I sit with a woman of about fifty to sixty years of age and she tells me of stories of virtues of her womanhood.
She begins at birth. She tells me how she is one of two children – both female. She proceeds to her childhood where she spent most of her days in the company of brooms, laundry, charcoal, sometimes firewood, and dishes. Her mother was one of three wives.
She tells me she has seen boys. She has seen men. She saw men come and go like the waves of the ocean. She tells me of how she likes the ocean; emphasizes on the coolness of the water and the comfort it brings her body when it attempts to melt after the 1pm sun touches it. She liked men too. Just like she likes the ocean. Yet when she speaks of a man, I wonder how it is possible to like such a creature.
She sits in a wooden chair - probably older than I am. Her hands are weary, but its skin remain exquisite. She looks ahead; the sun is calm today.
“I was nineteen and ready to bury my life for him. I indulged myself, fastidiously, achingly, exquisitely, without caution and ready to fall to my knees for him. I moved to uncertain motions. Unresolved, adrift, yet willing to swim in the sea he sailed me to but did not tell me it has no shore. I went to sleep each night – inharmonious but not before I said a prayer for his peace. I dreamt of a home with him. One by the beach, laden with children of different ages, brimming with peace and laughter never to be brought to an end. Yet still, I tell you, a man remains a man.
He explores you, with you, takes you to the deepest parts of the world, places you at an unimaginable depth and tells you he desires to give you thrilling memories. He exploits you, your visions and dreams, hopes and beliefs, and art and beauty. He violates you, your body and its entities. He visits every scar and warms their pain with a kiss. Visits every source of insecurity and ignites it with confidence. He tells you that the both of you are made for each other. Compatible is the word he uses. Butter and butter-knife is the example he gives. But a butter knife has the fine skill of cutting a butter. Neatly, nicely. No pain. Just set it, slice, and withdraw. He leaves you in halves, scared, but this time worse. He has you questioning your worth and values.
Again, I tell you, a man remains a man. They take and take. Not once do they give. Unless it is a lesson. That never, should you trust a man. Not even out of kindness.”
This woman, Amina, tells me that she cannot narrate the things in her mind. I assume that she assumes that my mind is merely too young, but she tells me it isn’t the reason so. She tells me it is because it is too heavy on her heart for her tongue to translate.
But I am a woman. Younger than she but still a woman. I tell her this and she says my mind will ache for the rest of my days should she gather the strength to allow her tongue to speak of it. I say to her, “the crown cannot be too heavy for the head of the queen who must carry it.”
What is it to be a woman?
She carries and give life, and its entities. But hers is trivialized. She nurtures and teaches man. She builds the backbone of society and in return, it demeans her value.
When she walks home from a longer day at work because she worked more hours just so she can buy her five year old daughter the purple maxi dress she wants so bad for her school play, she in unprotected in the streets of the her own home town.
What is it to be a woman?
Amina is so beautiful. Her eyes are brown, her 4c hair falls to her tanned shoulders, her lips are full and dark, and her face is barely wrinkled despite her age. When she speaks, she does so calmy, ensuring every uttered word is well heard. She is very precise with her words and I am in awe of this trait. I find it agreeable.
During the period of her of early womanhood, Amina had to learn that women tend to share and care more. They suffer more too. She dislikes the narrative potrayed by the same society built by women enabling men of ill behavior and throwing it under the bus by saying it is the woman who has a greater emotional and mental maturity.
When she spoke of visions and dreams of women, she said it takes grace, strenght, patience, and a determined mind. And when a woman loves a man, she should be cautious - for she was everything but; and though it led her to a fine blessing of four children she cherishes so dearly, it has captured her in a house filled with disrespect and filth. She now spends most of the hours of her day in a wooden chair at the veranda, looking back on the years she was young and lively.
In conversation about growth, Amina said to me, "the woman you are, the woman you are becoming, is so beautiful. Look how tall you stand, how tender your words are, and how visionary your mind is. The woman you are becoming is everything you should be proud of and more."
Amina has to be the most graceful fifty-five year old I had the pleasure of having a conversation with.