The Tale of African Women

Bust of an African Woman

The value of her worth remains an oblivious maze amplified in her raw mind. Her ideas are often played down, with the world pinpointing her differently. In the lens of a photographer her image is a blur.

Modernism is real; it flows with a certain mindset of how her life should be. History does not define the hardship society has curved out for her. She is telling her tale with a binding hope, a relief in her eyes and a shaky voice. She is writing unreadable pain.

A perfect picture seeps in the dense culture. The aroma of spices hovers in the humid air. Inside the busy market are vendors selling their crafts; you cannot miss a glimpse of the famous colourful slippers creatively arranged. In the midst of all this, in broad daylight her attackers stripped her. She lives under the shadows of a beautiful Morocco.

Miles away a similar story unfolds on Accra road in Nairobi. The theory of her life is caged, for in this day and age she struggles to fight the burden of oppression; a captive in the eyes of her abusers.

In Juba, the heat is despicable. Slowly she tags along, with a baby on her back, two others following closely behind. The African sunshine smiles at and mocks her in equal measure. She is escaping the scars of war; she is leaving hoping and praying for a better tomorrow.

The memories of her African tales are dated on her Congo diary. She saw five armed men whose faces screamed war. They pushed her to the ground, turning her into another victim of war’s ugliness. Down the hill she slowly descends, carefully balancing the bucket on her head.

Traffic is heavy in Lagos. Inside a coffee shop, she watches the streaming cars from her window. Sipping her coffee, her attention on her laptop, she types faster. Satisfied with her work, she walks out ready to catch the next flight to Kampala.

Her borders are undefined, she is awakening her inner goddess. Not long ago, her stories impersonated the routine of a stranger. Her voice lied beneath unexplored boundaries. She is becoming visible, amidst jeers; she stumbles at times but finds her footing. Some of her power is invisible, but with a faint scratch of her pen, she has found her voice.

Afriqana Omole

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