.
Backbone.
Shield
Protector
Mosadi
Thari.

60
Xeezy
Take me back
This other day i heard my mom
having a conversation with God
And i was the topic
She was crying, and saying
“I didn’t raise a drunkard”
Indeed she didn’t
Peer pressure had come
between me and her

Only God can take me back

Take me back to that time
When i first tasted alcohol
I drank it so hard
That i even forgot i had dreams
Take me back
I want to go and pick up my dreams
I left them in that dirty tavern
I wonder if they are still alive
Or they are still drunk?
Oh God help me go back
And make things right

61
Chestlyn Draghoender
The Preacher
They said she shouldn’t preach.
That she wasn’t man enough to
lead a congregation.

A humble woman;
she needed to heal
from the wounds of her past.
So she made time to pray;
asked God to make a way.

And God has used her in more ways

than she could ever envision.
Helping her overcome every obstacle
that stood in her way.

She has survived abuse from her father

and an unhappy marriage.
Now she’s a bestselling author
moving women the world over.
With more than 100 books out of her pen,
You must have read on of them!

How about “The Confident Woman”?

Did I mention that when she talks
everyone listens?

She’s also a renowned preacher,

making waves all over the world.
A mother, a daughter, and a teacher,
showing ordinary folks how to enjoy
everyday life.

62
This Woman is
This woman is...
a Helper to those in need.
Always willing to share a smile
and quick to do a good deed.

This woman is...

a Sister to the man with no family.
a Mother to the orphan child.
a Daughter to the childless man.

This woman is...

my Doctor, she always knows how to fix my wounds.
my Counsellor, showing me how to live right.
my Storyteller, she tells me stories every night.

This woman is...

my Beloved Mother.

63
girl who fits out
mirror
i see picture,
caricature,
see face
not soul

see reflection
--distorted.
i do not know...
who looks at me, or

if that is me
with all that...
woman

see girl with face,

a mouth,
a nose
but no eyes, or

eyes that can’t see

she doesn’t know...
what she is, or

which mirrors to crack,

perceptions to change, or

who will hate her,

for being...
all of her.

64
Nqaba Dano
She is a woman
She smiles
Home etched
In her poise
Her heart beats
The rhythm
That brings
Mankind to tears
She is a woman
She is the epitome
Of strength
Of courage
And of power
Her flame brings
Warmth
Burns bright
It creates light
For wayward souls
Trapped in darkness
She is a woman

She is goddess
She is queen
Ruler of hearts
She is the shoulder
That brings comfort
The strength
Man call for
In times of need
She is a woman
Sun kissed
Wrapped in love

65
And peace
She is the ashes
In which
The phoenix
Rises and soars
She is the reason
Why we thrive
She is the reason
Why we survive
She is a blessed soul
She is the birth place
Of greatness
She is a woman

66
Elle Warren
Consolatio
hoeveel keer
kan mens rou
voor die wond
rou (gepas)
septies
nie meer diggroei nie

ek-
(“buite”)
myself
het my grootste vrees
noukeurig nagevors
opgelees
nou in jou ervaar

jy
wat reeds drie keer ‘n moeder was
was
jou hande in my woorde

ek-
(“uit”)
wat nooit myself
kon sien
in die verwikkeling
van kind-moeder-ouma nie
verloor my ego
(“ek”)
in moeder
taal

67
bloed en vlees
en water
en sout
-topies aangewend
in die verlede tyd

vir jou
(“su”)
suster
is my boeke
nutteloos
my verse
banaal
die letter-
grepe
verraai
my
(“ego”)

ek-
wat jou so graag te lewe wil dig
is niks werd
buite myself nie

NOTES ON CONSOLATIO:
I wrote this poem shortly after my sister lost a pregnancy for the
third time. The last one was ectopic. “Consolatio” incorporates
elements of Greek and Latin, a play on the etymology of
“ectopic” and the personal experience of feeling inadequate,
and not knowing how to console someone. “Consolatio” is a
literary genre in ancient philosoph,y which literally translates
to “consolation (letter)”. The Greek preposition ek- means “out”,
“outside” or “out of”, which invokes a feeling of alienation from

68
the self (Afrikaans “ek”, Latin “ego”) and the subject matter,
while -topic derives from “topos”, which most often translates
to place. In this context, “ectopic” thus refers to both the
pregnancy and the personal experience of being out of place in
the situation. The Latin “ego” also refers to Freud’s concept of
the ego, which tries to negotiate this difficult situation between
the id and super-ego. Lastly, The Greek word “su” means “you”,
which is incapsulated in “suster”, the addressee.

Apologia
en nou is dit ek
wat vlam vat
wat ‘n digbundel
van my eie
begeer

onverwags
bevind ek myself nydig
toegespits
op die ontwaking
van my soeke
na perfeksie

natuurlik
voel ek skuldig
onverdienstelik
selfs selfsugtig
my narsissisme
is oneindig

en nou is dit jy
wat my troos
wat my verseker

69
dat ons bondels
mekaar
sal komplimenteer

NOTES ON APOLOGIA:
This is a companion poem to “Consolatio”, which comes first.
In Greek and Latin literature, an apologia is a text in defense
of something. “Apologia” is about the unexpected feeling of
jealousy I experienced when my sister got pregnant for the
first time, before she lost the baby, and the guilt I feel because
of that. It seemed to me self-centered to be focused on myself
rather than her joy and then her consolation. I feel I need to
defend myself but I don’t know how. In the end she ends up
consoling me. The play on “digbundel” (collection of poetry)
as metaphor for a child, which is the inspiration for these two
poems, and later “bondel” (bundle), a word that is often used
to describe small children in both English and Afrikaans, is
an expression of the magnitude of emotion: I can express these
things through poetry, but not directly in conversation.

70
Linda Busuku
This Woman is Dressed in
Size Tens
This woman is dressed in size ones,
hopefully hopping and radiating like a thousand suns.
Pure, perky, picture perfection
Candy and cartoon her only fixation,
free of life’s divinely comical taxation.
This woman is wearing size fives,
roaming around testing beehives,
searching for crutches to help her stand,
together building strongholds in the sand.
This woman is precious flora,
with scents of jasmine, lilac and rose.
This woman is strutting around in size sevens,
knees bent searching for the heavens,
lost in caverns
echoing those thousand suns and buzzing hives,
havens for the dreams and unsung screams.
This woman is mother, sister and father,
to nameless children
whose hollow stomachs sing songs of deliverance.
This woman is delicate petal no more
she stands made of bark and thorn
sculpted from those tears she’s worn.
This woman is dressed in size tens,
Held together by paper, plastic, plasters and safety pins.
feet crusty, shoes musty,
blanketed by pebbles, pollen and dust from those dirt
roads she strode
from A to B, seeking refuge from this world’s heavy load.
Soul buried deep beneath that walkway.
Life lived in shades of grey.
remnants of girlhood carved out day by day.

71
Gaamangwe Mogami
Alchemy
This woman with volcanoes for bones and avalanches for
a heart is a love.
She is two moons in her womb,
April and May for marrow splitting and now we know of
children’s laughter.
She is a walking museum and infinity,
a witness of your first breath, and the first call of your
name.
And now time moves through her in three.

This woman is a continent,

two cities and a village.
She is many worlds and your first home.
She is burning and still staying,
In the roulette job and ticking time bomb love because
someone ought to feed the children.
And even if your father walked through the sand,
she made rain out of his sandstorm.
And now you know how to make your shadows shine
bright like the thousand suns in her eyes.

This woman with scars in her soul is singing that

tomorrow she is becoming.
She is becoming a wilding and a descendant of midnight
and flowers.
This woman is your mother and alchemy.
She exists in both destruction and creation,
struggle and love,
Construction and transformation
This woman is your most revolutionary love incarnation
yet.

72
Themesha Khan
Time for the Phoenix
Wish I could stand here and not bear the heart of a
mother
Be cold and isolated in a world that’s forgotten what
feelings are
Wish I could just coast through life and not be broken
Every time I see a child without a home to call his own

Wish! But wishes are for those that can still dare to be
innocent in a world of darkness
Wishes are for those whose eyes can stay closed when the
world bursts forth pain around them

This mother can not close her eyes anymore

Or dare to dream in innocent naivety

This world, our world is being avalanched to its knees

But mothers of our land, it is time to rise

Rise to our roles as the hearts of humanity

Rise in our communities as the nurturers of our children

The world crumbles, but amidst the chasms

Rise, with me, dear mothers to save not just the souls
of our youth through love, guidance and economic
emancipation
But save ourselves by honouring our duties

Rise again
With every pitfall
Rise
From every crevice

73
Rise
With every dark night
Rise
Like the sun and greet the morning
With crispness of action
And resoluteness of sunshine

74
Mapule Mohulatsi
Rumours
There are rumours that the secrets of her, are a plethora
of personal histories –
Of god forsaken revelations.
Bloodlines.
There are rumours of the labyrinth of the injustice upon
her mother’s lineage
Of how it has given birth to itself,
Repeatedly!
Rumours of the caul of her birth line
White, like starch.
A caul wrapped in the sweat found in between the mental
hospital bed sheets where the spawn of her ancestors lies
in sacrilege
A caul of wounded wombs, of histories personality -
And she,
A Gorilla
A Savage
Of the unseen time and blood spilling manifestations
Her secrets woven like the collective tits of Southern
Africa’s rape statistic
Post It Woman
“If you were to paint me”; she mutters to a lover in a
mattress stolen from the sin of her continents pain, “see
me, put light, especially in between the persuasive lines in
my thighs” –
These lines she marks with her finger, showing him the
map of her universe –
Lines that round like the contours in a map
A map of secrets
A marauders secret passage,
Into her mother’s birth line and the post – apartheid

75
birth deficiency that has become of femininity.
These are rumours,
Of Female Spirit
How she is now an awkward and shy god that takes flight
when pissing men love the thing in her which reflects
them back to themselves

Rumours of beauty that is not discrete -

“I am not apartheids secret”
She says to herself so often
“But a prophecy unravelling like that personal object -
That is Mr Presidents Secret Tool! “
She laughs wretchedly and adds
“Coiling as a million snakes in a Sub Saharan desert”
There are rumours that her pain is blue crescendo’s and
popping daisies,
White butterflies – that have not danced yet.
A mother’s secret.
The mutilated stone –
Shattered –
Into a million pieces of forgetfulness –
Of God Likeliness.

76
twenty one weelk | twenty one poets | twenty one years of democracy in South Africa
 Contributors
Anthea Paelo is an economist, writer and a Mandela Rhodes scholar.
Her story Picture Frames won the 2013 Writivism short story prize. You
can follow her on twitter @AntheaPaelo.

Modest Dhlakama is a passionate baker and cake decorator. She is

a freelance writer who enjoys writing poerty, short stories, songs and is
working on her first novel Delicious Burdens.

Christopher ‘Voice’ Kudyahakudadirwe holds a MA in Creative

Writing from the University of the Western Cape, a BA (Honours) from
University of the Western Cape, a B.A. English and Communication
Studies from Zimbabwe Open University. Some of his poems were
published in an anthology called Best ‘New’ African Poets 2015. At the
momen,t he is finalising his novel titled You Are Not Alone which deals
with cultural practices and the prevalence of HIV in Zimbabwe. The
opening chapters of the novel have been published as a short story entitled
‘Voices of the Ancestors’ in New Contrast magazine.

Andile DeeAnds Daphne is a passionate Poet, loves Jesus and aspires

to write for a living.

Kariuki wa Nyamu is a passionate Kenyan poet, playwright, editor and

schoolteacher. He holds a BA Education (English and Literature) from
Makerere University, Uganda. He is published in A Thousand Voices
Rising (2014), Boda Boda Anthem and Other Poems (2015), Best New
African Poets 2015 Anthology, Jalada Africa 04: The Language Issue
(2016), Love - A Collection of Poetry and Prose on Loving and Being
in Love (2016), and also forthcoming in Multi-verse: Kenyan Poetry in
English Since 2003, Experimental Writing: Volume 1, Africa Vs Latin
America Anthology, among others. He is presently pursuing an MA
(Literature) at Kenyatta University, Kenya.

Retshepisitswe ‘Tshepi’ Makhatha was born in Umtata, Eastern

Cape. He matriculated from St. Peter’s College in 2009 and graduated
from Rhodes University with a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English
Literature and Psychology. He currently resides in Johannesburg and

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hopes to pursue writing as a full-time career.

Redscar McOdindo K’Oyuga (of @RedscarMcOdindo) writes in

Swahili and English. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in the
Shade Journal, African American Review, One at Jacar Press, SAND,
Clarion at Boston, Transition at Harvard, Mandala, Jalada, Brittle
Paper, Lawino, EXPOUND, Praxis Magazine, and elsewhere, including
in anthologies of the Babishai Niwe Poetry Foundation and Kwani? He
won the Okot p’Bitek Prize for Poetry in Translation and the inaugural
NALIF Prize for Poetry.

Megan Ross is a writer, journalist and book cover artist from the Eastern
Cape. Her work has appeared in Prufrock, Itch and Aerodrome. Megan
has been nominated for the PEN New Voices award twice, short-listed
for the Miles Morland Writing Scholarship and the Short Story Day
Africa Prize, and has recently been long-listed for the Writivism Prize.
She is currently working on two books, a collection of short stories and a
collection of poetry. megannross.com

Caitlin Spring is a Creative Writing student at the University of

Witwatersrand, she has previously studied Gender and Transformation
at the University of Cape Town.

Makhanani is an activist and human rights advocate, who champions

and supports the role of civil society in Africa. A mother of five+ she uses
words to express, explain, re-imagine and build.

Norbert Góra is a 26-years old poet and writer from Poland. Many of
his horror, SF and romance short stories have been published in his home
country. He is also author of many poems in English-language poetry
anthologies around the world.

Mosimanegape Omolemo Moate a.k.a. The Motion is a Poet, Writer

and Storyteller from Pretoria, now based in Johannesburg, whose love for
the arts is inspired by life, people and God. He was published as part of
Poetry Potion’s print quarterly number four “The Language issue” with
piece called “Tsoga”. His love for words and languages makes his poetry
a universal conversation and a heart-to-heart.

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Lesego “LeseLovesLord” Mdhluli is a writer, student and daughter
to two honourable parents. She is currently in grade 10 and exploring
different tastes in the arts, politics, the corporate world, family and food.

Kela Griot is a serial bookworm, writer, poet, radio head and creative.
She is co-founder and host of the Juiced Poetry Sessions and lover of
humanity.

Ruth Everson is published poet and prize winning short story writer.
She uses her poetry to inspire and to provoke an exploration of life and
self. She facilitated poetry workshops for the National Schools’ Festival
for 16 years and has worked across the country. She has used her poetry
in places as diverse as Egypt and China. Poetry continues, as she writes,
‘to hang her soul on barbed wire lines.

Maimoonah Gori is a self-published writer of 14 Islamic storybooks, a

novella, and a children’s story book. She is a teacher who conducts writing
classes and runs her own publishing company called NUR-UL-KIDS

Katherine Naicker is a law grad and qualified teacher.

Shannon Hopkins is a freelance editor and writer living in Ballito on

the KwaZulu-Natal North Coast of South Africa. She holds a BA degree
in Fine Art and English, and is currently studying for her Honours in
English Literature at the University of KwaZulu-Natal, Durban part
time. She a passionate about the written word in all its forms, and
especially how the human experience, with all its joys and sorrows, can be
explored through writing.

Cami Scoundrel is a Cape Town based musician...mostly... at any given

time you can find her on stage or behind stage or running the show. You
could also find her working in art departments on films and adverts. In
her spare time, she likes dogs, surfing and running a community circus
extravaganza - The Trash Cabaret. Cami likes to create.

Gameedah Riffel is a young poet who lives in Cape Town. South Africa.

Hazel Tobo is a self-published author of a poetry collection titled My

Broken Azania, a performance poet, photographer, writer at Culture
Review Online Magazine and actress and poet at Phenomenal Women.

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Judy Croome lives and writes in Johannesburg, South Africa. She has
been shortlisted in the African Writing Flash Fiction 2011 competition and
her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in various magazines
and anthologies, such as the Huffington Post, the Sunday Times and the
University of the Witwatersrand’s Itch Magazine. Her books a stranger
in a strange land (2015), The Weight of a Feather & Other Stories (2013),
a Lamp at Midday (2012) and Dancing in the Shadows of Love (2011)
are currently available. Visit Judy on www.judycroome.com or join her on
Twitter @judy_croome

Kearoma Mosata is a Motswana writer who contributes for

ArtsandAfrica and is currently on an editorial internship with the Royal
African Society’s Whats on Africa. She is an ardent bookworm whose one
wish is to live in a bookstore with plush couches and chocolate cake and
shelves ceiling high with African literature.

Chestlyn Draghoender is a young writer/poet from Cape Town. He

loves his local library and good music.

girl who fits out is an apothecary who turns pain into poetry, is “but
little” and fierce. lover of art. is on the verge of 17. is a womanist.

Nqaba Dano is a poet who has been writing poetry as a means to voice
out himself and to share his ideas with those who care to listen.

Elle Warren is a poet, artist and photographer from the general

region of Cape Town, South Africa. In her spare time, she pays the bills
doing academic-type things and working for a not-for-profit publisher
of African scholarship. Her work has been published in Itch, Enclave,
Entropy, and Roekeloos.

Linda Busuku is a university graduate with a bachelor’s degree in

English Literature. He has enjoyed reading since his days in primary
school. He considers himself an amateur when it comes to writing his own
works of literature, especially poetry, but believes that one day he will find
his footing and have his words flow on to paper much smoother.

Gaamangwe Mogami is the creator and writer of The Oddssey of Afro

Artivism. This blog essentially celebrates and promote African artists,

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specifically storytellers. She is also a poet who shares daily and original
short poetry in her Facebook and Instagram

Themesha Khan is an engineer by profession but has been moved by the

art of poetry all her life. She enjoys both reading and writing poems of all
genres. She is however a novice to the world of published poetry.

Mapule Mohulatsi is reader and writer. A Wits History and Literature

graduate - she currently works for the Johannesburg Heritage Foundation.
Some of her work has been published by Itch Magazine, Poetry Potion,
and the Kalahari Review.

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Submissions Guidelines
• Poetry Potion publishes poetry, reviews and interviews
online daily or weekly online and poet profiles in print
on a quarterly basis.

• All print editions are themed, a call to submit is published

quarterly online.

• www.poetrypotion.com - the website - has an open-

ended call for submissions for the A Poem A Day
challenge as well as other poems that don’t fit into the
print edition theme.

• We do not pay for poems published, yet. Poetry Potion is

a non-profit publication. We hope to change that in the
near future.

• We do not publish individual collections of poetry,

please refer to our website for poetry publishers if you
have a manuscript and want to be published.

• All copyright remains with the poet.

• Poetry is accepted in any language.

• If you submit in any language other than English

please provide an English translation of the poem
or submit a paragraph that explains what the poem
is about.

• Since the persons assessing the poem for publication

may not understand the language the poem is
submitted in, then poetrypotion.com reserves the
right not Poetry Potion publishes poetry, reviews and
interviews online daily or weekly online and poet
profiles in print on a quarterly basis.
• poetrypotion.com does not edit poetry - so make sure
that you submit your work in its final publishable
draft. DO NOT SUBMIT FIRST DRAFTS, poems with
spelling mistakes and grammatical errors.

• poetrypotion.com accepts, poet profiles, essays, think/

opinion pieces and social commentary on various
subjects. Contact the editor if you’d like to pitch one of
the these.

• poetrypotion.com reserves the right to edit articles for

length, clarity and style.

• Submit your BEST work.

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