The Visage of Thought: Part 7 (Finale)

DSC_0887 bc - Copy copy  - wm

It Dawned On Me

These locks landed in front of my face. They blurred the path in front of me. Till suddenly I saw a light in front of me, uncovering the browns and gold of my skin, as though I was peeling off the dark this world had laid on me. It was my dawn.

I had to scream, and look at these hands, the hands that helped hold up my smile. Till a hand from the sky chose me and let me be free. I had no fear of flight risks and I let it dawn on me. The visage of my thoughts, sought after dark souls who needed to see that they are gold.

Don’t drown in those sorrows and woes. Hold on to your soul, dig deep enough until you find gold.

You are golden.

Prose by Kea Mooka

Photo by Sameera Soorjee Photography


The Visage of Thought: Part 6

 DSC_0884 bc - Copy (2) copy - wm   No Flight Risk

I flipped my hair forward, and stopped  mid air. I saw myself outside of myself. I needed to know what it was like from the other side. It looked to me, like a conqueror in motion. Holding on to hopefulness.

What I saw mid air was the courage, to be free from cowardice. Resilience, I stood still as a tree, while they ran back and forth from me while I still tried to find me. So I moved, and like a force of nature and they will notice me.

It wouldn’t be as fun if I hadn’t jumped the gun. I told them I’d be phenomenal. I needed this time to reflect from this high and ask myself why? I was beautifully and wonderfully made.

Stop, before you move. You won’t stay stuck. It’s not just luck.

Prose by Kea Mooka

Photo by Sameera Soorjee Photography

The Visage of Thought: Part 5

DSC_0886 bc - Copy (2) copy - wm

Let It Be Free

I throw my head back, I’m untied, without pride. My hair falls loose from this hold, a fresh breeze runs gentle tracks on my scalp. I grew tired of this hold, my roots were tugging at my skull. The system had tried to contain it. Ma’am said “you can’t leave your hair loose”.

You knew that untamed, I could grow a staircase to the sky. Hair that grows up would be unreachable from the ground. This magic in me, moves with me magnificently. I let my hair loose and remembered that this flowy mess always felt mine.

Remember child, that the wind blows but your hair clings to the sky and doesn’t fall down.

Let these brown girl locks be free.

Prose by Kea Mooka

Photo by Sameera Soorjee Photography

The Visage of Thought: Part 4

DSC_0913 copy - wm (1)

The Hand From The Sky Chose Me

I am planted, pick me out from the ground and see the phenomena. I am a warrior formed from yellow woods that sucked sweet waters from Mother Nature’s breasts, and she said to me “You are a star”.

So I will stand here, vivaciously, tenaciously and let it be known that no stick or stone dare break my bones. I am covered by the sun, her light pours unto me. This woman is on the run, no one stop her in her track. She will stand with her poetry and prose to remind the world of love again.

Slowly rip the bandaids of pain away, soothe your sorrows with hope.Tell them of a freedom that will dry the wetness from their eyes.

Dear sister, come with me. Let us live fearlessly.

 I’ve ripened, pick me out.

Prose by Kea Mooka

Photo by Sameera Soorjee Photography

The Visage of Thought: Part 3

DSC_0875 copy - wm

           The Hand Helps Hold Up My Smile

I need help holding up this smile. On most days I can’t do it by myself. These fingers drill into my face and force this façade of happiness on me. My fragility is no foe to my femme. I need to forget that inside I am broke. My teeth are white, standing in a curved line in this faux frame.

I clench my teeth , I can’t seem to unshackle them from my jaws because every time I try the world barricades. How do I smile amidst all this? Mommy can’t smile, she has fists running into her face. My sister can’t smile her face is pinned down to the ground, men barge through her door and steal her sex until all her blood pours. My brother can’t smile: the police are hungry for his flesh. The colour red ravages my street.

Clean out all this cold and corruption, maybe then my smile won’t be disrupted.

Hand me back my life, I need to emancipate my smile.

Prose by  Kea Mooka

Photo by Sameera Soorjee Photography

The Visage of Thought: Part 2

DSC_0862 copy  - wm

              I Look At These Hands

I had these hands clasped around my neck. I had these nails digging deep into my flesh, my air pipes are engraved. Spit falls onto my face this slur is released ‘you’re all animals!’. These hands try to squeeze the life out of me. These hands were mine. You wanted us to kill ourselves.

This self loathe embedded in me, my kind, we carried it in our bones. This wore heavy on our souls. This sun once smiled on us but it soon started to feel like it burns. It blackened our skin.

We had to remember that these hands were ours. Our hands once clapped before made sounds of joy. These hands once embraced and gave nurturing strokes. We remembered  the songs that spilled from our lips, and the rhythm in our hips.

I urged my hands to remember me and release me from their grip.

We were done dying.

Prose by Kea Mooka

Photo by Sameera Soorjee Photography

The Visage of Thought: Part 1

DSC_0846 copy - wm     I Scream

I Scream. I’m suffocating; this world saddens my soul. I’m an anomaly. I don’t appeal to most because they see my skin as a disease that seeps through their souls and summons a sorrow they can’t defeat.

I Scream. This scream steals the breath from my lungs and each time, it echoes into the shallow sides of my mouth. How come I’m a Siren but all this world seeks from me is a sigh? I’m screaming, stand at attention and see this shine.

I scream, so goddamn let me speak.

I know this scream steals your peace and prompts unease, but don’t shoot it’s too soon.

    Don’t shoot, it’s too soon.

Prose by Kea Mooka

Photo by Sameera Soorjee Photography