Daddy issues

Image result for black man and daughter in black and white

Picture gotten from-Pinterest

There are three main things self-reflection may teach a patient mind: self-discipline, acceptance/openness and self-control. There are many ways people may choose to reflect which may either be loud or to the heart.

We are greater than the things we say for ourselves. We restrict our abilities to only what our eyes may have encountered and not fully with our minds and brains. We neglect the paths our hearts may create for us in thoughts of it being fragile and so delicate, forgetting that what’s broken may still be broken again in order for it to mend.

Submission

I’m very aware of reasons why feminists fight to be heard. I don’t blame extreme sexists that pull major chords as I’m intertwined in being non-feminist and sexist at the same time. I break a little when I watch things not add up with submission, when women are ridiculed about their softness. I’ve watched mum for years, I’ve seen loyalty, I’ve questioned her love.  “How can a woman, so powerful, so filled with knowledge be this?” I’ve seen other women too. I’ve watched myself try to grow out of it but it’s a born ritual. It’s my own way of welcoming peace. It’s my only power over the other.

Trust

We can totally be honest with each other but lack this. We can hold hands, laugh, talk about the children and eat in good silence when we are certain about our distrust for each other. Evenings made me believe that the sun may rise at sunset. My sister and I would read conversations with words very familiar with love written by unfamiliar people. We would both lay under blankets and brew gossips about these evenings. We were soul sisters. We grew to hate what men that looked like this do. We still talk about it, we still cry a little over what we’ve known. It’s almost like disappearing from what seems to mean good because we weren’t shown how goodness can be trusted when it’s felt. It’s not normal to be thought of  that way by another, I think every now and then.

I wish I have someone to blame everytime I choose to run with my eyes. I hope everyday for the day I was first heart broken by my eyes to be erased from my head. I don’t want to be reminded of being broken in a place that I should run to when I’m broken. I hate to talk about home to people that don’t feel like home, I don’t hate to run from home because of my eyes and the crotches it walks with when there. I hate the thought that the first man that warmed my hands when I came into this cold world stalls me from breathing into a certain type of peace I crave.

Daddy issues.

 

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2017

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Self-betrayal for my art

05:09am

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Picture painted by Abasido

I’ve held grudges for mid-nights that refused to give me the right words, for ecstatic memories I needed to feel at times like this.

Here’s how people who applaud the cracks and loopholes in my craft talk to me.

Did you hear them? Did you see what I wrote about them? No, because they feed on silence and that quietness that keeps them at a distance.

Don’t sing praises yet for the way I make you feel. Don’t be confined in my thoughts for too long imagining how I penned it all down. Don’t love me only when you can relate to my pain. Learn to understand this place I choose to write from. Learn to fall with me without fighting gravity. Appreciate the loathe that burns through the words that speak for sanity. Know this. Know this always that I’m a breathing war.

Darkness

I wish I allow myself be whole everytime my fingers itch to speak. I wish I wouldn’t choose parts of me that aren’t naked everytime I listen to my body’s vibration.  There’s art in feeling the way I do before these processes. There’s also the art of picking what my soul’s spirit wouldn’t let the world listen to, self-betrayal.

I’d cut through these layers of my flesh to compromise for losses. I’d paint my worries red to white the agony of womanhood and my evolution. I’d dance to the tune of every poet I adore to feel sane and not hate that I do this. I’d give up writing about lust, what I think of others and where I’d rather be just to outshine these constant thoughts.

I’d betray myself everytime for this art. Writing.

Do you find yourself sometimes in similar situations of self-betrayal? Would love to know in the comment section below. Thank you.

PS– This content was featured by Abasido Michael with his beautiful art inspiring this post. Do check his Twitter page out and appreciate his content and art if you like them. Thank you. 

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2017.

The magic in ‘first times’

I had an Asian friend who I had known for over a year leave me a goodbye note. On it, part of what she had written said “..it’s been a really great pleasure to have met you, my very first Negro friend”. To be totally honest with you, I had a rush of mixed feelings just reading that line. I laughed, got offended, laughed again, cried and ran out to give her a tight hug. Why? Firstly, I imagined being her only black friend out of the battalion of my kind we have in our city, Brighton. I also thought how naive she was not to know that calling me a ‘Negro’ was sort of offensive but I read that line again and laughed again “..my very first Negro friend”. At that moment it occurred to me that, I wasn’t going to see her again until fate or coincidence brings us back together. I thought of her presence for the past one year and how time loves goodbyes. I cried for a girl for the first time in my life.

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What am I insinuating?

You won’t know the feeling of magic until you experience something for the first time. It may not be like mine with someone triggering the effect, it may just be you creating and experiencing your own magic. Perhaps, the word ‘magic’ can be a bit too imaginative. Let’s call it a sensational feeling, one that renews your adrenaline. Think about the first time you had done/started something (esp. something that you love and chose to do). The feeling definitely doesn’t feel like the end of it, it doesn’t equate to the time it begins to grow weary, it’s so alive. That, sometimes is what pushes us to finish or continue, the thought of what and why we started. Sometimes the memory it leaves builds up and takes over our strength to carry through even when the initial thought is dead. The magic in ‘first times’ should be felt as often as the zeal you have for consistency.

When was the first time you decided to go for a walk, or probably read a book? When was the first time you chose to change your hair colour, take another route to work? When was the first time you gave something you cherish to the needy or leave someone random kind words? When was the first time you chose to meditate, to switch off and go offline for a while? When was the last time you told the people you cherish how much you appreciate and love them, the first time you hung out with people that are not in your class, race or even circle? These may all sound daunting or probably scary but believe me you, the feeling you get from ‘first times’ are more reviving than the consistent thing you’ve been doing your whole life.

So?

Get up! Go out! and experience your own magic! dear reader.

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2016.

 

Blogging series 6: Never have I ever

by Dyna Ekwueme

Image result for running away

Picture gotten from-Runningaway

WRITTEN FOR THE THINGS AND PEOPLE I LUSTED FOR

Being vulnerable about my fantasies and sexual cravings for certain kinds of profane words and touch that emits all kinds of vibrations in my writing. Never have I ever been found writing about my wants for  someone else, someone who doesn’t want me, someone who probably thinks I don’t exist. The hypnosis of my feelings, like a spree cursed by a god.

WRITTEN FOR THE THINGS I GAINED FROM PAIN 

The writer’s block I get every now and then, fleeing from my blog like I’m all about that busy life. I wouldn’t write about the long piles of unpublished posts in my draft which has me thinking “I’m not good enough for me”. The resits people don’t see but praise me for as a university girl. The pain and struggle behind it all tends to be hidden in what appears to be like “she’s doing okay” to you.

WRITTEN FOR THE PEOPLE WHO NEED THIS WRITING

With self-obsessive writing blinding me, I fail to write for those who need their voices projected, for those who look up to words to heal them, for those who are not educated and need their tears sent to the government, parliament, leaders, charity organizations and philanthropic bodies through my writing. Never have I ever written enough for change, for love for others, for unity, for development and for substance of evolution.

Part 2 contributed by Emediong Etetim

WRITTEN FOR THE LIFE I WISH I HAD
Everyone feels they understand the level of pain or frustration I’m in. To them, only my feet is touching the water. To me, only my head is above the water. Never have my words been understood but rather misconstrued. Now to live a life where it is okay to not have to explain myself at every turn is all I crave to have.

Disclaimer: This piece was originally written by me and part contributed by Emediong Etetim. No one else had contributed to this piece. 

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2016.

 

 

The end between two ends

Couple standing at two ends of a tunnel Stock Photos Picture from –Stock Illustrations

I remember those early days, we trusted tomorrow so much that we lost touch of what yesterday felt like. We would light candles whenever it got darker in the evenings and mock each other’s unawareness of our native riddles. Some nights, the rain visited and I’d cuddle with the boys under our huge blanket. No one reminded us of time. Time only made us realize ourselves when days waved their goodbyes.

The street nearly named us but they couldn’t knowing that we were the street itself. I’d play football naked in the mud and even under the rain with my pant joggling on my tiny waist. I’d put my siblings on a wheelbarrow and wheel them from street to street until I get weary of people yelling “crazy!” at me. I seldom loved the smell of bruises but cried from their pains. Something about those days made me write again.

I now ask myself for permission to play, I even categorize fun as mature and a litle bit awkward. I’ve lost that childhood freedom to go through tiny tunnels, swing as high as never or even say something out of  free will without being thought as naive. Even with all these cautiousness, I still never admit that I admire children, their innocence and open-mindedness to learn. Their soft yet timid heart, their stubbornness to restraints and most especially their quite freedom.

We can’t always lose track of where we’ve been even if we don’t want to go back there. Some people never had good childhood memories and you can never blame them for it. Some went through physical, mental and spiritual pain, abuse, isolation, poverty, loneliness and what have you and they lived through it, looking back on those days till today. A lot of people embrace their childhood even with all the soreness it left them because it has made them that better tomorrow they never saw then.

Life is a runway. We would all get to the frontline at some point, be seen, loved and appreciated before we leave the earth. Don’t be stuck in the ugliness of how the present moment looks like, instead be excited about your beautiful tomorrow. You are yours truly, love.

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2015.