A PanAfricanist Queer Womanist Collective
By Siya Mcuta
The sound of a guitar shook me so deeply that I felt myself tremble. As I allowed the music to take over and filter through my body I felt scared. Like it was happening all over again… I became a victim ,again. When the chords filled my ears they took me back, back to the day I had made a decision to take my own life.
At that time it seemed like the perfect solution for everyone involved, it seemed right to end it all. It was raining when all of these thoughts made sense. Just the other day I had heard that another lesbian had been killed – again. She died not knowing what she had done wrong. The irony is that she had wanted to live , I did too it’s just that the pain was too much to handle.
Which was nothing compared to the pain my friend felt when her own mother was elated over the killing of yet another lesbian. I’ve seen my friend fragile but never so broken. Her self-esteem was gone and I saw that strong beautiful woman fade right in front of my eyes. The only thing she could do ,in that moment, was tell her mother (in a very low defeated voice) that she was too a lesbian. I knew from the way her mother looked at her that it was over. I saw it. All that hatred, anger and pain pierced through my heart like a dagger but I knew my friend was fading away so I had to stand up fight. Fight so that I could help her fight for her sanity.
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