She was a strong,
black,
loveless woman.
She said,
"He doesn't love me no more.
He doesn't hold me down or beat me against the concrete floor, doesn't hit me with concrete thoughts as he slams the bedroom door.
He doesn't deliver fists as gifts that fit my tits nor feeds the kids with love from lips, nor takes my hints not to brake my ribs, he's got skills but kills my emotions when he breathes from gills, HE doesn't love me no more."
She was the type who bragged to friends
about his jealousy, his strength and the power in his hands.
Yet the same hands transformed into fists, fists that tore her body into bits, bits that disfigured her body kits.
His hands transformed into fists that beat, bruised, abused and used her face as a comfort zone.
His hands... landed on her ribcage,
but she wasn't on the same page.
So his rage landed on her ribcage,
told her her friends, "This is love,"
but her friends weren't on the same page.
"Dump the bastard he's got rage,
like an animal he belongs inside of a cage."
"No, no, no," she said.
"He's my man and...
without him I'd go mad and..
he didn't get love from an early age."
Her excuses made him and exclusive explosive in her existence, but her persistence will ensure that woman like her face exstinction.
You see, if beating a woman was a test,
this man had passed it with distinction.
Every night neighbors had front row seats, if they missed it today, tomorrow the movie repeats.
This piece depicts,
how on a daily basis a womans life depletes, how the cycle of her life becomes complete.
See, she grew up in a society where heart attacks were a result of a very fat attack caused by ignorance of bioslim.
A society where woman believed a knife should be used for cutting, buttering and terminating unborn life.
I prayed that this type of woman would never be my wife, but had Eve aborted...
maybe, just maybe,
the Cain's in us wouldn't have survived.
He doesn't love her no more...
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Title: Cooked in Africa