| An Open Letter |
My Dear Sisters,
Crickets chirp, birds sing and women cry. I speak as a woman, not in tears, but with fears that the world is growing
deaf to the African woman.
I may not be able to state who once said that letters are the most expressive means of communication, but
here I am, not trying to prove that wisdom but to echo my voice.
Dark and lovely, I am an African woman, hailing from the land of rich soil, generous sunlight and priceless
heritage. Where the cook of the food for life is admonished. Where the manageress of hygiene is deemed filthy.
Where the tiller of the land is seen as lazy. Where the “better half” of the man is regularly beaten up. Where the
“fairer sex” is compelled to undergo the painful rite, of female genital mutilation. Where the heavy laden, for a good
nine months, is disrespected, side-lined, undermined and demeaned.
However, I speak to you, in joyous pain, sweet tears and a strong weeping voice. Who am I and why am
I…… an African woman? Together with others of my kind, we live; in a cold silence, over powered by the louder
male voices, in immense heat from devoted cooking, in unbearable pain from diligent ploughing, with open wounds
and sores from the normal and customary fun-sport of wife beating. Is this the price we pay for prefixing ‘man’
with “wo”--? Or is this the cost of borrowing a rib from Adam?
Ever wondered why I: have to be the one with the womb—the cradle of conception and birth, with the
breast—the fountain of nutritious milk, the one to cry—a symbol and sign of sensitivity and sentimentality? Perhaps
you count yourself lucky if you are not in my shoes, with my burdensome facilities, but I pride myself in being your
wife, and not you, mine!
If Adam’s species cannot appreciate, accept and respect the African woman, why do you marry our kind?
Why not marry yourselves and your kind? Then we can wait and see who will fill in for the woman. It is no debate,
you never miss the waters till the well runs dry. The African woman is no where near extinction, besides the
chances weight heavily on our side. So don’t get your hopes up. But you condemn and undermine me, remember,
oh Son of Africa, who carried you for nine months, ferried you into this world, nurtured you and brought you up.
Oh Men of Africa as you graze the platform for women, do not forget that even the pain of your circumcision could
not compare with mine, when I brought you onto African soil.
My dreams are shattered over and over again, yet I recycle them. My youth was snatched away from me, so
that I could be a wife and mother, bare son’s and daughter for Africa . Yet my status is set to none-existent. I don’t
appear on the map of worthwhile contributors. Am I not the life of the home and the fuel for society’s locomotive?
Where and to whom shall I turn? I am in countenance with you, my fellow woman of Africa . It is to you that I
shall turn. We have eyes, yet we pretend not to see and blind ourselves to that which we should indeed see and act
upon! We have voices, but when do we speak and what do we say? “Aye, Aye.. Sir!” When will our contract as
puppets and doormats expire? Shall we wait to exhale when all our body parts have been mutilated, save for the
injury already successfully accomplished?
I cry to you, implore and plead with you, my fellow African women, to speak up and be heard, stand up and
be seen, serve and be served, respect and in return, be respected. Appreciate and be appreciated. Cry and as you
cry, know that our tears dilute misery, are solvent for our despair and will flow until the beams of hope begin to
trickle in.
Crickets chirp, birds sing and women cry. I speak as a woman, not in tears, but with fears that the world is growing
deaf to the African woman.
I may not be able to state who once said that letters are the most expressive means of communication, but
here I am, not trying to prove that wisdom but to echo my voice.
Dark and lovely, I am an African woman, hailing from the land of rich soil, generous sunlight and priceless
heritage. Where the cook of the food for life is admonished. Where the manageress of hygiene is deemed filthy.
Where the tiller of the land is seen as lazy. Where the “better half” of the man is regularly beaten up. Where the
“fairer sex” is compelled to undergo the painful rite, of female genital mutilation. Where the heavy laden, for a good
nine months, is disrespected, side-lined, undermined and demeaned.
However, I speak to you, in joyous pain, sweet tears and a strong weeping voice. Who am I and why am
I…… an African woman? Together with others of my kind, we live; in a cold silence, over powered by the louder
male voices, in immense heat from devoted cooking, in unbearable pain from diligent ploughing, with open wounds
and sores from the normal and customary fun-sport of wife beating. Is this the price we pay for prefixing ‘man’
with “wo”--? Or is this the cost of borrowing a rib from Adam?
Ever wondered why I: have to be the one with the womb—the cradle of conception and birth, with the
breast—the fountain of nutritious milk, the one to cry—a symbol and sign of sensitivity and sentimentality? Perhaps
you count yourself lucky if you are not in my shoes, with my burdensome facilities, but I pride myself in being your
wife, and not you, mine!
If Adam’s species cannot appreciate, accept and respect the African woman, why do you marry our kind?
Why not marry yourselves and your kind? Then we can wait and see who will fill in for the woman. It is no debate,
you never miss the waters till the well runs dry. The African woman is no where near extinction, besides the
chances weight heavily on our side. So don’t get your hopes up. But you condemn and undermine me, remember,
oh Son of Africa, who carried you for nine months, ferried you into this world, nurtured you and brought you up.
Oh Men of Africa as you graze the platform for women, do not forget that even the pain of your circumcision could
not compare with mine, when I brought you onto African soil.
My dreams are shattered over and over again, yet I recycle them. My youth was snatched away from me, so
that I could be a wife and mother, bare son’s and daughter for Africa . Yet my status is set to none-existent. I don’t
appear on the map of worthwhile contributors. Am I not the life of the home and the fuel for society’s locomotive?
Where and to whom shall I turn? I am in countenance with you, my fellow woman of Africa . It is to you that I
shall turn. We have eyes, yet we pretend not to see and blind ourselves to that which we should indeed see and act
upon! We have voices, but when do we speak and what do we say? “Aye, Aye.. Sir!” When will our contract as
puppets and doormats expire? Shall we wait to exhale when all our body parts have been mutilated, save for the
injury already successfully accomplished?
I cry to you, implore and plead with you, my fellow African women, to speak up and be heard, stand up and
be seen, serve and be served, respect and in return, be respected. Appreciate and be appreciated. Cry and as you
cry, know that our tears dilute misery, are solvent for our despair and will flow until the beams of hope begin to
trickle in.
Materi Girls Center. Kenya