You fall apart on your bathroom floor
These four walls torment me day and night
You spend your mornings collecting the tears
Your evenings counting the scars
How silly it is,
That the weeds keep shooting up in the garden that is your heart .
You pluck them out
To replace them with flowers of joy
Then told you are not made for love ,
Can’t handle the game ,
Can’t let go .

You fall apart on your bathroom floor ,
Struggling to find you
You lost in the midst of the daydreams ,
You pick up the shattered pieces of your soul ,
Putting together your essence .

Poem: By Nomakhosi Ncube

The post HEALING~ By Nomakhosi Ncube appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

I know pain ,
I have felt her in my soul
Tasted her on my tongue
Her taste leaving behind
Bitterness and rage ,
Locked away in a cage ,
My story is written on one page
I have been broken

Shattered , I have been hopeless
With no dreams of tomorrow
Mine has been a tale of sorrow .

I know pain
Faithful she has been
To my body she would cling
Stripping me of joy
No voice would answer when I called
Pain has been my blanket in the cold ,
She came bearing empty promises
Of laughter and a good home
I have lost it all
A stranger to love I am
Happiness left just as fast as she came ,
I know pain
I may not know laughter but I do know pain
For I have stayed with her ,
Dined with her ,
Like a lover I am never without her ,
Her fingerprints are tattered on my skin ,
No soap can ever wash me clean
Of her marks
The sickening feel of her arrival ,
Forever in my mind
Her knock on the doors of my soul

Never gets old
Worn out
My lover pain
Has left me withered .

By Nonsikelelo Moyo

The post I Know the Pain~ By Nonsikelelo Moyo appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

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

Social media: Facebook

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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

The post FemaleHood – By AJ Pearl appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

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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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

The post Emotional check~ By Nonny appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

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

Social handle:

Facebook

(20+) Facebook

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I became my mother’s caregiver when I was just four years old.

My mother was from Opuwo, in the Kunene region of Namibia. When I was four, she became very ill. In our area, people strongly believed in witchcraft. They thought her sickness was caused by something supernatural, something that hospitals and doctors could not fix. She was stuck in bed for weeks, and she grew weaker every day.

One day, one of my mother’s nephews came to our village for a funeral. He saw how sick she was and knew she needed more than just medicine from a doctor. He suggested to my grandfather that he take my mother to live with him so she could get traditional treatment. My grandfather agreed, and the nephew said he would come back for her later.

Even after starting the traditional treatments, my mother’s health did not get better. On her good days, when she felt a little stronger, she would wash her clothes or give me a bath—things no one else would do for me. But those good days were rare.

The Journey to Find Help

One day, my mother decided we had to leave. She was very weak, but she took me with her to hitchhike to another village. This was where her own mother was from, and it was closer to the main road to Outjo, which made it easier to find a ride. We had no money, so we relied on the kindness of people we did not know.

We stayed in that village for a few days, waiting for a free ride. I remember one very hard day when my mother was so dizzy she could not stand. She asked me to cook porridge, a huge task for a four-year-old. As I struggled with the pot over the fire, an ostrich suddenly appeared and tried to eat our food. I was so scared that I ran into the house. When I looked back, the pot had tipped over, spilling our only meal. I cried from hunger and frustration.

Our luck changed when we were waiting near some stores. A woman who knew my mother came over and gave her N$10, which was a lot of money for us at the time. While they were talking, a car stopped.
The woman knew the driver and asked if he could give us a ride, explaining that we had no money. To
our surprise, he said yes.

Midnight in a Strange Town

The driver took us past Outjo all the way to Okakarara, the town nearest to where my mother’s nephew lived. We arrived at one in the morning with no place to sleep. The kind driver let us sleep in an old canopy outside his house. It was not much, but it kept us safe.

Early the next morning, we waited for the man to wake up. When he did, he asked my mother what we planned to do. She told him she was looking for her nephew who worked in the town. The man helped us find him, and soon my mother’s nephew came to take us to his home. At his house, we met another woman from my mother’s village. She was also there for traditional treatment for an illness. When she saw that my mother was much sicker than she was, this kind woman

washed our clothes and blankets and gave me a bath. I had not had one in days. She also cooked food for us. Our last meal had been breakfast the day before. Hunger was a constant part of our lives. Whenever I told my mother I was hungry, she would tell me, “Drink water” We accepted this without complaining.

The price of help

After three days, my mother’s nephew called the relative we were supposed to stay with, and that man came to get us. That was when our real struggle began. I now see it as a kind of modern slavery.

Even though my mother was sick, she was expected to do all the housework: laundry, cleaning, and cooking for her nephew and his family. The nephew did take her to a doctor and paid for her treatment, but in return, my mother had to work for him for free, with no end in sight.

The doctor found that my mother could not eat maize meal, the main food in our region. She could only have pasta, rice, meat, or milk. But the nephew said he would not regularly buy these more expensive foods. If there was no milk, she just did not eat. When there was milk, she would pour all of it into my porridge, leaving nothing for herself.

As my mother grew sicker from the hard work and lack of good food, I had to do even more. By the time I was six, I was washing her clothes and cooking for both of us.

School and Separation

When I turned seven, it was time for me to start school. My mother and I were sent to Okakarara to stay with her nephew’s son, who was the principal of the primary school I would attend.

Because my mother could not read or write, the only work she could find was as a domestic worker. She needed money for my school fees, so she took a job cleaning houses and looking after the children for one of my teachers. Her first full paycheck all went toward my education.

To earn more money and pay for the small outside room we lived in – which had only a toilet and no bathroom – my mother took on extra jobs. I helped by raking yards, and she washed clothes on weekends while working her main job during the week. We did all this just to have one meal a day and a roof over our heads. I slept on the floor of our little room and often got sick with the flu during the cold winters.

A Friend’s Kindness

I had a friend whose mother was also a teacher at my school. One day after school, she came home with me. When she saw how we lived, she told her mother. Her mother came to talk to me and asked if I would like to stay with their family on school days and come back to my mother on weekends. My mother agreed, hoping I would have a proper bed and regular meals. This only lasted for a month before the owner of our room became unhappy with the arrangement, and I had to go back to sleeping on the floor.

There were other small hurts, too. The principal, my mother’s nephew’s son, drove to school every morning with his wife and their two children. But he always left me behind. I had to take the bus to the very school where he was in charge. Even as a child, I wondered why he would not give me a ride, but I knew not to ask an adult such a question. This was our routine until the school year ended.

The Final Separation

During the December holidays, my mother’s nephew bought a farm and planned to move there in January. When the time came, they moved to the farm, and my mother went with them to continue her unpaid work. But there was no place for me there.

That is how I ended up being sent to boarding school, separated from the mother I had cared for since I was four years old.

To read Jasana’s emotional and inspiring story about her experiences at boarding school, click on the following link:

Growing Up In A Boarding School By Jasana Uandia

By: Jasana

Instagram: Jasana Ijemue Uandia

Facebook: Jasana Ijemue Uandia

The post My Mother’s Caregiver ~By Jasana Uandia appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

Life lately
We are on a mission
We are in a square
We are living with a lot, yet we have to press on
We are the wanderers of this life
Life lately is a lot
We are in a time tick.

It is who you know
It is who you are with
It is what you have,
The connections you have,
Life lately is a mission

I cannot help but feel the heaviness of this life
We are more of the commandments
The Bible really is re-living through us
Life lately is a lot
Our freedom is trashed out all in the name of laws
We are in a time tick
But what is next?

It is a lot,
Yet, we press on
We are feeling it
Yet, we still have hope
Life lately
We are on a mission
We are in a square
We are living with a lot, yet we have to press on
We are the wanderers of this life
Life lately is a lot
We are in a time tick.

Poem by: Nonny

The post Between life~By Nonny appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

This voice of mine,
this prayer born of my tongue,
I will never let it fade away.
In celebration, I will stomp through the open fields,
my heart bursting with a joy so deep,
wrapped in the quiet embrace of my faith.

Oh, I will pray and praise,
the ancient thanksgiving prayers and songs
my mother hummed into my soul,
words that held worship in one hand
and comfort in the other.
I will lift them high
until they disappear like smoke.

For if my greatest laughter
can hold within it a river of tears,
then why can’t my deepest sorrow
be stitched through with gratitude?

I will gather my gratitude like precious stones
and string them together,
and though my hands are still rough from healing,
I will steady my breath and let this praise mend
what is broken inside?

I will let every word become a release,
a gentle pull drawing the ache from my veins.
I will offer this as my constant prayer,
for a gentle grace found me when I was lost.

I have been turned inside out by the storm.
I have been weathered and worn.
And this story of my rescue is etched into my bones
in a language only I can truly feel and understand.

And so, I will pray and praise,
not in spite of the chaos, but because of it.
I will pray when my voice is nothing but a whisper,
because my spirit has always been the truer instrument.
I will voice my endless gratitude.

Because I have walked through fire

and made it through the rain, I will praise.
I will send my thanks echoing
from the highest peaks so it may carry far.
Yes, I will keep praying and praising…
until my very being forgets the shape of sound.
I will never stop singing the songs of praise.

By: Mutshidzi

The post I Will Pray and Praise~ By Mutshidzi appeared first on Sheevolves.world.