Rahab's Daughter.

122. Issues.

  1. On the one hand I’m very passive aggressive, I’ve been known to have conversations & buss jokes with people I don’t particularly like, lulling them into a false sense of security all because I can’t be bothered to confront them. Not because I’m scared of confrontation but simply because confrontation is long and stressful. On the other hand I’m aggressive, just plain old aggressive complete with the stink attitude. On a third, imaginary, hand, I’m something without a formal label, I call it kindly aggressive. I’m not rude, or stand offish but neither do I pretend to like you, I make it known in the nicest way possible that our friendship should either be terminated or not begin. (some people still view this as rude & I don’t know why)
  2. I compare myself to other people. People I know, people I don’t know, good people, bad people, beautiful people. I compare the relationships I have with them (the people I know) with the relationships they have with others and wonder what they see in them - not in a ‘I’m better than them’ way but rather in a ‘what have they got that I haven’t.’
  3. I want to be everything for everybody. 
  4. Often, I feel like I am nothing for nobody.
  5. My face upsets me often but not as often as before.
  6. There is one person I told myself I had forgiven but I haven’t & it bothers me, a lot. Partly because I haven’t forgiven them & partly because I feel like they’re forcing me to lie. No, they’re not holding a gun to my head but telling the truth may (unnecessarily) disrupt a situation.
  7. I blame myself for the complications of no.6 & I haven’t forgiven myself for the complications of no.6.
  8. I’m empty & conflicted. I want to live two different lives, one ‘good’ & one ‘bad’ - there’s no middle ground - each life has it’s attractions but the bad obviously has worse consequences than the good.
  9. Lust will tie a noose around my neck and drag me to hell. As much as this year is dedicated to myself & my spiritual relationship with God, I also want some good dick. but then at the same time, I don’t want dick, at all, I want more than that. Dick will fill me for about an hour (if he can go that long) then emptiness & guilt will resume their places.
  10. I’m unsympathetic towards my mum.

Posted 13 hours ago 2 notes

Scribbles.: Wings. →

Everything felt trapped, I couldn’t wiggle or slither the way I wanted to and I felt unbalanced, like I wasn’t resting on anything but hanging, hanging from only God knows where. I was inside something, not quite sure what and it was dark but not pitch black. On the other side of what ever I was in, was light. I could hear the rhythmic drip of water providing the beat for the muffled bird songs and cow’s wail. Nature’s own jazz trio. It smelt damp and old, like something or someone had died but there was only enough room for one, myself. The stench caused me to heave a little when I realised I was hungry, no, not hungry thirsty, really thirsty. I can’t remember ever having anything to drink, ever, did I even know how to do it? Wouldn’t I drown in the liquid? I began to move and felt something soft brush past my face, could there be someone else here, with me? I moved again, this time a little harder and then, a crack. I stopped. What was that? Did I break something? I felt no pain but realised an intense bright light now invaded my room, I abruptly shut my eyes then opened one at a time, squinting before opening them fully. Outside was making it’s way in and I wanted it to, I wanted the freedom of the outdoors. I began moving again, harder and harder to create more cracks before it occurred to me ‘what if I fall? I am hanging on nothing. What if there is nothing below me & I plummet to my death?’ the excitement of the outdoors quickly overrode my fear & I was moving again, dancing, dancing to be free. More and more cracks formed and the light began to take over as the darkness slowly faded away. Then BOOM! I was out, outside hadn’t come in, I had come out. I fell, as I thought I would but quickly spread out my wings,

“Wings?!” I asked myself, shocked that I knew what to do.

Yes, wings, with blue and purple circles patterned on them. I took in the air, it smelt so fresh and was reminded of the smell of death that lingered in my nostrils not too long ago, it must have been me, I must’ve died and been reborn. I flew down to a nearby puddle and looked in the reflection, I was beautiful.

Reblogged 1 day ago from rahabsdaughter 2 notes

Scribbles.: The Land of the Free. →

They dragged her through the street like a dead animal but she was still very much alive. She didn’t struggle or scream, she didn’t need to, her eyes did all the screaming for her. Tears gushed down her cheeks, broken dams, though her soul was trapped behind her glassy stare.

‘What did she do?’ I asked Fatima

‘She was found in Abdul Hamid’s bed’

‘So?’

‘So, that is adultery, punishable by death unless she can escape’

‘Escape?’

The word rested itself on my shoulders. How many more women, like her, being punished like this? How many more women, like Fatima, not able to go to school or work or being forced to wear a burkha unless they can escape.

‘Do you want to see?’ Fatima asked as she adjusted her gloves

‘No, it’s fine’

Her brother, our shadow, looked over at me coldly, he came with us everywhere we went. We had no privacy, for fear I’d end up having sex with her or something, I suppose. I had spoken to Fatima about how she felt about her brother following her everywhere and never really having any time to herself – she lived in a big family. She had told me she was fine with it, she saw him as her ‘own personal bodyguard.’ She also didn’t mind wearing the burkha or gloves, even in this weather, she said it made her feel included, dignified and proud. Another trapped woman, brainwashed by her patriarchal society, made to believe that she is inferior and incapable of looking after herself.

So often I wanted to whisk her away to England where she could be whoever she wants to be without some man always following her around or telling her how to dress or what to do. Where she could go to school, get a job, and be free.

Reblogged 1 day ago from rahabsdaughter 2 notes

Scribbles.: The King's Addiction. →

I sipped some wine from my chalice and looked out of my bedroom balcony,

     ‘Mine!’ I thought, ‘It’s all mine’.

I watched the hustle and bustle of donkeys and market traders trying to bargain,

‘No! This pot is worth 30 pieces of sliver, no less’

‘This ass is in good condition, very healthy, he’s the strongest in the herd’,

children running around, laughing, shouting, crying and mothers doing the same. I could have any pot, donkey, child or mother and so far, I’d chosen the finest. My pots were the most detailed and my donkeys the strongest. I looked across, at the balconies in front of me, they were all similar with ivy crawling up the stones and clay. My eyes followed one particular branch of ivy, the way it delicately wove in and out of itself kept my attention; a dance on the wall. I watched as it reached the very top of the building and there, in the gentle heat of the sun, stood a woman. Nude. Taking a bath, and obviously unaware anybody was watching. The reflection of the sun made the water glisten and shimmer, she looked like she had bathed in gold. Her hair ran down past her shoulders, curtains for her breasts, grazing her waist. I went to grab my binoculars, when I got back she had turned around and I could see the dimples in her back, just above her backside. They seemed to smile at me as if to say, ‘you can have me’. And of course I could, I am king.

‘Typical David behavior, this is’, that’s what they’ll all say, ‘Another woman? Lust will drag you to hell, oh great King.’ I am a conqueror of giants, a mighty warrior, a King hand chosen by God Himself and yet, I can’t keep my penis under control. The form of a woman’s curves, switch on the flicker below my waist while simultaneously switching off my brain and triggering my heart to lie. And with each woman the experience is different, some are shy, some are forward, some are experimental – there was this one that wanted to bind my ankles and wrists with ropes and another wanted to pretend to be Goliath and have me ‘conquer’ her – but this one, Bathsheba, was different. I knew her name for one, but more than that, for the whole time I couldn’t help feeling that she wanted me and not just because of my status. She treated me like the Jordan and I quenched her thirst. Even now, as she lays next to me, I feel like she is meticulously planning how we can do this again, but I can’t, I can’t do-

‘David, David’ her whisper is full of want

 ‘David!’

  ‘Mmhmm?’

She rubs her leg on top of mine, ‘RESIST’ rings in my head but the sound of her breathing quickly quientens the alarm and she allows her hand to slip further down my torso than it should.

Reblogged 1 day ago from rahabsdaughter 3 notes

121. The Suit

I went to go see it at the Young Vic yesterday. An amazingly beautiful play based on a story by Can Themba. Spoken through music & apartheid is the low underlying drone. It’s funny, it’s sad & it ignited in me something I haven’t felt for a long time. A passion I laid to rest has risen from its dormant state & is burning in me again. I want to go back into acting, only theatre, particularly postcolonial theatre. My love for postcolonial art is growing every single day. My friend said I should write my own plays, I already do, & act in them - I don’t know. Part of my next play will be set in Nigeria, I might make it a little bit biographical. Nonetheless, I’m excited. Excited to write, excited to act. I found so many things beautiful about this play but two things stood out:

  1. The way in which the context is neatly woven into the body of the play. There’s a story one of the characters tell about a man who is killed in a racist attack by the police - my favourite part - & a beautiful song about black bodies falling like leaves from a tree is sung. 
  2. The use of narration. The African oral tradition is used in that way, going all the way back to the roots. I haven’t read the story so I don’t know how narration is used in it. & Everyone takes part in the narration, giving different perspectives. 

I loved it. Everyone, go & see it.

While we were at the theatre, mine & Rianna’s hair got complimented by some women at the bar, yes, I am gassed, but by the end of today I’ll have braids.  

I have a reading list of twenty-one books to get through before September, preferably August, so that I can start reading my uni stuff too. It’s a mixture of stuff, I’ll post the list in a separate post but I’m excited by it :) 

In exactly one month, I’ll be one year older.

x

p.s. I have a new tumblr for my writing www.rahabsdaughter.tumblr.com check it out :) 

Posted 5 days ago