lebog's blog

i have been feeling overwhelmed by the trauma that we are all experiencing lately and i spoke to someone about it who said that one way to cope was to build up a blanket (which can comfort one through this) of stories that have had positive meaning for me from our work . That the need to find and sustain meaning in our work is one way in which we can survive this trauma . So Im writing from our work some stories of hope , the small pieces that give me a great sense of the meaning of our work - that give me energy to go on

Corruption in Melmoth Police station is a big problem for the community. On the 24th of March the Njomelwane community members had a march protesting about corruption in Melmoth Police station and handed in the memorundum to the Station Commissioner complaining about the involvement of the police in the murder case of M.P. Biyela who was the taxi driver and the suspect who is the police not been arrested, the lost of dockets in the police station, police not responding to community complaints and the police not giving feedback on the investigations of cases.

Today was the last day of our Take Back the Tech Workshop Against Gender Based Violence. We were joined by the fabulous graphic designer Bezi Phiri from Studio Bezique. She tought us how to create ecards using Adobe Fotoshop. It was a truely educational workshop we all learnt alot.

The ecards and the digital stories created during the workshop will be uploaded on the Women's Net website.

Thanks to all the people that attended.

Cities stand

like ravished women

called Maputo, Accra, Mombasa;

on a beach

of bleached memory,

they are torn, shattered, only half-decent,

with that lewd, innocent look around the eyes

that girls get when they’ve been used too soon:

they know how to please and how to get

what they need. They watch sailors come

and go. The waves blow the mind

back to the first sharp pain as

hard men forced themselves into the house of dreams

and they bled history

I will never sleep again
the memory of my kind
tossed in the veld
haunts my every day and night
Woman girls on the way to a party
I cannot speak of what was done to them

panties stuff their mouths
open thighs slick with blood and semen
hands tied with barbed wire
eyes bulging in horror

The neighbors came to gawk at their sprawled nakedness
A woman covered their corpses with her blankets
In the sun for six hours before the police came

I will never sleep again
the memory of my kind
tossed in the veld
haunts my every day and night
Woman girls on the way to a party
I cannot speak of what was done to them

panties stuff their mouths
open thighs slick with blood and semen
hands tied with barbed wire
eyes bulging in horror

The neighbors came to gawk at their sprawled nakedness
A woman covered their corpses with her blankets
In the sun for six hours before the police came

It was too early
Blood, blood, everywhere
mother hemorrhaging, the priest gave her last rites
sorry father, no hope for baby
Nineteen forty-eight
I was born a rebel at birth
I never had a good relationship with my mother.

I grew, played rough, was smart, had friends
sprouted hair, grew tits and started bleeding
By eight I knew my body was
fearful, shameful, dangerous
That year my brother got married
I was raised like an only child.

For Nelito, Didi, Thembinkhosi and Walter

I love my girlfriends
they lift me up

Its good to have
someone
who cares
enough
to always
listen

The job
that man
this body

Sharing
Remembering
Dreaming

I love my girlfriends

2 June 1995
By Myesha Jenkins

Yesterday
I thought of you
coming through the door
to my openness.
But you did not come.
He did
Today
in the green shirt
my mind saw
you wearing.
And we shared what we had wanted
right there
in the office
in the afternoon
with all our clothes on
electric and unstoppable
I had to ask him how
When you come
will you wear
a green shirt?

By Myesha Jenkins