Wasi has something to share

A note on timing: I started writing this piece in April, 2019, as an assignment for Uni.  Then my mum got sick and passed away, and everything was set aside.  Earlier this year, I came back to this, and decided, despite the time that had passed, to finish it anyway.  Then of course, to quote a friend 'a literal plague' happened. I did finish it, though, and finally, here it is.   Bald Black Girls Reign in Sutoyé’s Barbershop words and images by Wasi Daniju 13 April 2020 “I think I was seeking a community, I didn’t know I would create one’. Ruth Sutoyé, artist and co-curator of Bald Black Girl(s). Installation view of Bald Black Girl(s) , 13 April 2019, Unit 5 Gallery, London. © Wasi Daniju The first time I shaved off all my hair 8 years ago, a male friend told me women only do this as a sign of mourning.    My mother told me that in Islam, a shaved head was reserved for men.    As for my own intentions - it was simply a liberation f...

Because 'like water for chocolate' was ample warning and 'object of my affection' was a blatant lie Because 'I love you' carried no weight and dropped leaden at 'I'm sorry' Because I cannot calm the factions of your civil war and I never claimed to be a pacifist Because Hiroshima and Nagasaki should never be relevant pet names and our clouds are still dispersing Because exile is no basis for a re-blooming of affection and I do not have the heart for asylum Because I have finally authored the guide to my own sanity and I have no stomach for a second edit

A variation on today's prompt (from the facebook group 30/30), taken a couple of lines from the Terrance Hayes' poem 'Gospel of the two sisters', but not quite the last ones - - - - - - - - "How often do you hear the tenderness you need to hear? I mean exactly when you need to hear it? Is it ever before that little yolk of hurt wraps itself in layers hard enough to break teeth?" Does it sing to you in your own voice, the way it used to sound before bitterness made it brittle? Soothe you in a tone you have forgotten you once owned, full enough to hold loneliness at bay? Hold you in arms, not yet bruised from your own pinches, fuller fleshed barrier against your own heart's brutality? Because perhaps it is that very tenderness that brings the hurt.  As you reach for the belief that you deserve it, you mock your own comfort, draw it further from your own hands.  Fade the colour of hope with your dry, dark stare until it pales beyond...