No. 6

It took me a long time to say that “I deserve to be loved”


I had to go through a street lined with men who knew too much about carnal pleasure

And not enough about love

Men who thought having more than me on his arm was necessary, was a symbol of his manhood

I’ve had to go through men who collected hearts like stones on a pebbled beach

Men who didn’t know how to talk to me

Who thought I’d answer when they called me variations of “bitch”

Men who didn’t know how to hold me

Their hands chaffed me, lips bruised me, everytime they laid me down

It reminded me of Sithembile, a girl whose man only loved her when she was on her back

You could see the reflection of the stars forever imprinted on her eyes from counting them on dark nights while her man loved her from the inside before he moved to another.

Narcissist trumped naïve

Cold, calculated construction of the lowest self esteem

Convincing me that I was too ugly to have expectations

That the scar on my thigh is the reason men can’t look me in the eye

I’ve had to walk through this never-ending, nebulous haze of men

Too young to be called Sir

Too bearded to be set straight

Like calf on new legs

I was unsure of myself

Neophyte at beauty mistaken for brazen nymph

Like clothes that were too big – my confidence was ill-fitting

It had to be altered, I taught myself to keep looking down when a man shouted “slut”

To not flinch when a man raised his hand

To demand more than the missionary when I’m being loved

The men who cracked my heels, sipped my blood and encouraged my tears

Do not understand that being a man is more than just being male

When I get a son I will teach him how to hold a woman’s heart

And how to love her to confidence

Women, we need to love our sons with hands warm enough to keep them from looking for kinship from the guy on the street packing the most heat.

Hug, kiss and encourage freely

Anything to stop this generation of men who treat pregnancy like it’s an STD

Anything to make girls know they deserve to be loved

Not on their backs, or with the ball of a fist

But slowly and patiently till pain bursts into pleasure.

©Nontobeko Tshabalala 2011