She’s a dark, Nubian queen.
Her Strength a spine made of diamonds.
She is a hurricane of a woman.
A woman who doesn’t care about the hushed
whispers the world envelops her with.
She is a bulletproof spirit made of a living,
breathing black womanhood.
Her body, mind and soul contort and buckle
like the capricious African landscape
under the beating sun.
She carries the weight of the world’s scorn and
only then does the cracking,
calloused veneer dissipate
like drained leaves
as winter winds push them away to reveal the
bare willowy frame they decorated so
No longer is she strong,
no longer is she the hurricane
that knocked the wind storm
so effortlessly out of her.
The world’s narrative of ‘strong black woman’
has left her mourning in silence,
her silent moans echoing back to her in the
Slowly stripped of her humanity and her pain,
A power so practiced it only serves to struggle
against the scorn.
This ‘strength’ is the only power she has left in
her to strike back; to dance to the unchained
rhythm of the ‘strong black woman’ narrative.
Predisposition is to always stifle her sadness,
to hide even her happiness lest she be
labelled ‘loud ghetto bitch’.
She is filled with magic
– the stuff of faery tales –
ethereal and elusive like the slow, howling
winds before the storm.
The moments of deep anxiety
and depression where the darkness within
herself eclipses all else are frequent reminders
of her humanity before everything else.
Her strength will one day be just words in her
narrative not the cover and content,
too often used to silence her true evocation
when the world looks upon her pages
for the nourishment of their thoughts.
Never downplay her power,
for she is,
from the vivacity in her veins
to the tears on her tongue,
a ‘strong black woman’.
And in the earth of her threshold,
is engraved the image of a Nubian goddess,
so pity the fool that crosses
her unconquerable spirit.