POEM:

Arise and claim your throne

You, a queen that has fallen

The one with the buried kingdom and forgotten the throne

You, who surrendered her strength to the struggle

The pain cut off your wings

You could not fly

You stayed on the ground

Let go of the passion you possessed

Buried the dreams and wishes.

Arise and chase dreams

You, the dreamer who gave in

To the pressure of planet earth

Spiraling you to a life of no hope

The heat convinced you that you didn’t belong

That you were nothing but basic

So you curved in

Just to fit in.

Arise and love again

You, whose heart has been shattered

Mishandled by those you gave yourself to

The one’s who could not love your heart

The soul you poured out

Into a bottomless cup

So you took back your care

Stone cold

You locked away your heart.

POEM By : Nonsikelelo Moyo

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FemaleHood

Being a woman is learning
how to exist loudly
in a world that prefers you quiet.

It is carrying questions in your body,
answers in your silence,
and still choosing softness.

It is remembering yourself
even when the world tries to name you first.

It is becoming,
every single day,
without permission.

– By AJ Pearl

aka Aisosa Joseph

Instagram: SheIsAJPearl

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Mirror, Mirror. Who’s the prettiest of them all?
Not me. Certainly.

Look at all the beauties out there.
Surely, have you seen my crooked smile?
What about my pimples?
And what about my big ears?
Oh, how glad I am that you can only see my face.
For I hear my legs are manly, far from beautiful
Compared to how a woman’s should look.

Mirror, Mirror. Who’s the most creative of them all?
It surely can’t be me.

Do I sing better than those Divas?
I’m not sure I can even tie their shoes.
Could I possibly write better
than the outstanding poets out there?
My pen must not be sharp enough.

Mirror, Mirror. Godly Mirror, tell me:
Who am I? Tell me what You see?

Gladly, Mirror answers:
I am glad you finally asked.
You finally chose the right mirror.
It is not the flaws that I see;
I see beauty in the flaws
because I allowed them,
That I may fill them with my Light.

Poem By: Rasanganea Uwantege

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The Morning After

One morning,
she’ll find herself
scrubbing her body too hard.
trying to peel off
the fingerprints he left behind.
not just on her skin
but in the corners of her silence.

The water will burn,
but not as much as the memory.
She’ll cry without sound,
because screaming
never helped her then either.
She said no
but the room swallowed her voice.
he heard power, not pain.
took what was never his
and left her shattered
in a world that still asks
“what were you wearing?

They will call her survivor,
but she is still bleeding in places
nobody can see.
and yet… she rises,
not because she’s healed,
but because she has no choice.

Poem By: Aisosa Joseph aka AJ Pearl

Instagram: sheisajpearl

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My name doesn’t matter. What matters is what happened, because it happens to many of us. I grew up in a small village, thinking I’d marry young, have kids, and farm the land like my mother and her mother before her. It was the only life I knew then.

Then came the drought. The crops withered. The animals died. My family struggled. My father, desperate, decided I should marry a man from the city. He was older, had a good job, and could provide. I didn’t want to, but I knew it was for the good of my family. It felt like a heavy stone in my stomach.

City life was overwhelming. So many people, so much noise, so much I didn’t understand. My husband was kind enough, but we just didn’t connect. He worked long hours, and I stayed home, cleaning and cooking. I felt lost and useless. I missed my family, the familiar smells of the farm, the comforting rhythm of village life.

One day, I stumbled upon a small tailoring shop near the market. The owner, a woman named Fatima, was teaching young girls how to sew. I watched them, fascinated. I remembered my grandmother teaching me to mend clothes back in the village. An idea sparked in my mind.

I asked Fatima if I could learn. She smiled and said, ‘Of course, my dear. There’s always room for one more.’ It wasn’t easy. My fingers were clumsy at first. I made mistakes. But Fatima was patient, and the girls were encouraging. Slowly, I started to learn. I learned to cut fabric, to sew straight lines, to create beautiful patterns.

Sewing gave me something to focus on, something to be proud of. I started making clothes for my neighbors, then for people in the market. My small earnings helped my family back in the village. I felt useful again, like I was contributing. It wasn’t the life I imagined, but it was my life, and I was building it with my own hands.

My husband saw how happy I was. He started bringing me fabric scraps from his work. He even helped me set up a small sewing corner in our house. We started talking more, sharing our days. He began to appreciate my effort and skill.

It wasn’t a fairy tale ending, but it was real. I wasn’t the farmer I thought I’d be, but I was a tailor, a provider, a woman who found her own path when life took an unexpected turn. And that, I realized, was enough. Sometimes, it’s about finding the strength to embrace the changes that  life throws at you and creating something new from the pieces.

Life rarely goes as planned. It’s okay to find your own way, even if it’s different from what you expected. Don’t be afraid to try new things and discover hidden talents. Support other women, we are stronger together. And never underestimate the power and authority that God instilled in you.

The post From the Village to the City – An Arranged Marriage. appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

It hurts to hear, it hurts to know
Women and children all over the world,
Having their lives cut short, don’t you know?
Murdered, abused, their voices silenced each day
A pain that echoes, in every way

Girls, each day, lost to violence and pain
Their futures stolen, their dreams in vain
It hurts, it aches, it cuts deep inside
To hear of sisters, lost, and futures denied

But still we rise, we stand, we speak
For justice, for rights, for a life to seek
So let’s stand together, united as one
On November 21st, let our voices be heard

Every girl, every woman,
every life matters, let’s make it clear
No more violence, no more fear, we stand for change, we stand for peace, we stand for justice,
and we stand for life, equality, and humanity.

Your voice matters, and together we can make a difference.

By: Grace Banda

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Emotional being,

We are with our emotions
Emotions pokes the tip of my nail
Searching for peace, to find nothing relatable,
living within me, and then to find nothing at all.
The sun pumps my smile – a new plum of smoke
straight into the my awareness,
A loud guilt that pierced through and out.

My face spoke volume, my heart dancing,
eyes sweating out the mental lies, all in the name of fear.
The hardcore realization.
This feeling is loud, lines cemented a hard pillar,
Upon this cliff, ill push on.

Love supersedes every emotion,
Peace contains every mess.
A  dream of hope to find check with my emotions,
In the altar of honesty,
A reality of freedom.

My Emotional being

By: Nonny

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I grew up in the Cape Flats, a place where skin was a map of worth, and mine was written in the darkest ink. My hair, thick, untamed, spiraled toward the heavens—was branded as a curse, the emblem of poverty. From the beginning, my parents whispered warnings: “You will not look like the rest in your class.” They tried to prepare me for the jeers, for the loneliness. But nothing could shield me from the sting of small fists and sharp words, the daily crucifixion of a child whose only crime was to carry the color of her ancestors.

In our streets, light skin was worshiped like a fragile god, and straight hair held the throne. The children around me were already disciples of a history that had brainwashed their families into self-denial. Teachers tried to remind us that we were all Africans, yet their words fell into soil already poisoned. Parents hissed back: “Our children are not African—they are coloured.” And the lie continued to blossom, strangling truth like weeds in dry ground.

By the time I entered high school, my body itself had become a shadow that boys recoiled from. None dared to walk beside me, as though my presence would stain them. Some spoke their cruelty aloud, saying they could never bear children with me, for their offspring would look like “Bantus”—their word for black, wielded like a blade. Their rejection, strangely, became my refuge. Where others sought affection, I found sanctuary in silence, pouring my exile into journals. Line by line, I began to stitch my own destiny, my eyes fixed on the faraway gates of the University of Cape Town.

From Grade 1 to Grade 7, my childhood was a battlefield. The blows of classmates carved wounds not only in my skin but in my spirit. There were mornings when I begged the heavens to release me from school, when despair wrapped itself around me like a shroud. Yet my parents armed me differently. My mother, warrior in her own right, would say: “The  weak fight violence with violence. The strong fight with the Word of God, and with words on paper.”

And so I chose the weapon of the unseen. In secrecy, I became a soldier of ink, fighting not with fists but with sentences, waging war in silence. My scars became my scripture, and my journal, the altar where I laid down every pain.

Story by: Lendy

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This burden feels so heavy.

My tears have become
my only comfort.
Life carries me around
like a dried leaf
blown by the wind.

Oh, Life, give me peace.
I am so tired.
I cannot bear this anymore.
All I can do now is cry.

Life, look what you made me do.
Here I am, alone with
my thoughts once more.
Life, give me time to think,
time to truly know myself.
Give me peace.
All I long for now is love.

Poem by: Senselina Guriras

Instagram

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