There's A Special Violence Reserved for Women Like Me

There's A Special Violence Reserved for Women Like Me

On that night, the trees had been perfectly green with envy as he and I jostled beneath them in a mad race to unvarnished truth. A rare thing to find. The sort of thing that makes you confuse fogged-over bays with romance as numbers fall off hidden clocks and tumble somewhere beyond your reach. He was the Black Man I wanted to love, with that God-given confidence men everywhere receive as their birthright, the world caressing soft whispers in their ear, “It’s a man’s world.”

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Decriminalising same sex conduct in Africa – Part II

When a three-judge bench of Kenya’s High Court delivered its decision to uphold the criminalisation of same sex relations in the country in May, the Court referenced a 2003 decision from Botswana’s Court of Appeal. Foreign jurisprudence has long been used by courts when hearing matters previously unadjudicated in their jurisdictions. In fact, both sides of Kenya’s decriminalisation petition cited the 2003 Botswana decision in their submissions.

This article originally appeared on Africa Portal

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Decriminalising same sex conduct in Africa – Part I

Much is made of the framing of constitutions, their intents, and ambitions. Equally as important is how they are brought to life. It is for this reason that courts throughout Africa are becoming a place of intrigue, as countries test their new democracies. In Kenya and Botswana, two similar cases that sought to decriminalise same sex conduct recently appeared before their respective courts with very powerful, yet vastly different outcomes.

This article originally appeared on Africa Portal

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385 Days (Or a Story About 40 Mirrors)

385 Days (Or a Story About 40 Mirrors)

The work of being a writer means being called upon wherever words—in their neatness and finiteness—are needed to fill infinite spaces and describe the indescribable. This includes funerals. And so, I have penned eulogies to be read by friends, daughters, in-laws, and cousins as they mourned fathers and sons (always fathers and sons) at somber funerals. Sometimes I got to hear my words spoken as I sat amidst anguished pews in churches. More often than not, I did not.

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Giving Sexy Back

Giving Sexy Back

When I had reclaimed enough of my body to realize that it was mine to do with as I pleased—consensually, painfully, delicately, brazenly—I returned. Coming back to find my Sasha Fierce on those nights I wanted to disinter the long legs gifted to me as the tallest in my family. Repatriating on those hot summer days when I liked to watch the curve of my bosom rise on the beauty mark atop my heart, and their untrained eyes hover above my heart.

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Faith

Faith

How the dead can seem so alive, she had pondered as she moved from room to room and conversation to conversation. Eventually, she had stopped moving. For days on end. The dark of her eyelids transforming into the darkness outside her window. That is when they had come—her friends—and pulled her out of the mud that seemed to be drowning her. The mud that was sucking her under as her arms sat helpless at her side. How easily the body can be swayed by the soul. 

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I've been wanting to write you a letter ...

I've been wanting to write you a letter ...

I read Eleanor Roosevelt's love letters this morning. Well, at least snippets of them. Wife to President Franklin D. Roosevelt, Eleanor was a reformist and champion for women's equality in her role as first lady—and the longest serving American first lady. Known for her public persona, her personal life has been a topic of much discussion since the discovery of a batch of her letters nearly four decades ago and the resulting publication of the book, Empty Without You.

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The African Condition: What Shall We Remember?

The African Condition: What Shall We Remember?

There are cities I cannot write about. Cities so full that you cannot hold them in your mouth or hands—spilling over onto sidewalks and tarmac, reaching into the recesses of your blood memories for something you once knew. But how do you remember a thing you’ve never seen? A city you’ve never met? Perhaps it’s the city’s stunning geography or its dizzying history but something stops you before you can put pen to paper that says, “wait, you do not understand… yet.”

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Ana Maria

Ana Maria

He speaks not to me, not to her, but is sound in his resolution. Her, being Angelica, the fierce Honduran American sitting beside me on the beach. Hours earlier, she had driven us to this strip of island on Florida's West Coast so we could stare at the blue. And Ana Maria Island is all blue. A seven-plus mile long expanse of land and sand strewn into the Gulf of Mexico to remind you, yes you, that you are living your best life. It is generous. 

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