Hand In Glove

         When we met it was magic. On both sides – his and mine – don’t get me wrong, this was not a simple twist of my vivid imagination. Neither was it an exaggeration. The first time he hugged me I felt it, HOME. I was home, in a place where I was free to be myself, to let go, drop my body-guards – those tough tall handsome ‘built’ black men who look a little like Will Smith in MenInBlack – Police reflector-sunglasses, black-suited, white shirt, black tie 6ft tall body guards - who all women employ to look after their tender souls – I sent them packing. For I’d found the man with whom I could be realest with, cry, laugh out loud, curse, kick rocks, be clumsy, be me – and for the first time in my long, long life, I wasn’t scared that he’d run when he saw ME. No, this MAN was HIM. Not even ‘it’. He could hold me with one hand and protect me with the other, my delicious man, and he SAID SO, said he’d take care of me for ever, because in this deen, when you die you don’t drop your life partner but you meet them in Jannah. So wowsa.., I’d met myself. in. a. him. Myself. I was so free, we had everything, everything in common. Talk until midnight and beyond, on phone and later when we lived together, oh, hours and hours and hours of talking - I was so free in my skin, pimples, no makeup, specs on, hair wild, curly, natty, terribly beautiful in it’s un-comb-ability. When he spoke my heart would slow down to a gentle mellow beat, when I laid my cheek on his chest my breathing would match his, when I spoke he’d listen, he paid attention, my thoughts where his, and he’d surprise me by saying, ‘hey, I know how you feel…’ when I tried to hide hurts; and even when I farted uncontrollably like a car back-firing accidentally, he would shout ‘oh oh StinkBombs coming’  and laugh… So, I wasn’t scared that he’d run because isn’t that what we’re all scared of? That this person who you’ve fallen down the ‘Alice in Wonderland’ hole may be turning around and disliking you when you let your guard down? He was me. I was him.

I’m talking to you’all now, to my daughters, my two gorgeous women from my sacred womb. And to all the other beautiful Melanin princesses who are reading and will read this, to their mothers, Queens, Regal, beautiful in Melanin skin.

When you meet your glove, don’t let anyone tell you it’s not for you. You know it in the bones of your fingers, in your skin, in your heart, in your toes which will curl, in your hair which refuses to straighten. He’s the one. Don’t wait, don’t put it off, what on earth for? Shhhh….. let me tell you something..

We’re of the earth, we can stand in the sun on a noon day in January and feel the joy of the sun on our full faces. We don’t wear hats, we’re not frightened by that orb in the sky, we know it, our bodies know it, we thrive in Africa, in this air, and soil and dust and mud, in dry hot stunning spells and in the torrential storms where water takes over the our entire world from dark wet howling wailing night to cold drenching day, Africa of vast open spaces where wild animals roam, Giants of the Earth, the Elephant, the Giraffe, the Rhino, the Hippo, SIMBA!! - beasts so large, they defy the mind when you see them, they’re untameable. Shhh…. Can I tell YOU a secret? You’re untameable too.

Take you out of your free territory and dump you in a box,

 … and you’re as sad as those maimed creatures,

 in Cincinnati Zoo.

..‘umewekwa box’ they sneer, ‘umeingizwa kwa box’ - killing the tangible delight you held and tasted, when he found you - yourself in his form. So you run, because they’re killing the light airy spaces, you’ve climbed out of the box, they’re trying to put you back in it. Nail it down. Bury you in their contained Matrix lives.

But we believe the reality of the box and doubt ourselves.

Too good to be True?

The African saying is,

“If it’s so good, it must be true”

Learn yourselves my darlings, and I’m going to tell you something else.

That man, who tells you you’re gorgeous, believe him and don’t doubt -  don’t be like a hag, arguing about anything and everything and making a fuss over nothing and everything. A hag is an ugly creature that comes from the far North East and has no place in this vast untamed land. Who are you? You’re Princesses of the land. And your mom? She’s a Queen. Who is the King? Did you all believe in that lie of the White Queen in the story ‘Alice in Wonderland?’… “…off with his head!” she’d scream, yet she was the Queen of Hearts?

That’s NOT our story. Don’t ever, ever, when your man gives you his heart, don’t cut your man’s head off – that’s his brains. And eyes. And mouth, nose and ears. He knows you by thought, he sees your beauty, your natural self with his eyes, he kisses you deeply, loves you with his mouth and knows your scent with his nose. When you have his baby in your womb, he’ll press his ear to listen to his child within your belly. Don’t cut his hands off, that’s how he’ll feed you, don’t cut his feet off, that’s how he’s going to go out and look for work.

The African man has few words to others. With his wife, if she lets it be, he will giggle and be him –behind the closed door. African Queens, do I say true? In public, he will be stern, forbidding, a judge, a leader, King, Magnificent, Beautiful. Behind closed doors and curtains, he may tease you, run around with you, or the kids, tickle them, do all those ‘foolish things’.  My son hugs me repeatedly at home. I’m cooking in the Kitchen and he walks in and silently hugs me. Finds me in the sitting room, sits with me and holds my hand, kisses my hand too if I’m teary. But in public? He’s all cool and dashing and ‘chilled-out’, my 5ft11 Prince.. you get?

But we often don’t ‘see’ this man when he says, “I wish to love you all my life”. We often do the ‘unAfrican’ thing, and listen to ‘gossipers’ and ‘rumour-mongers’ and ‘spiteful others’. Always they come in the form of an angel of light “…but what I’m about to tell you is good for you, don’t get me wrong..”

My Melanin Princesses…. Hush. Shhh….Did you know that Shaitan is often described as a ‘Lightfilled white robed seductive being’? He’s neither dark nor ugly..

Even if I, as Queen, as writer of this that you’re reading, say ONE bad word about your man, your glove – it’s one too many. Listen my beautiful daughters - if you’re told ONE bad word about your glove, it’s one too many. Don’t throw the glove. Put aside the speaker of the words…Look at the stars tonight, are they all set in a straight line, do they all twinkle and sparkle in the exact same way? Yet in their clusters and strange shining they’re majestic and beautiful and enthralling. So too is a man’s love, strange, majestic, beautiful and enthralling. Let him do his magic with the help of his God. Why cut off his head, his hands, his feet and leave, in it’s place a mutilated torso that could only SIT there? Because as women we have words, and our words are rich and alive – we’re Melanin women, so what we SPEAK gives birth. If we bless, it’s blessed. If we curse? Oh my - Horribly so, horribly so. In our right hand is life, our left is death, which will you choose? Only we, the melanin woman, the African woman - have the Mitochondrial Eve gene*.

My daughters, my Melanin princesses,  watch your words, your words to your man, your words to your daughters and sons. Your words to your mother. The Mitochondrial Eve gene is the gene of creation. Of the gods. So alive and rich and powerful are our words that we have been commanded in the wisdom books, “It is better to be silent when angry”.  Don’t speak in anger, hush baby….Shhhhhh!

Let him love you, this glove, let it fit, don’t look for the ‘what if’, there really isn’t one. Nothing is built in a day, even that glove took a while to make.  If this glove fits, don’t let anyone tell you it’s not for you, this glove, if it fits and you feel like you’ve come home, it’s like you’ve met yourself in him. …. When that is real, when the sun shines on you and you’re humming and vibrating and all so alive and sparkly inside, when your heart dances a triple beat when he calls, or when he says something stupid and you laugh for a delicious while.. don’t let anyONE tell you that he’s not the person for you.

A short tale about Time. When you go shopping for that shoe, that teaspoon, that spice, why? Because you need it on that day, or week, as an ingredient for a dish you want to cook, or the shoe - for a special occasion. What if you went to the shop, and saw what you were looking for, and picked it up, and the shop owner, the attendant, the whoever, sauntered over to you and said, ‘hey… umm… please put that back. You see, I know you want it, but let it stay there a while longer so that others can see it, but we’ll mark it as yours. Yes, it’s yours, but let a few other people see it, come back…. Hmmm… in 6 months?’

Shhh – listen Princess, don’t squirm -  It’s the best I could do to bring you off the top shelf of the mental rack. Who says when the time is ripe or right for you and your man? You may meet him today and someone suggests you should hang out for a while and meet others… I’ve never really understood that shit. If you find whom you want, why you dragging it out, playing hard to get? We’re graceful Gals. If it’s no, it’s a straight up no. If it’s yes, then get in there and start the process of laughing and living with him. Why you waiting? Live today as your

Last.

Don’t take back to him, or to anyone for that matter -  the hatred of another. Don’t carry it back oh no! It’s not, never was a Melanin act, it’s ‘taught’ do you know that? We would walk bare foot in the earth of our gardens and get mud or sand [inbetweenourtoes],  or touch trees or lie under clouds in the savannah and shout to the gods. We would look for water and immerse ourselves in running streams or oceans, today in swimming pools or private bathtubs or drench ourselves under cold showers to remove the toxic burn of poisonous words from our souls. Why would you allow yourself to be a VESSEL that carries a special kind of hatred and putrid death, from one person to loved ones, to your (g)love? Because words that do not heal and give growth do the opposite - they kill and destroy. No no, don’t be a CHAMBER, a vessel that carries death to another, the one whom you love? Why care what another thinks of your LOVEs? It’s non, absolutely non of their business. Ever - So Don’t. Carry. Death.  Don’t be a Messenger of Death. Ever. Just don’t. Take it to the trees, to the sky, to the grasslands, to the streams, rivers and oceans. Stand in the rain and scream it out -  It will find it’s way back to the source - that’s the job of the earth, she has the ability to recycle bad back to good. My daughters, melanin Princesses reading this -  don’t be lied to. Just one drop is enough poison. Taking just ONE accusation back to him is death. See our men’s weapons. A single bullet. An arrow tipped in deadly poison. See a snake bite, the sting of a bee, the bite of a zika-mosquito. You think you, the African woman who has the original DNA of the HUMAN RACE within your rich, lush ovaries, you think one word from you won’t kill? Take it from me, it will. It plants a dangerously mutating seed of death.

“Why is she listening to that rot, why is she THINKING/Meditating on that rot?” he will whisper his grief, not to you, but to his God, and trust is a hard thing to rebuild. Be wise Melanin Princesses and Queens, be wise.

‘The calabash that holds the beer to ferment,

you cannot use it for the goats milk –

the milk will sour’

Don’t look for the faults my beautiful girls, a glove when it’s new is beautiful. As it grows older it may begin to tatter, but it’s still YOUR GLOVE and will keep your hands warm – if you begin to pull at the threads to see the workings, you may be left with just one very long thread and no glove.

Don’t look for the faults my beautiful girls, let him always be your HERO. And he will be. Don’t compare to other gloves, no… that’s not African, we take what is ours for OURS. Why should we make notes? That’s private shit. I’ll tell you a secret, right there is where discontent begins, the nasty seed that grows alarmingly quick, a weed that chokes, a foreign object stuck in your throat – DOCTOR DOCTOR, you shout, He’s choking to death on a tiny fishbone!

To my daughters from my womb, to my other daughters, all beautiful princesses, and to all Queens. Let us be:

Magnificent in beauty, in thick thighs, wide hips, big bums, plump lips and CURLY WILD hair;

Fiery, with love of OURS – husbands, sons, daughters, sisters;

Graceful. in speech, in our beautiful lilts and strange accents that make you lean in closer to listen, graceful in work, in our walk – a slow graceful sway of the hips – stop marching, you’re not in an army.

Queens and princesses – be generous in Love. In Laughter. In Life.

And finally, be REGAL. After all, you’re a Melanin Princess, soon to be a Queen. This then is your inheritance. Don’t loose it, don’t sell yourself out, or sell yourself short;  grow into your self, make your HerStory.

 

Nyakio N. Munyinyi for the XpenSieve Report© 2016

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* SideBar: Scientifically, the African black woman [melanin skin] is the only organism that possesses the mitochondrial DNA that has all variations possible for every different kind of human being on this Earth (the African, the Indian, the Middle Eastern, Pacific Island, the Eskimo, Native American, Samoan – The Island people, Aborigines, Japanese, Chinese, Albino, The European) When the DNA of a black woman mutates, all other types of human beings come about. You can research this topic & it is true. This is called the “Matriochondal Eve Gene” and is found ONLY in BLACK women.

Out of the Black Woman, it’s MUTATED. Get it? The original PURE gene is the one found in the AFRICAN WOMEN.