The Male Privilege, Bewildered Boys & Team Mafisi

Exactly what is ‘Male Privilege’ ? In Kenya, it’s a lot Team Mafisi.

For all my wealth of ‘common’ sense and knowledge, I admit readily that I didn’t grasp it fully – or get enfolded in a back-breaking hug of understanding; until I read this Ebony* interview – where I really got-it. Male privilege is an inborn attitude and demeanor that NEEDS to be un-taught to our BOYS, and only when we as parents and guardians of the youth do that, only when we feed the honey and milk nourishment of behavior back into our boys, only then will our daughters and girls be truly free to walk our streets and roads in both daylight and darkness, only then will they stop being prey meals.

We took the stories away from women and mothers, sisters, girls and young ladies and told them that singing a sweet honey filled song will not help them, and when we stopped singing and the boys stopped hearing those lyrics, they tried to do the next best thing, which was to take the honey by force.

Male privilege is when a man knows that he can get his honey, as he pleases. He’s a Bear – a foreign thing that doesn’t live in Africa - looking for honey and eff the bees that depend on it for life - you know that swahili saying..?

Tafutua Asili, chunga Nyuki

Well if you watched Mwogli the Movie you gots to understand – a bear needs honey, needs honey and forget the fact that there are bees that may sting. He will use whichever monkey is available to get him that honey and that bear won’t bat an eyelid if the monkey is stung to death - 

or not.

The Male Privilege thinks that the Honey is there for his taking, any time. And if he can score more, well give me a high five! or knock-knuckles because, well – ‘she put out’ didn’t she?  In The Male Privilege  world, A No isn’t no, in-fact, many males don’t hear NO – Listen, this was a shocker for me, an intense hurt when I understood it, but instead of standing within the thorny bushes of the hurt, I struggled through it’s prickly patch to peer deeply at the real reason why men don’t hear anything when girls say NO.

They don’t hear it because it’s not a part of their life. Period.

How do you hear something that hasn’t been taught to you?

Male Privilege doesn’t, don’t and won’t hear NO. Even if the woman shouted it.

“what’s that?”

“say whaaaat?

“… you gotta be kidding me…”

The word NO has not been written into The Male Privilege database, so when you tell a man NO and he doesn’t hear it, the fault lies in the deeper ground of his up-bringing. Society, Education and yes -  Most importantly - PAPA. Not so long ago, girls would ask a boy where he’s from and then proceed and tell their Dad, ‘I met this guy, his famo is akina and so’… and the Dad would do some deeply intense sleuthing and detective work… to unearth and uncover the boy’s background – ama famo.  Why were they so darn personal and intrusive >> because they MADE time to. Which Dad has the time to do that today?  Msweeech – that sound that is something between a spit-and-a-sucking-in and collecting of the same spit  that old men & women make in their mouths, lips fused shut in a down-turned curl that looks like a dead fish –

……………….. Which Dad has the time for that nowadays? Which Dad, huh? No, he’s busy sponsoring and spanking and smacking some college girls butt – a girl who is probably younger than his daughter.  Shameless. And he wears her on his arm like a medal. So his son, tell me, his son - who is his son’s hero? The same Papa who’s sponsoring his best friends kid sister?  >> You see,  there’s that axiom about the fruit – it doesn’t fall far from the tree. This is true – sometimes – that we also get ‘black sheep’ – those rare beautiful souls raised in a white-sheep dominated pasture and are somehow, wondrously, so full of a beautiful blackness that they stand out  - in gentleness, in manners and in demeanor  - that it stuns a generation of white sheep to the point that the white sheep ask:  where did that magnificence of Black Sheep-ness come from?  So if you’re different and you’re well rounded and cannot fit-in the square box of life, wear your damn Black coat with honor and integrity. Honor. But sadly, many sons don’t. They slink after their fathers and copy them in ignorance. So, yes, it’s fine for a Dad to know where his daughters new boyfriends roots are, and it’s fine for all of us to talk about Honor and Shaming when it comes to families.  Shame for date-rape, shame for rape, shame for a

Forbidden

Use of

Carnal

Knowledge.

So if you have a young man who doesn’t know how to HEAR the word NO

If you have a young man who has an inbuilt sense of Male Privilege

When you have a young man who knows he can FUCK and walk away

When you have a young man who doesn’t know about Responsibility and caring and loving

If you have a young man who thinks only about himSELF and scoring

If you have a young man who is angry and in Defense mode – who if you walk behind him, and you prod his shoulder with your finger, he turns around and jumps you like a ninja fighter - kicking you on your chin with the full force of a Jackie Chan Foot in your teeth without the special effects – tell me, what do you have if as a society we have 37,340  or so young men with Male Privilege chanting and singing ‘I can do anthing, utaDo’  like these, what do you have if all these young men released onto our Kenyan streets?

That’s what we have.

They’re going to University this week,

and so are your daughters.

Let’s talk about the girls now.

Once upon a time, girls knew deep in their hearts and in their bones that the only place that they could lay down in completeness was within the woman’s world. Women loved women, loved that they were ‘she’  and that they had spaces where they could be

free,

to laugh,  to cry, to sing.

Women had a space where they could talk. And be heard.

Girls had a space where they could talk. And be heard.

Little tiny girls, barely toddlers, had a space where they could talk. And be heard.

Long before man stole it for themselves the ‘blood-bonds’ belonged to the sisters because they shared blood – sharing the Menses-Shelter – the Red Tent, the place where women would sit in pain, or not, the place where young mothers would give birth, and share stories. Women would spin stories of honey, delicious with each exhaled breath. Words were lyrical, full and bountiful, sexy and languid and rich. Words that gave life, words that breathed comfort, words that whispered encouragement and security… Women were confident in the knowledge that they were  the ones who nourished, that they were the healers, the consolers. Women still share recipes with their daughters today,  tell me, do they share health tips with sisters, do they help each other to give birth and raise babies? Do women still share songs of dance, beats to clap hands to, rhythms that make women jump up in joy, that make women shake and sway their wide hips in abandon? Do women still comfort each other in times of sadness? Because in this strength of SHARING, women used to hold women when women hurt. But if we don’t have those She-roots,

women can’t hold a woman when she hurts.

women can’t hold men, when men hurt.

When did females stop believing in she?

When did She stop listening to Her?

Do you know, that if She stops listening to Her, he does as well?

Look at Kenyans now, and what we have:

The Male Privilege with his entitlement,

and Women who say to the girl who is abused by Team Mafisi - ‘she deserves - it’.

What the eff kind of nonsense is that, especially when it comes from a woman? I look at these women and I shiver. I say I’m glad they shall never be my mother.  What kind of woman takes a sip of that bitter beverage, swirls it in her mouth and spits out those ugly cruel words at another woman, “she deserves it” ?  Msweeech – that sound that is something between a spit-and-a-sucking-in and collecting of the same spit that old men and women make in their mouths, lips fused shut in a downturned curl that looks like a dead fish – Look here. We all know what is behind The Male Privilege - it is being a member of a Boys Club - a ‘Team Mafisi’ like groupie where they defend themselves to the death. That’s right. That’s correct. A species must defend it’s own and never cannibalize itself otherwise it will eat itself to death – actually no – I lie, humans breed like a virus…but yes >> Boys are tight<< The Male Privilege.

Do this. Visit today’s Womens Club and you’ll find many not only clubbing each other behind their backs, but rolling their sleeves up so that they can get down & dirty, right down to holding another woman down for  men to rape them. And after-words, she’ll kill her with words and rejection. Because women, when hurt, will still run to another woman for comfort – but, the chain is broken. So they run to men. Your broken girl runs for comfort - they run to men who are inbred with The Male Privilege – they run to ‘Team Mafisi’ , or to the dad of Team Mafisi- The Sponsor – your husband and the father of your son.

And it shows through-out Kenyan society where women batter each other, pound on each other in all arenas, in family, in politics, in religion, in culture, in education, in tribe, in every single aspect you can think of, women in Kenya are so divided it’s INSANE. What kills me is the jealousy.

Mothers against daughters, mothers jealous of their daughters, mothers hating their daughters, mothers choosing-over their daughters. And the daughters, fed with hatred, replicate and duplicate and repeat on the hate. Again and again and again and again they spread the virulent hatred against themselves in Tertiary Institutions, in the workplace, in the neighborhoods, in schools, in politics – everywhere. Yes, women complain that as Kenyans focus too much on the girl-child and that we’ve advanced, I say, wait - it looks like we’ve made progress, but in reality? We haven’t. We haven’t. It looks good from far, it’s all glossed up and shiny like a brand new shiny Maserati, but in reality, this team ‘Kenyan Women’ is so ridiculously and ruthlessly far from good, it reeks to the core. She’s your Daughter. Your sister. Your mother. Your cousin.

Why are you pulling She down, dear Kenyan Woman – we were known as gentle women.

The Male Privilege

So Mama, what do you tell your daughter, who has passed her Form Four and is so excited, so excited, that she’s going to college this sem? Will you tell her to ‘Be careful’? and if she’s abused or misused will you scream ‘but you deserved it!!’ then send her off to a Rehab ran by the same members of the Boys Club when she becomes depressed; Oh the irony! Back to the same Team Mafisi that will sap her inner-sweet-honey essence by force. Leaving a shell behind. And yes, she will fall into a serious depression, because women have eliminated most of the safe spaces where they can talk as women.

She, what will you tell your kid sister? or best friend? as she packs to go to college? Will you tell her to say ‘No’  and scribble names of ‘who’s-who’ with fervent instructions to avoid those on the black-list? And what advice will you, Mr. Sponsor, give to your son who’s going to University this sem? Will you tetemeka from within and tell him to ‘keep off’ your girl? Or will you call her instead, your ‘sponsee’ and tell her, btw, that’s my son, keep off him or I’ll withdraw my sponsorship? So Papa is paying fees for his son and rent for his sponsee. And what do you think members of The Male Privilege Team Mafisi will tell his kid bro, or his ‘boy’? Fuck it and anything you want, take it and use it? Because after all, wataDo?

In conclusion:

Exactly what is ‘Male Privilege’ ? In Nai, it’s a lot Team Mafisi.

For all my wealth of ‘common’ sense and knowledge, I admit readily that I didn’t grasp it fully – or get enfolded in a back-breaking hug of understanding; until I read this Ebony interview * – where I really got-it. Male privilege is an inborn attitude and demeanor that NEEDS to be un-taught to our BOYS, and only when we as parents and guardians of the youth do that, only when we feed the honey and milk nourishment of behavior back into our boys , only then will our daughters and girls be truly free to walk our streets and roads in both daylight and darkness, only then will they stop being prey meals.

We took the stories away from women and mothers, sisters, girls and young ladies and told them that singing a sweet honey filled song will not help them, and when we stopped singing and the boys stopped hearing those lyrics, they tried to do the next best thing, which was to take the honey by force.

*Ebony Interview Link. << Please read that  now

Nyakio N. Munyinyi for the XpenSieve Report© 2016

[Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to xPenSieve© with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. Headline banner design by NMunyinyi.]

To Poison a Nation, Poison Her Stories

Story-Telling

#ALLlivesMatter

#ALL

To poison a nation, poison his and her stories.

One of Beyoncé's songs,  “Daddy Lessons", is a prime example of the truth illustrated in the picture above. Who on this planet doesn’t’ know that Beyoncé is BLACK, Afro-American, Black American – whatever the term –  but clearly, she’s not  WHITE; add the fact that she’s the epitome, the essence, the quintessential bloody perfect figure head of what a successful ‘black girl’ in the music industry in America should encompass. Millions of women and men across this blue round globe look up and take notes when she speaks – or sings. And she does speak up, vociferously, on matters pertaining to BLACK FREEDOMS. So when this album and this song came out, it was time to look up and listen, this time wasn’t any different, only that I was shocked out of my normally calm clam shell when I heard the words from “Daddy Lessons”.

“..And he taught me to be strong
He told me when he's gone
Here's what you do -
When trouble comes to town,
And men like me come around,
Oh, my daddy said shoot
Oh, my daddy said shoot
Oh, oh, oh”

Oh, oh, oh.

Yes, my mouth flopped open like an old woman without her dentures…

Let’s look at the implications of how a simple song can poison a nation via lyrics, words or ‘story-telling’. Because that’s what lyrics are – ‘sweet words put together to entertain or tell a story.’ When we say, ‘wah, that man has lyrics..’ it means that that person is a charmer, has words that are sweet, he’s gorgeous to listen to and if he’s using his lyrics on you ... >> gurl, you’re solid gone. Just go buy bread, and put yourself between two slices and present yourself to him willingly…  

Now - Pop or Popular music is often used as an Entrancement. An Entrancement is used during conversation to open the mind to suggestion and limit rational consideration of, and objections to, implanted ideas.

Tuko pamoja?

Side bar 

[This is why MEN in CHARGE of ‘tings’ dislike popular music and try to limit what their youth listen to, because POP music is dangerous to the minds of YOUTH.]   

.... please, don’t leave reading this just yet. I’m not talking music here, I’m not talking about melody and harmony and lyrics that can uplift your soul, angelic voices and bass guitar that can electrify and heal your core -  I’m talking some forms of pop music and accompanying LYRICS in particular, and to teens I’d like to stress the importance of knowing what exactly it is that you’re listening to -  what are you subjecting your beautiful mind to?? You have a brain that’s moving at super warp speed, use it!! ..sometimes I don’t get youth. They’re BRILLIANT. So don’t listen to CRAP for the sake of being defiant to old farts. Garbage in, garbage out, …  n’way, that’s a story for another day, but honestly, I’d ban this particular song for one simple reason – that line -> “..my daddy said shoot  when Men like him come around..”  that’s just plain wrong Boo,  on any level.

Why do you’all think we have a culture that maligns and denigrates the black African man? We stopped writing our own stories for fear of being expelled and ejected from Kenya – writers, we were told, are all politically motivated. It’s rubbish by the way, writers just use words to express their truth [lyrics] – but because WORDS are a powerful MEDIUM that opens up the consciousness of the masses – writers are flushed down toilets and victimized by ruling parties and dictatorship states. In the absence of good homegrown stories – the vacuum was filled by ‘relatable’ stories from – Black Americans – mostly sob stories filled with negativity, hardship and hatred; and stories about the uselessness of the black man.  In the New Testament of the Bible, Jesus himself said that exorcising a demon was a 1. A difficult task and 2. sometimes it’s better to leave a demon in a person - because if you removed ONE and you didn’t immediately fill the VACUUM with your own version of [whatever], seven {7} demons would fill that VACCUM. Jesus said.

Seven. Saba.

Mtajiju….

A demoralized nation tells demoralized stories to itself.

Kenyan writers in the 70’s and 80’s were flushed down toilets, demonized, harangued, berated and criticized close to the point of extinction. Kenya had fantastic writers, eloquent men and women who had a certain wild beautiful way with words, artists and song writers, creatives, journalists and brilliant writers, creators made in Kenya.

Vilified. To this day.

Kenyan men, [listen carefully] have lyrics. Good cool real vibes.

But.

We malign our own, we don’t promote our own, we don’t buy our own, we’ve swallowed the Alice in Wonderland magic pill given to us by the state, and we’ve shrunk our brains to nearly-dead-minds to fit into the tiny little hole that the system wants us to be in - The Matrix. The Arts of creative writing, singing, dancing, painting, drawing, expressing self – were pugnaciously and vehemently ripped out of the Kenyan Education System. And in that vacuum, in came the 7devils. This ‘new’ culture from the US of A about the black man and the black woman - where our people identify themselves - not with our local ancestors and local present day writers and authors who we demoralize daily with spitting sounds that begin with ‘….aaaarhg… huyo mukikuyu, achana naye…’ but with Black American pop-culture and a total hero worship of all things white including myself who watches Euro Soccer on TV, but won’t cross the road to watch a match at Nyayo, Safaricom or City Stadium… it’s chilling as fuck.

Beware of the story-tellers who are not fully conscious of the importance of their gifts..

Stories have been imported en-masse from the USA – and in Kenya, both males and females have embraced this ‘black’ culture – anyone born in the 80’s knows little to nothing about Kenyan History, but can write Memoirs and Essays about American song artists, rappers and lyric writers from birth to their latest album.  Success to this generation is not based on Kenyan benchmarks, but on Black-American yardsticks. Your father, your brother, your neighbor, your uncles, nephews, why is it that Kenyan Women today, when they talk about the men in their lives, often have an ugly sneer to their mouths? And that popular nasty characteristic of demeaning the male figure in whichever way possible? It’s simply not on..   Where on this blue planet Earth did some-body begin to push this Story that black men are so worthless, that you should shoot them on sight –  to maim, or better yet, to kill them dead. There’s an ugly term which in former times was used by the white man and pertained only to the BLACKS in America, “to hobble” a man. This meant maiming him – usually it was done by brutally chopping off a man’s toes on his right foot using a machete.  Today it’s still practiced but in a more modern form –

 - from the ‘Urban Dictionary’ Hobbling

The act of tying someone to a bed and putting a block of wood in between their ankles, then hitting their foot with a sledgehammer to break their ankles making sure they can't escape.

..and who are irresponsible in the application of their art;

Media Personalities have been crafted and fashioned by bent minds in leadership – we don’t have media journalists any longer. Those come jetting in from Europe and America whenever Kenya has a Crisis, and true to form, we’re told ‘our own’ are useless. Beautiful coffee books about this country are written and published by NON-KENYANS. Stories about our people are documented and published outside Kenya by non-Kenyans. Like, really? TV anchoring is no longer about presenting a good story, but rather, about how well-dressed one is, promoting European and American labels and ignoring the home-made brands. It’s potent. That simple message is a slap in the face. Then, News is about hype and gossip – tabloid stories about who’s -fucking- who; sigh, Radio Shows are heart, brain and ear-shock attacks based on revolting and repulsive reports like ‘men who rape goats’ – completely disregarding that CHILDREN sit in common public spaces like mathrees – it’s so ugly. Many shows are never in-depth stories about the beauty of family life, positive role modes, success happy stories about relationships, or stories about development and innovation, jobs for youth, or about anything POSITIVE.

..they could unwittingly help along the psychic destruction of their people.

And now, the idea has been adopted in Kenya that the black man should be punished for – get this – just being male. Nothing else. The black man has been vilified and criminalized. In the slums a woman wept and said she prays she’s not pregnant with a MALE. That he will be killed before he’s 20 by the Police, regardless. Kenyan Men killing Kenyan Men. This then, is a further affront - girls are being told to shoot a man who reminds them of Daddy – words crooned by this  Beautiful Goddess – and she IS Beautiful by whatever account your standard of ‘Beauty’ is -  many in this world do admit she is a stunning woman – so here she is, giving us [especially young girls] a story, a tale – that will repeat over and over and over again and be so deeply embedded in our brain cells that it will leave a footprint in the central neurons of our psyche – “When trouble comes to town, and men like ME come around, Oh, my daddy said shoot, Oh, my daddy said shoot…”

I’m a woman [..and totally hot to boot as well] but I would never ever tell my daughters to ‘shoot’ any man on sight - it’s immoral and downright wrong. Why disparage and hobble a young man’s psyche, why KILL our future? If he’s bad, it’s not our right to judge – that’s for the Policing System. So, you reading this, tell me, why is this idea being banded and pushed across our airwaves so casually? Many women as young girls have a first love – their daddy. Daddy is king, because he’s the adult male of the home and half of her, get this HALF of her, she has 100% of her daddy... I can’t even go into all the inferences of a daughters’ love for her daddy here – neither can I describe the fiery power of the love fathers have for their daughters either, because it will take a whole book to lyric it – needless to say - it’s bombastic, period. Hiroshima has zero on an African Man’s love for his daughters - so here you have a girl who loves her daddy to bits, she’s 16, or 17, or 18 or 19, and she’s singing this song ‘brainlessly’, and when she meets a young man, a boy, a guy when she’s 20, who may remotely resemble her Daddy, two words will stand out – ‘Trouble’ and ‘Shoot’.

She’ll whisper in a hoarse voice to her girl-friends her bff’s, her besties at the local while sipping her beer,  “…..aki - jesu, I met this maaaaan, and my heart is in my throat, and he makes my heart sing, and I’m weak like jelly at the knees for this magnificent man, but aki, he’s TROUBLE’….

And sooner than later, what will she do?

‘Shoot him, oh oh oh’. She will hobble that man to the extent that he won’t know if he’s coming or going, I kid you not. And she’ll do it so well, with such finesse, such grace and elegance, she will deride that man and stick pins into his entire life, and every-single-thing-he-does-or-doesn’t-do will look like it’s his fault. Really. If there’s an eclipse of the moon, let me tell you people, it will be blamed on her man. Look around you and tell me, how many young men are in despairing relationships where they’re desperately drunk/in drugs/in debt or some other hell hole – demoralized, hobbled and crippled – because his woman or women have told him that he’s ‘useless?’.  

How many WOMEN have been blamed and kicked out of their homes and marriages for not getting sons, or not bearing children, for being unable to cook her husbands favorite dish like a top chef, or told some imported STORY from another country to compare her to those women so that she feels demoralized, hobbled and crippled and use – LESS?

Nobody is USELESS.

Nobody.

We’re ALL MADE by God, and God doesn’t make mistakes.

To poison a nation, poison it’s stories.

A demoralized nation tells demoralized stories to itself.

Beware of the story-tellers who are not fully conscious

 of the importance of their gifts,

and who are irresponsible 

in the application of their art;

they could unwittingly

help along

the psychic destruction of their people.

Please, learn to WRITE YOUR OWN STORY; and TELL it to your sons and daughters.

Nyakio N. Munyinyi for the XpenSieve Report© 2016

[Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to xPenSieve© with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. Headline banner design by NNMunyinyi.]

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.