Letters to Stony

Title: It’s not what I did, it’s how you felt

I was happy, even when sometimes life got hard. I won and lost sometimes, but I was grateful for one thing: LIFE. I would randomly bump into you at my favourite store, at the taxi rank or sit next to you in a taxi. I didn’t know you, but I would smile and greet you, maybe even engage in a conversation. I wasn’t suspicious of anything.

I didn’t think I was your next victim. You took your time learning my routine, you allowed hate and jealousy to rent your heart, and evil thoughts resided in your mind. To you, I was not worthy of living; my existence threatened yours in ways I could never comprehend. One day, you decided my time was up, you didn’t want to see my face anymore, my innocent smile and infectious laughter irked you, so you waited until my friends left, and made your way into my home.

I got startled when I saw you in my living room. You said I should not scream and that it would just take a few minutes. I tried running, but you were too fast, you hit me with a hammer, and I fell, blood gushing out of my head. You turned me around and started throwing punch after punch, kicked me like a dog, even though I couldn’t defend myself. I begged you, pleaded with you, but you didn’t care; you had already decided my fate.

When I was losing consciousness, you unbuckled your pants and had your way with me. My tears didn’t move you. In fact, they filled your heart with satisfaction. When you were done, you dragged me to the kitchen and stabbed me multiple times until I took my last breath. You left, leaving me in a pool of my own blood, violated in my own home, and robbed me of my life. My heartbroken soul watched you leave my house, leaving me bloody and cold.

I wanted to ask why? What did I do to deserve such cruelty? Unfortunately, I am now just a spirit, another statistic that will never get justice.

By: Thapelo Bridget

The post It’s not what I did, it’s how you felt ~ By: Thapelo Bridget appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

A soul so bright,
Torn apart by darkness and endless fight.
Bipolar disorder’s waves crash on her shore,
As schizophrenia’s whispers echo evermore.

Her loved ones, they couldn’t understand,
The turmoil raged like a stormy land.
They rejected her with words that cut deep,
Leaving her to face the demons, asleep.

Her thoughts, a jumbled mess, like a puzzle unsolved,
As paranoia’s grip tightens, her heart evolves.
The world, a distorted lens, through which she views,
A reality warped by the voices that accuse.

Oh, Shamyne, dear one, don’t lose your way,
Through the darkness that surrounds, there’s still a ray.
Of hope, of love, of light that shines so bright,
Guiding you through the blackest of nights.

You are strong, though your mind may stray,
You are brave, though the voices whisper, night and day.
You are loved, though rejected, by those who don’t see,
The beauty, the worth, that’s you, wild and free.

Shamyne, dear one, hold on to hope’s refrain,
For you are not alone in this struggle, this pain.
Some care, who understand, who see,
The beauty, the strength, that’s you, wild and free.

By :Shamyne Mwila
Facebook: Shamyne Mwila

(20+) Facebook

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My name is Thandi Promise Mashaba, I am 31 years old, a phenomenal woman and the founder of Focus Mamelodi Community NPO—a certified life coach and life coach for kids. I am fearfully and wonderfully made – a truth. I didn’t always believe in myself.

Growing up, life was not easy. From an early age, I was bullied because of things I couldn’t change: the colour of my skin and the depth of my voice. I was constantly mocked, ridiculed and made to feel like I didn’t belong. The bullying started in primary school and followed me into high school. I was called names and physically attacked. All this made me shrink inside. I struggled with my confidence. I constantly felt the need to defend myself or explain who I was. And because sometimes I fought back physically, I was often misunderstood and labelled as aggressive when in truth I was just trying to survive.

But everything began to change when I received salvation. That was my turning point. Through faith, I started doing inner work to heal my wounded inner child. I began to look at myself through a different lens- through the eyes of love, grace and peace.

I began to affirm myself with words like ‘I’m fearfully and wonderfully made’, knowing that I am not a mistake and that I have a purpose and a destiny to fulfill on this earth. Slowly, I started to believe it. I found my healing. I found my freedom. And with that healing came forgiveness- not just for me but for the people who hurt me, also for the parts of myself that I had rejected.

It was from this place of transformation that Focus Mamelodi Community NPO was born. I knew my story wasn’t just for me. I understood that through god’s grace, I could also help others see themselves beyond the limitations placed on them by society, bullies, or even their own insecurities.

Focus Mamelodi Community NPO became my way of mentoring and counseling teenagers and youth in my community, of telling them that no pain lasts forever, and that their identity is not defined by others but by the one who created them. Today, I embrace every part of who I am. I will never bleach my skin. I will never hide my voice. I no longer seek to fit in. I was born to stand out.

Message to the community:
To anyone going through bullying or struggling with self-acceptance, I want you to know this:
Do not change who you are for anyone
Do not silence your truth to make others comfortable, you are enough

Yes, the pain is real, but so is your power. When you forgive, you set yourself free. When
you speak life over yourself, you begin to rise. And when you believe in your worth, the
world cannot ignore your light.
Beauty isn’t defined by society or filtered by the world. True beauty is how you feel about
yourself- boldly, deeply, and unapologetically.

You can find me on these platforms
Email: thand.mashaba@gmail.com
Facebook: Thandi Thandy Thandie

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My name is Charlotte Mugabe, and in 2023, I experienced one of the most challenging periods of my life. On the 3rd of June 2023, I was preparing to go out with my girlfriends to celebrate my birthday, little did I know that day was going to be the start of a fight for my life. I glammed up for the day, and I was looking good, and everything was good. My husband went to drop me off at the restaurant to meet up with my friends. My friends and I had dinner, enjoying good conversation, laughing, and doing all the fun and girly stuff. Behold, all of a sudden, I felt hot and I couldn’t breathe and my heart was beating out of my chest. Everyone started to panic; I panicked as well. I thought that was it, I was going to die. My girls began praying for me, and it got a bit better. I then later went to the clinic that night, and they just dismissed me, saying it could have been something I ate that made me feel that way. 2 days passed, I was better, then on the third day I started to feel weird, like every time I ate I would feel food coming back to my throat and be stuck there.

It was horrible; I went from doctor to doctor with them prescribing the same medicine that would not work, all of them telling me it was due to acid reflux. I did everything they asked me to do, but nothing worked. tried Chinese medicine, Indian medicine, our own traditional medicine, was ineffective. At that point, I had lost a lot of weight and was still not getting answers. We prayed, people prayed from my church, other churches as well, I even gave up on myself, that dying would have made it easier. I remember calling my mother and telling her that I was tired and I just wanted to die. The only time I would catch a break was when I would fall asleep at night. It went on from June to November, still with the same pain but no help. It got to a point whenever I would leave the house I would feel like I am dying (my heart beating fast and having difficulty breathing), even when people came to see me or call me I would get the same feeling, could this be witchcraft I would ask myself I mean I am African, or was I going crazy/mad. I recall a Pastor from my church visiting me with a group of friends.

He saw me, and he was terrified. He then went to tell one of the psychiatrists from church, who later saw me and was able to diagnose me differently from all the doctors I had seen. I was so happy to get a different diagnosis, like this could be it. He said Charlotte, you have an anxiety disorder and this was in December 2023, when I started getting sick in June. No one knew what was wrong with me, which could have prevented all of the drama I went through, as some people do not realise it when they have mental disorders. A lot of women go through this in silence because of so many stigmas attached to the ‘mental illnesses’. I started my healing journey right there after the diagnosis, and I am happy to say I am way better with the help of my family, psychiatrist, therapist and my church family. Also, I wouldn’t have done this without prayer. It has been a journey, I am only sharing a glimpse of what I went through, because Hell is the only word that comes to mind when I think of the journey.

To this day, I still wake up at night and cry my eyes out. I am still here by God’s grace!!!

By Charlotte Mugabe 

Social media handles:

Facebook: charlotte mugabe-mudavanhu

Instagram: charlotte mugabe-mudavanhu

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My name is Godfred Enyan, but I’m popularly known as King Sobada from Ghana. I have a BSc in Administration with a focus on Public Administration from the University of Ghana.

I am a young Ghanaian using music as an advocacy tool to raise awareness about gender equality and women’s empowerment in Africa, the devastating impacts of climate change, and the urgent need for action. Additionally, I advocate for disability rights to ensure equity and vast inclusivity in every area of human endeavor.

My songs have been featured on numerous local and international media platforms, including the Voice of America, DW Women, Gambia Radio and Television Stations, Capital FM Zambia, and many others.

I have won several awards, this is including the Global Citizen’s SDGs Innovation Challenge and the Africa Climate and Social Justice Awards. I have also been nominated for the Future is Female Awards by Leading Ladies of Africa and the Ghana Change Makers Awards.

I am an alumnus of the Nairobi Summer School on Climate Justice and serve as the Ghana Representative for the Africa Climate Band – a  group of musicians from different countries using music to raise awareness about climate change. Additionally, I am a member of Youth For Adaptation Finance in Africa and the Climate Justice Movement Ghana.  I have performed on various platforms both within Ghana and internationally.

Link to the Song on YouTube: https://youtu.be/A0yTI8yy5Uo?feature=shared

By Sobada Enyan

Social media platforms:

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I spent my entire school career in a boarding school, where I was expected to look after myself from the tender age of 8, in Grade 2, until I graduated in Grade 12. I remember when I started boarding school during the second term of Grade 2 in the middle of winter, my shoes were stolen from my locker. When I told my mom, who was a domestic worker, that my shoes were stolen, she told me that she didn’t have the money to buy me another pair of shoes, so I had to attend school barefoot for the whole term. Then there was a time when my feet were cracked from walking barefoot and eventually bled, but I didn’t feel anything; only the other kids could see blood flowing from my feet, and they were the ones who showed me.

I never knew a mother’s love/attention since I started boarding school. l had to spend my holidays with a guardian, and I could feel a sense of not belonging there. If there is work to be done at home, no one else could do it besides me, starting from cooking, cleaning, laundry, and milking goats. I did not spend my holidays resting; I worked hard so that I could get a bar of soap and lotion for boarding school.

I had to do laundry for other girls in order for me to use their soap water to wash my own clothes, and iron their clothes so that I could iron mine because I did not have the privilege of getting full toiletries termly. I got old clothes from family members, especially from girls of family members where my mother was working. I never knew wearing store-bought underwear; only from the leftover fabric that my guardian was not using, she sewed some underwear or two.

Imagine a teenager who gets her period every month. Not having any sanitary towels to use, I had to use the mattress I was sleeping on. Every month, I would cut 3 or 4 pieces from the mattress, cover them with part of a t-shirt I cut up, and use that as a sanitary towel. It didn’t help much, but it was better than nothing. When the bleeding was too heavy, I had to skip school for the day.

Coming home for the holidays, you will face a constant reminder that it’s not your home. Since I was the only one doing all the domestic work, after I mopped the floor and the other kids came from playing and they wanted to use the bathroom, and I told them that the floor was wet, I was constantly told that I should let them enter their house, I should remember that it is not our house… this reminder lives with me until today.

Whenever you want to do something or you have an idea and you are looking for validation or support from your guardian, there was always a negative comment and eventually a big NO! That caused me to start feeling that I am not good enough, or anything l do is not good enough, or I cannot be better than someone else.

I am fighting daily to be better and to know that I am good enough, but this childhood trauma is stuck with me, that it causes me to procrastinate or delay very important things I have to do in order to make my life better and that of my daughter. I know I am stronger than my past. And every day, I choose to fight for a better life-not just for me, but for my daughter. I may still carry the scars, but they remind me how far I have come. I am learning, step by step, to believe in myself. No one can take away my power. No one can erase the fact that I survived.

And now, I am trying to build something new… a life where my daughter will never know the pain I knew. She will grow up loved, supported, and sure of her worth. The little girl who walked barefoot, who sewed her own underwear, who made do with nothing, she is still inside me. But she is not broken. She is a warrior. And warriors keep rising. My story isn’t over yet. The best chapters are still ahead.

Written By: Jasana Uandia

Instagram: Jasana Ijemue Uandia

Facebook: Jasana Ijemue Uandia

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“The world doesn’t revolve around you.” –
A phrase that clings
like stubborn gum to the back of my pants.
Its presence numbs, its toxicity stains,
leaving me to tremble in a futile struggle.

Fingers wearily try, way too hard, to peel it away,
but others notice the hue from afar,
under their unspoken radar.
I keep my cool and walk my way.

For now, I know my truth:
The world doesn’t revolve around me;
I’m just a grain of sand
in the midst of billions,
resting by the seashore,
all slipping away like grains of sand,
each with a story to tell.

©️Larona Tlhobogang

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Postnatal care seems to go hand in hand with the familiar scent of Dettol, the warmth of pap, and the soft puff of dusting powder. But once a child is born, not every mother steps into celebration; some step into waiting rooms, where the air is heavy with exhaustion, debt, and quiet sacrifices. I saw a woman. She had just put to bed, I could tell. Her wrapper was a mess, tied halfway across her breasts like it had given up mid-twist. The wrapper was crooked too—one end stopped at her knees while the other trailed the floor behind her. She walked with a limp, one leg dragging slightly behind the other like the pain hadn’t quite left her hips. Her face was stern. Flasks in one hand, a baby bag in the other. But there was no baby in sight. Just her, moving to and fro. Eventually, she sat across from me, untied her wrapper, and let her breasts hang loose, unbothered by who might be watching. From her bag, she brought out a small feeding bottle attached to a manual breast pump.

She clamped the device down hard onto her nipple. If she felt any pain or decided not to show it, I couldn’t even tell. She pressed and squeezed and pumped—each new clamp with a desperation stronger than the last. I saw it in how she constantly shifted on her seat, in how she took different positions—one time hunched over—and in how she flicked a trespassing braid off her chest. All I could do was will a spill of milk to gush into the bottle. Later, I prayed for just a trickle… just something.

It was hard not to look eager because I was unconsciously shifting towards the edge of my seat. I knew my brows were furrowed too. But nothing.

So I quickly ran the physiology of lactation in my head… I know all that is needed for the milk let-down reflex is touch reception; then afferents are passed to the higher centres, and subsequently, there’s a contraction of myoepithelial cells of the mammary alveoli, and milk flows in unforced rhythms.

But here, there’s more than touch reception—there’s pressure, cruel pressure, that I winced with each clamping. Still nothing. She then used both hands to press and knead the full mass of the breast like it owed her something. Still no milk, not even a drop. She switched to the other breast, but it was the same thing. I watched her body go from effort to resignation in minutes. Her face remained unreadable, but her hands told the story.

She tied her wrapper, this time properly, tightly above her breasts. Then she poured herself a cup of hot tea from her flask. I expected her to sip on it since I could see the steam rise furiously from the cup—but she didn’t. She gulped it all in one go. I don’t know what hit me more,
whether it was her silence or her desperation.

There was another woman. I first saw her while she was still pregnant, pacing up and down, hands pressed into the small of her back like she was trying to hold herself together. The next day, her stomach had deflated. I knew she had delivered.

I found her again, flanked by women in mismatched ìró and bùbá; and I caught my first glimpse of her baby—a girl, pink, wriggly cutie, perfect.

A little girl. So beautiful that she didn’t fit into the scenery the shrouding relatives painted. The baby was just in a class of her own, oblivious to the worry set deep in her mother’s eyes, to the endless stream of people passing by, to the mismatching of ìró and bùbá that all the women
donned like aso ebi, totally oblivious to the smell that is particular to the front of the maternity ward.

For the next two days, I saw the mother walk in and out of the maternity ward, baby in tow. But on the fourth day, something had changed. She was sitting on the bare floor near the neonatal unit, chatting with other women, her child at her breast. The baby’s pink had dulled. She still looked heavenly, but she was beginning to settle into the reality of her surroundings. Days passed. Then weeks. I watched them become permanent fixtures of the waiting room. It hit me then: hospital bills hadn’t been paid. She couldn’t remain in the ward anymore. Owó bed—bed fee—was piling.

She now slept on flattened biscuit cartons while the baby slept in a mosquito net cot. That initial worry on her face had hardened into despair. I watched her loneliness. I saw it in the way she walked—her head hung low, her shoulders hunched, footsteps slow, as though trying not to be noticed. I saw it in the three changes of clothes she rotated. In the way she asked a fellow waiting roomer for a sachet of water like it took everything in her to form the request. Also, I didn’t see any visitors around her again since the day after her delivery.

After three weeks, I got to see the baby’s face again. I saw her legs first, covered in reddish streaks and rashes. I was alarmed. Then, her face. She no longer looked like a newborn. Her eyes had already been lined with kohl, her stare jarring. How quickly she blended into the background weighed on my mind. I walked by faster that day—I needed to.

I wondered about the father. Then I got angry. At the situation. At the man. I don’t even know the full story, but in my head, I needed to pin the blame on someone. So I imagined him as a useless man, wasting his meagre earnings on burukutu. But when that made my chest feel too
tight, I changed the script. Maybe he was out there, struggling, trying to raise money. I let myself believe that too. But nothing worked really, so I muttered, “God abeg.”

One day, after five weeks, their corner was empty—they were gone. I missed the celebration and prayers I knew the other waiting roomers must have made at the news of their discharge, but I was relieved nonetheless.

There was another mother. She stood out—not because of herself, but because of her child. For four days, the waiting room had a new kind of brightness, and it was her child. The child was biracial—half Nigerian, half Asian. Her features were unmistakable: the curly long hair, the
small pink lips, the squinty eyes, and the flattened face. She couldn’t have been more than two years old, but she carried herself like someone who knew how much she stood out. She wore joy like it was her birthright, and she didn’t mind showing off her incomplete dentition at every given chance. She bounced around the room like it was a stage she was born for. Everyone gushed looking at her, and she returned the favour by giving high-fives and returning every smile with bigger ones—as if she knew that the waiting room needed lots of comic relief.

But her mother though… she looked like someone trying too hard and barely holding on. She was young—definitely in her twenties. She was bleached fair in complexion—you could tell because her knuckles, knees, and elbows had remained loyal to the essence of melanin. Yet, you
could clearly see that she was a beautiful woman. Her upper arm was tattooed with roses and some words that were already fading out.
The tattoo, though it had lost its shine, had become a different kind of artwork… one caught up in the meshwork of stretch marks that made their way out from her armpit. The sinewy stretch marks crawled across the ink. The bloom looked collapsed, and a rose stalk appeared to have been broken by the trespassing stretch marks.

Though rose tattoos are quite common, I wanted to hear the story behind this particular one. Maybe it’s partly because the tattoo looked like something entirely different or because this woman looked drawn and unkempt—a sharp contrast to her daughter.

Then it dawned on me—she’s trying so hard to keep her biracial kid on the pedestal. It showed in the way the girl was always dressed like she was ready to strut the runway. The fancy blouses, bouncy skirts, her curls styled differently each time, how each day came with different sneakers and crocs. The girl stood out. She didn’t fit the narrative of the room. She stood out too much. Just like a diamond in the rough… yet someone’s treasure.

The mother was making a sacrifice. She didn’t care how she looked. All her effort, all her money, all her attention went into that little girl. She wanted the world to see beauty where it hurt the most.

I never figured out why they were waiting roomers. I never knew their story. But for those four days, I watched a mother pour everything she had into making sure her child looked untouched by the weight of their reality. Maybe that’s what they mean when they talk about the joys of motherhood. But here, in the waiting room, those joys don’t always come wrapped in lullabies or pastel-coloured baby blankets. Sometimes, they look like a woman begging her breast to produce milk, while imploring a device determined to mock her. Sometimes, they look like biscuit
cartons and mosquito nets. And sometimes, they look like broken roses on bleached skin while a daughter spins in sparkly shoes.
Different mothers. Different stories.
Same waiting room. Same ache.
And still, somehow… same love.

By: Adeoluwa Deborah

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You wake up, not because you want to, but because the light creeping through the curtains demands it. The weight of the night clings to you like a suffocating blanket, leaving you paralyzed, unable to shake the darkness that’s been following you for so long. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, wishing for something, anything, to make it stop. But nothing does. It never does.

The mirror shows you something you don’t recognize anymore. The person staring back seems like a stranger, someone far removed from who you thought you were. There’s a hollow emptiness in your chest, a gnawing ache that won’t go away no matter how many times you tell yourself that you should be better, should be more, should be worthy of love. But you’re not. So tears run down your chicks like a silent stream in the dark valley. You can’t even remember the last time you felt like you deserved anything good. You’ve made too many mistakes. You’ve hurt the one person ever close to you and so it feels like you’ve hurt the entire world. And that’s all you can see now; the wreckage of your choices, the face of those you’ve let down, and the unforgivable things you’ve said and done.

You can hear their voices, even now. The echoes of their disappointment, their anger, frustration, and their sadness. Like the boomerang, no matter how far you keep throwing them away, they always find their way back to haunt you, follow you like shadows that grow longer with each passing day. You try to silence them, but they only get louder. You wonder if they’re right. Maybe you’re just a failure, destined to disappoint. Maybe everyone was right to walk away. Maybe you’ve always been unworthy of the things you wanted… of the love they had to offer.

There are moments when you think back to the times you’ve had the brief glimpses of happiness, and you wonder why they couldn’t have lasted. Why did you let them slip through your fingers, why did you sabotage every good thing that ever came your way? You realize you are to blame for it all, that you’ve got to account for it all, and that no reason under the earth is going to make it make sense or justify it all; it was just pure evil. And so you feel so small. So invisible. You wonder why you even bother to keep going, why you haven’t just given in to the numbness that calls to you, that promises peace in the silence.

And yet, you still breathe; heavy breaths, as though from collapsed lungs and a slow beating heart. Even though you don’t think you deserve it, even though every breath feels like a burden. You can’t seem to stop yourself from waking up each day, from dragging yourself through the motions. It’s as if something deep inside of you, buried beneath the layers of shame and sorrow, refuses to let go. Maybe it’s hope, or maybe it’s just fear, fear of truly giving up.

You don’t know how much longer you can keep going like this. It’s hard to imagine a world where you find peace with yourself, where you can look in the mirror without feeling like you’re staring at a ghost. But somewhere, in the deepest part of you, there’s a tiny, fragile whisper. A part of you that still believes it’s possible to be more than this, to find redemption, to somehow

Be worthy again. You don’t know if you’ll ever reach that place, or if you even deserve to. But it’s there, and for now, that’s enough.

And so, you continue. Even though you don’t believe you’re worthy. Even though you feel the weight of regret like a heavy chain around your neck and feet. You keep going. Because, somewhere deep inside, there’s a small part of you that refuses to give up completely. Maybe that’s all you need to hold on to, for now.

By- Azwi-Hilton

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Stay!
The day has gone by
And I still have so much to say
But I’m yet to ask if you still want to stay

Stay! I’m not trying to do things my way
But I will be lying if I say I want them this way

Maybe you can hold me a little bit longer
So it doesn’t hurt
So it doesn’t burn

Funny how it all sounds like a joke
But I’m not playing all I want to ask is,
Do you plan on staying?.

By: Rosalia Ndjimba

(20+) Facebook

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