Tag: writing

Dear men, women do not deserve to be abused


abused woman
Image via Pexel


Men, gather round and listen, this is for you. When a woman suffers abuse – physical, emotional or both – in a relationship, your response should never be to shame her or wax ecclesiastical, using her as a cautionary tale. Do not say: ‘didn’t she notice all these qualities in the man before she went into a relationship with him?’; ‘she was after his money and she deserves whatever she met’; ‘why didn’t she study him well before jumping inside the relationship’. No, those should not be your responses.

I reckon that if you fall into a ditch, the response you desire from passers-by isn’t blaming, but help. You want people to say things like: ‘are you okay?’, ‘how can I help?’, ‘hang in there, let me go and get help’. These are the right response to show to anyone in distress. Women in abusive relationships are not to be used as cautionary tales. The desire to inspire should be tempered by a higher virtue – empathy and kindness.

Do you see that woman that is a victim? You do not know her story, nor have you walked in her shoes. And because you do not have all the facts, kindly refrain from judging. For argument’s sake, let us consider several reasons people give for shaming victims of abuse. The first is that the women were drawn to their abusers because of wealth, influence and ability to spoil them silly. Does that justify the violence perpetrated against them? Is it okay then for women who desire to be pampered to be subjected to abuse? Is the just reward for ‘gold-digging’ violence and battery? Let us examine this desire to be pampered further. The desire to be comfortable and have the good things of life is shared by all; and if a woman desires that her future partner be a man of means, what wrong has she committed? Is desiring comfort now a vice to be eschewed? People say: ‘women should not marry for money but for love, and should marry a man of character’. This is good – on the surface. It shifts the responsibility of the outcome of marriage on the woman, thus, if a woman becomes abused, it becomes her fault – she married poorly or failed to see the red flags, etc. What these people fail to realize is this – people change. Also, people are capable of hiding their true nature for as long as they need to be in order to get what they want. It is possible for a man to act gentlemanly while courting a woman, and then turn around to become somebody else afterward.

Let us assume, the woman saw these so-called ‘red flags’ and goes ahead to marry a violent man. Does she then deserve to be violated? Are we saying that poor judgment qualifies women to be abused? When we say things like – ‘didn’t she see the ‘red flags’ before entering the relationship?’ or ‘if not that she is greedy, she would not find herself in this position’, we are giving a silent nod to domestic abuse of women. What we imply, albeit unspoken, is that the man cannot be blamed for acting violently. Rather, it is the woman’s fault for not steering clear of a violent person. While we must preach the doctrine of espousing danger from afar and fleeing, our voices should be louder in condemnation of violent behaviors by humans; we must demand a higher standard of behavior from men.

When these men go out of their way to woo a woman, do they not profess love and eternal devotion? Do they not explicitly and implicitly promise to take care of, cherish, nurture, and protect them? If so, then, turning around to then harm the ones they have vowed to love, is in itself illegal – you can call it false advertising and a breach of contract, and on that premise prosecute them. How do we condone violence in a relationship whose very foundation is predicated on affection and devotion? How do we turn around and blame a woman who fell for charm, who entered a relationship based on the hope that she has found someone to love and care for her? How can we blame a woman for wanting something good – for wanting to be pampered? How?! How do we turn good desires into a shameful act?

Yes, let us, by all means, raise women who are independent, women who are self-sufficient, and who have a strong moral sense. But, more than ever, let us raise our voice to denounce every form of oppression and subjugation of women by men. Let us then go further to raise men who will never think of raising their hands against women, who will view women as equals, who will respect women, and who will in their quest to woo their partners, go all out to charm, act gentlemanly, spoil and pamper, and who will continue all these virtuous behaviors long after they have secured a place in the hearts of these women.

Men, everywhere, listen – whether as an observer, a social commentator or a perpetrator: it is not okay to physically or emotionally abuse a woman. There is no excuse that justifies it. Do not, I repeat, do not fall into that age-long patriarchal mode of victim shaming/blaming or donning a sage hat and doling out cautionary tales. Stop it, please. Just stop.

the living dead

a mother weeps for her children 
dispersed in the air by the bombs.
she breathes them in with the smell of burnt flesh.
her voice is hoarse from ululations.
mourners force platitudes down her throat.

death came visiting and left behind heaps
of charred bodies and bleached bones.
like the city thrown into darkness by the failed
Power Holding Company, the lights are gone from her eyes.

these are the tourist attractions of this country.
come and experience death in all its naked glory.
feel it in the air. taste its silken smoothness on your tongue.
hear it in the music and dance.

watch us gyrate to discordant tunes,
nimble feet made light by psychotic introversion.
our reality is like a hazy dream.
drums of war serve to lighten our dead souls.
our hoarse hollow laughter echoes
in the empty chamber of federalism.

this country is a woman weeping for her children.
a mother must not know her children’s grave.
she must hold on instead to memories of birth pains
and life’s piercing cries.
and become another, dead alive.

> Published first in Nailed Magazine.

on a date with history

with every layer of clothing removed
desire peels off the restraint
of unfamiliarity,
caution is carelessly tossed
with the last lacy barrier
to the floor. ethanol kindles
a raging fire.

there is a familiarity to the dance
choreographed in the dark
punctuated by gasps for air
& the creaking bedspring
a symphony of applause greets
the curtain call from residues of
past encounters on satin sheets
& creamy walls.

the walk of shame starts at sunrise.
photophobia, migraines & coffee for
breakfast. a mid-morning snack of
safety concerns. at lunch, twangs of
regret. skip dinner with soul-searching
head for the bar instead for a repeat
performance with history

coroner’s verdict

i peeled off myself in layers 
for you first the hairs
& then the skin
subcutaneous tissue
fascia & muscle
in that order
now i am bare
bones & cartilages
& arthritic joints
chronically inflamed
the coroner's verdict will read
death by misadventure
i died the moment
i said 'I do'

Poem Suite

                                                      I am lost
                                                  In your body
                                              In the winding paths
                                            That lead to your heart
                                            I do not know how long
                                           I have been in this dream
                                      In limbo  lost to reality  trapped
                                      In layers of memories  of touch
                                      And silken softness  of sounds
                                     And wanton abandon  of desires
                                   And unsatiety of longing and greed
                                            Of love, lust and pain.
                                                         I am lost
                                               In the brown pools
                                       Of your eyes and their shifting
                                                 Colors of desires
                                        Swimming to your bosom
                                       Seeking out happiness in your
                                         Arousal  riding the waves
                                             Of your climax to that
                                                 Hallowed place of

Insanity plea
i sit here and wonder
about sanity and the presumption
of wholeness. how does the mind tell
the body: you are insane?
is there a measure to insanity?
sometimes i feel my skin crawl and i fold
into myself, hiding from the shadow
that creeps along the walls of my mind;
at other times, i run into a field of flowers
and turn my face to the sun.
when the mind is broken
cracks begin to appear in the façade
of civility – the cloak that masks
our hedonism.
they say the ego is the organ of normality
but tell me: what is normal?
i love to sit and enjoy the conversations
going on in my head: sometimes they argue,
and at other times, they yell and threaten.
i think i am schizophrenic but who is to say
what that means? is it a problem if i happen to enjoy
this new world? sometimes my tears burn my skin,
and i cover myself with my fears, as a quilt to ward off
the evils of the night. when the day breaks, i live
out my nightmares in high definition. all humans are
insane, and i – well –
i cure people of their insanity.

Accidental Explorer

i cross the boundary lines
into your city
into unfamiliar territory
undiscovered plains
& highlands.
an accidental explorer
with no map
nor compass.
you are a cold city
dark & quiet
& i shrink several sizes
grope around for words
a city of mazes
holding hidden secrets
within its whispering
an enchanted city
buried beneath
treacherous terrains
waiting to be found
 the weed outside my window
a weed grows outside my window
illuminated by the soft silvery streak
of moonlight morphs into a monster
reaches into my throat
& pulls up a yelp
my nightmare becomes a living horror
& i am like a drunken man
buoyed by liquor before unsteady legs
give in to gravity
when mother rushes in to hold me
it has shrunken into a wimpy willowy
shrub swaying with the wind
bidding its time till it strikes again