From the Dutch-language ZAM Africa Magazine:

On May 8, 2006, the South African Judge Willem van der Merwe ruled that ANC leader Jacob Zuma was not guilty of the rape of Fezekile Ntsukela Kuzwayo, the daughter of his late friend Judson Kuzwayo, his fellow prisoner on Robben Island who died in exile in 1985. Zuma did not deny having sex with her, but claimed since the victim wore a khanga, a wraparound cloth, she had "asked for it." Following the verdict, Kuzwayo, moved to Amsterdam prompted by persistent threats from Zuma’s supporters. There she gained political asylum, partly through assistance from the AIDS Fonds and people involved in the former anti-apartheid movement. On September 26 [2008] Kuzwayo performed, dressed in a khanga, the poem below at the opening of the exhibition "Identity, Power and Connection," on the eve of the bi-annual Afrovibes Festival. In this way, she responded for the first time to the court’s verdict:

I am Khanga
Fezekile Ntsukela Kuzwayo

I wrap myself around the curvaceous bodies of women all over Africa

I am the perfect nightdress on those hot African nights

The ideal attire for household chores

I secure babies happily on their mother’s backs

Am the perfect gift for new bride and new mother alike

Armed with proverbs, I am vehicle for communication between women

I exist for the comfort and convenience of a woman

But no no no make no mistake …

I am not here to please a man

And I certainly am not a seductress

Please don’t use me as an excuse to rape

Don’t hide behind me when you choose to abuse

You see

That’s what he said my Malume

The man who called himself my daddy’s best friend

Shared a cell with him on [Robben] Island for ten whole years

He said I wanted it

That my khanga said it

That with it I lured him to my bed

That with it I want you is what I said

But what about the NO I uttered with my mouth

Not once but twice

And the please no I said with my body

What about the tear that ran down my face as I lay stiff with shock

In what sick world is that sex

In what sick world is that consent

The same world where the rapist becomes the victim

The same world where I become the bitch that must burn

The same world where I am forced into exile because I spoke out?

This is NOT my world

I reject that world

My world is a world where fathers protect and don’t rape

My world is a world where a woman can speak out

Without fear for her safety

My world is a world where no one, but no one is above the law

My world is a world where sex is pleasurable not painful

Courtesy of Africa is a Country via Chimurenga Magazine.

Part I

The first day I met him, I should have believed him.

It was our first date.  We started the day by meeting for breakfast at a small restaurant in a quiet Chicago neighborhood.  It was summer, late June or early July, and very hot.

We talked and laughed across the table, coyly getting to know each other.

"How do you like Chicago?", "What do you like to do?" and a myriad of other obligatory questions were thrown back and forth across plates of eggs, bacon and pancakes.

He was tall, dark and extremely handsome with a beautiful smile and a French accent.

As he relayed his life to me, I became increasingly intrigued.

He had traveled around the world and spoke four languages: English, French, Japanese and an African dialect from his father's native Mali.  Global politics and economics were high on his list of interests and, like myself, he was an adventurer.  He had no problem moving from city to city on a whim. He had already lived in Pennsylvania and one other U.S. city since coming to the States several years ago.

"Life has much to offer," he told me.

"Yes.  It does," I agreed.

I then thought to myself, "Could he be?"

See, when you are young and single, you can never really know who is being sent your way and for what purpose.  It's difficult to know God's plan.  So you go along for the ride.  Hoping that today is the day your prayers might be answered.

That day was not my day.

Part II

We'd been at the restaurant for several hours.  Much more than necessary to consume a simple breakfast meal.  But we weren't quite ready to part ways.

"Erykah Badu is giving a free concert in the park.  Want to go?," I asked.

"Sure," was his response.

He followed me home so I could drop off my car and I rode with him downtown towards the busy Taste of Chicago crowd.

I've always been one to expect the best in people.  So I didn't think twice when he told me, "I only live a couple blocks away.  I'll drop you off here, then run home to get lawn chairs.  I'll be right back."

Maybe it was the drug-deficient high I was on.  It could have been the sweltering heat.  But either way I never thought he would not return.

I waited, with 95 degree, humid air engulfing me, for an hour before I started to get worried.

I called him.  He did not answer, but I got his voicemail.

"Just wanted to let you know that I moved up by the fountain into the shade.  See you in a bit."

I waited.

After about another thirty minutes without a response, I called again.

"Hey, where are you?  It's hot out here."

I began to slowly replay the morning back in my head, looking for clues to explain his absence.

"Did I say something wrong at breakfast?  He said he liked me.  Our rapport was great. Did I do something? Why isn't he answering his phone? Maybe he got hurt."

I spent another hour looking for an answer to why someone would do this.  Why would someone say they were coming back when they knew they had no intentions?

It was so hot.  I didn't want to cry.  But I couldn't hold back the tears as I began the walk home.

I was too angry, hurt and ashamed to stay for Badu.

Part III

Two days later he called.

I had fallen into my typical state of depression.  Wondering what I had done wrong for someone to be so cruel. Praying and asking for forgiveness from God for something I may have done in the past to warrant this punishment.

But when he called I pretended to be uncaring about his actions.  I couldn't let him know how much he had hurt me with his disappearing act.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Okay," I answered in the most noncommittal, unemotional voice I could find.

I don't remember what excuse he gave me for leaving me alone in the heat that day. However, it was the first in a long line of excuses that I would receive from him over the next six years.

I should have believed him when he told me exactly who he was the first day in the park as I waited for him to return.

"If someone tells you who they are, believe them."

after talking to you
yesterday
& confessing
things
I have only
confessed
to myself...
to my creator

I realized
why I fight
so hard
for every girl

I want
every girl
to have nothing
to worry about
except her dolls
& her tea parties
& maybe
just get a little upset
for a short period
of time
because
there are no swings
left at the playground

then she smiles
when she sees
there is
plenty of room
on the slide
or
the jungle gym
or
the sandbox

i fight so hard
for little girls
because
i never
want them
to feel
the pain of

a grown woman

who doesn't know
how
to trust
to love

a grown woman
who was never protected
by those she loved

from harm
& hurt
& pain
& boys
& men

so i protect them
& love them
& give them
someone to trust

so they can grow up
beautiful
& happy
with everyday smiles
that will make
the world
strong
& beautiful
& peaceful

I want them all
to bloom
to bloom
to bloom

beautiful

My great-aunt Thelma (left) and my grandmother Velma Ewing as teenagers (Mississpissi 1940-something)

Our parents should live forever.

I really miss my Grey.

I thought I was doing better
until a quick shot of BB King on the TV
made me remember
a time I was with my grandmother
helping her clean
while we listened to BB King.
And Bobby Blue Bland.

She use to love her some Bobby Blue Bland.  When we were older, we always use to try and get her tickets to see him at the Star Theatre.  She loved going there for her birthday.

And my heart ached so badly again.

It's a year and a half later.
I still can't get through a full thought
without tears streaming down my face
and my heart breaking all over again.

It wouldn't be so bad
if it just didn't hurt so much.

I long to hold her hands again.

I think that's what I loved most.
The times when it was just me and her
no aunts,
no cousins,
no great-grandchildren,
no daughters.

Just me and my Grey.

Sometimes, watching a Lifetime movie,
she knew all the words.

Sometimes, sitting at the breakfast bar
while she cooked Sunday breakfast
and Sunday dinner at the same time.

She taught me how to shuck peas,
break beans,
fry chicken
and hull corn. 

We bought them all at the vegetable market that morning. Everyone came over after church each Sunday.  She also shared her recipe for her signature 7UP pound cake with me one year, but I'm just not good at baking.

I miss helping her.

Taking out the garbage,
picking something up from the store,
folding her clothes

esp. the freshly dried towels
or pillowcases and sheets
that still smell like Grey.
Grey's kitchen.
Grey's room.
Grey's house.

My heart still broken.

I never knew it would be like this.

I thought it would only hurt
for a few days,
a few weeks at the most.

Never several months
or more than a year
later.

Now I just wonder
when will the pain stop?
When do the tears stop?
And when does my heart stop breaking?

Our parents should live forever.

I will be honest and say I need to be held at night. I will speak up and admit I need to be appreciated. But most importantly I have to tell the truth and let you know I need to be loved.

So maybe it is better for you and for me if we took some time apart. I need to fulfill my needs.