Mats'eliso Makekema


When I was a little girl with very limited knowledge of "being", I had a vast array of beliefs about what to be a female human being signifies...

I grew up.

I experienced.

Through experience I fulfilled "the need to be" - who I am in this world; 

I received, conceived and incubated a life. I gave a chance to yet another greater power, the fulfilment of " the need to be". Without realizing, I exercised the core existence of womanism. 

Femininity is a magical realism, it ensures fulfilment with or without one's will. 

I should say, “I’m sorry”


I should say, “I’m sorry”.

I’m sorry I missed the signal...

Guess I was excessively busy to realize.

If years meditated gifts,

I’d propose closure.

Years and years, I looked at things

Through her eyes.

I saw crazy life of a woman,

Life of a woman dragging troubled mind

That bore for years the guilt she could not feel.

Thought she’d forgotten to madly

Fall in love with herself first,

But her mind was troubled with deep melancholy

I mean, its funny how I’ve become so narcissistic

That she cried a thousand times for help, but

For some reason I became too busy

Trying to fix my life, my life did not need to be fixed,

I needed to help you to heal me.

Should have been able to sense this emotion

Many a times that she passively stared

At me, with no chat, no music

She needed at that moment...not her favourite doctrine,

Not even the good laugh but just lull I missed it

And I should say... I’m sorry.




And we shall together chant


Don’t think for a moment, that to see is to believe.

Like the ocean, you won’t know how deep down

A hole I am.

The outside is destined to just glance your emotions

As is a book cover that is designed for presages;

Stories are an accomplished contrary to what the eyes behold.

The inside is an inconceivable holistic realism of untold

lived nightmares.

It is this unfathomably standardized ravine the tempest

Is out driven from.

Truth and beauty shall together thrive and

Frigid snowflakes will keep dancing in the air

As they fall for greater distances until they get caught

By barren arms of dead trees...

And we shall together chant...we were once innocent.



You exerted the tail end of my strength


Through the insufferable pain of blisters

That swelled my tender heart,

I hemorrhaged as a surge of pain pervaded

Every part of me.

My heart heaved with emotions, emotivity

Synchronized my energy and I rapped...

You meandered around, beflooded me with love

And exerted the last relics of my wisdom.

So, I ask your pardon because the nature of

Your great endurance is deeper than oblivion.

O’ what can suffice a shredded heart?




An account of first-hand experience


I locked myself behind

This door and breathed to

My shattered intellect.

I wrapped me in this

Glooming blanket and

Listened to my house of

Love failing to generate.

I silenced me and

Listened to the lecture of

This twelve years of


I must say it was amusingly

Crippling in there.

Had I not breathed

I’d have not seen the light.

What would you have done?



Warrior is a woman


Brutality stole a living behind a shuttered heart.

It left a daily reminder of the one that was.

The truth she holds took eleven years to unfold,

Bottled up and never told; she was no longer the pure little angel,

That girl with an untouched body.

The tears she poured out of her eyes,

Pleading for him to stop never ended.

Her pain keeps cultivating, ripping in two, ripping her apart and

When it heals, it still leaves scars...they heal but fade into white.

She still smiles but her smile struggle to lock up the darkest

Walls of a thousand injurious stories written on her heart.

She swallows pain with bleeding eyes, for her childhood

Has been stolen and traded a lifetime of remembrance.

Now there is no wind to stir up flowers in her hair.

Her happiness is like clouds with no rain,

Always blown by the wind.

Like an autumn tree with no fruits and uprooted- twice dead.

Her mind has turned into wild waves of the sea,

Foaming up their shame every time the scars itch.

This tempest is immense as is this glint gently veiling her shame,

Yet she still lives to tell the stories.

But how could she have missed this fundamental perception of womanhood?

She remembers, now that she feels it...

She carries in her soul the music composed explicitly for the reconciliation

Of body and soul.

Therefore, her wrath shall be poured out upon this very place of despair

And shall never be quenched.

How can she fail to share her sweetest conquest?

That she woman has turned a full edge of sanctuary and made it foreign!

She woman...profusioned, forwhy stigmatised she rises still to become

The only sacrament of birth of love.

Woman she survives the death of silence.

Woman she survives the hell of acuteness.

Warrior is a woman.


Estelle Hughes, l'auteure de ce blog est née au Cameroun, a grandi au Congo, étudié en France et travaillé en Inde, en Hollande, au Kenya, a Malte, en Espagne, en France et en Suisse.