Wana Udobang’s “This Is Not A Feminist Poem” is a must listen to

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“This Is Not A Feminist Poem” by WanaWana

“This Is Not A Feminist Poem” by WanaWana is a poem that you should listen to. It bares the woe of feminine living and the injustice faced in the plight of vulnerability. It is not a call, a motion, a move, as she says. It is an awareness to the silence in suffering and marginalization, of suffering, hypocrisy, complacency, violence against the woman.

 This poem by Wana Udobang is a powerful, deep and enthralling lyrical message.

Check Wana Udobang‘s amazing “In Memory of Forgetting” poetry album here.

In memory of Forgetting by Wana Wana

Listen to “This Is Not A Feminist Poem” by WanaWana below:

You can also read the fully transcribed version of “This Is Not A Feminist Poem”. Find the lyrics below:

“This is not a feminist poem
This is not contorted metaphors with neither punch
line nor chorus
This is not a feminist poem
It is a woman learning to trade possessions before
her lover takes his last breath.
She will never get the chance to say goodbye
because those final hours are one match-point away from the backstroke of
ravenous relatives.
You see where we come from, widows learn to bid
their dead farewell even before they are lowered into the ground.
Because grief requires time and time is a luxury
she cannot afford.
But I don’t want to talk about funeral rites or a
daughter’s non-inheritance
Because this is not a feminist poem
It is a thirteen-year-old leaking between her legs.
She cannot will her waste to stop because culture demands that babies must
birth babies even before they are whole.
This is Mercy, waiting to be fully formed before
the doctors can fix her. We exchange broken smiles but mine is crackling with
questions and I want to ask, how does a six year old ask to be gang raped for
lunch after school?
As she fiddles with the beads of a rosary that
crawl around her neck, my lips are too drowsy to ask God why?
But I am trying to not be feminist about this
This is not a feminist poem
It is the landlord who pays off your father to
clench his teeth over choking tears for what his son had done to you.
And your daddy knows that homelessness is too close
to home so he washes of your shame with a sponge, dabs your wounds with
scripture hoping these words will in turn douse the stench of the breath, erase
the handprints that form maps across your skin, and glue together all that is
broken of you.
But instead memory has an interesting way of
refusing to disappear, so this is how you exist with a tape loop in your head
playing over and over again.
I am not here to talk about the kidnap of justice
in my country or whom, how and why we have refused to pay her ransom
Because this is not a feminist poem
It is piercing screams of gaping mouths choking as
hands stifle their lungs of ambition
It is men in uniform with bellies swollen from
bribe, sworn to protect you but tell you that domestic matters are familymatters.
So you drink up your pain till you are full, your
throat is parched and yet again you begin to thirst for it yet again.
It is walking around with a womb too hollow to bear
an heir that you take in the seeds of betrayal wanting it to pull together the
remnants of matrimony. This is what it means to be a real woman.
It is the girls who are sent to school only to come
back home knowing that their future is dangling between their bodies and their
silence, yet deciding which to betray first
It is those 2 am text messages from your boss’ phone
that leaves you reminded that you will always loose so you grin, dust it off a
shoulder and bear it. You return to your job because this meager wage pays for
your little brother’s tuition and your mother’s heart medicine.
But this is not a feminist poem
It is acquainting your self with the normalcy that
your body is a minefield, trampled upon by the politics of culture
It is a reminder that you are click, you are bait,
you are currency and by virtue of your existence you are only half human never
equal, never the same.
It is learning that the heavy medals of your
success are meaningless until they are smelted into a ring on your finger
But I told you at the beginning that this is not a
feminist poem
It is not a rant or a call to action
It is not a call for your attention
It is not a checklist of everything you already
This is not a feminist poem

This is a poem about life, about rights, for my
sisters who struggle and continue to fight”

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