By Farook Abdul-karim Sesay, Writer. Poet. Legal advisor. Political commentator
I am a nubile. My feelings are fluid. My heart is nude/ I was born with nothing. My midwife was my father. My caesarean entrance was unsure. Crude/
My fate is fettered to my body. A nubile temptation. A lustful temple. Its sweetness. And, luscious enterprise/ like a candle flame. That attracts moths. My nubile flame is my temple. An altar full of lustful sighs/
I choke in derision. About their delusion How come they say: “Hands off our girls”? When they should extrapolate: “Let us give them back their heirloom!”/ in scorn, I shout back. Like all those invisible nubile voices. “Hands off our choices! Your hypocrisy should not penetrate my bedroom”/
My fate as a broken nubile was sealed by your broken choices. To forsake me. When you see me and those who mirror me as options/ lotions for your actions. To make you feel good and pampered. Yet we became your dereliction of duty. But we see through you. Like Alice. Through the looking glass. We are objects. Only useful as concoctions/
“Hands off our girls!” You prim with glee. Like penance. Watching the chips rise. Colourful and shiny like a casino win/ “hands off our choices!” We spit back. Venom and scorn lacing our thought. Your words are a slogan. Ours is in anger. At your sin/
Hands off our choices!” Our silent screams write. In the corridors of your corrugated conscience. Our fate is not your slogan. “Hands off our choices!” – we are what we choose/ your slogan reeks. It serves only your purpose. We want a safety net. Not sanitary pads. We need empowerment. Freedom to choose. Power to refuse/
“Hands off our choices!” Leave us alone. Let our nubile temples provide our freedom. That temporary refuge. Not your alms/ now doors are shut. The tables are empty. Our needs go unfulfilled. Clients scurry away. “Hands of our girls!” Are not balms/
Teach us to be strong. Show us to be queens. Make us whole again/ our nubile temples deserve better. Demand more! “Hands off our girls!”. A brand that is so bland. Just another bane/
Hands off our choices! We deserve more. Not slogans built on our femininity. To bring you gain/ we trust in our nubile temples with their scented altars. Even with the offerings of morsel and cheap grain/
The coarse caresses of unwanted customers. The rapsy whispers of a fake promise. Bind my nubile fate. Yet I yield to unwarranted desires. As other nubiles succumb/ for your failed whiff of rhetoric has long decayed. Buried deep in the defiled mattresses of our catacomb/
“Hands of our girls”! Stop! Our nubile flesh cringes. As you exploit our nubile identity as your billboard. Listen to our voices!/ Our screams are thirsty. Starving. Angry. For attention. For respect. Leave us alone. “Hands of our nubile choices”!/