A PanAfricanist Queer Womanist Collective

I am not a township lesbian

By Mantis


Was a real shame to hear about…

What’s her name again…

The one with the toilet brush…

Real shame,

But have you heard about what they are doing

To the gays and lesbians in Russia?!

I’ll never drink Vodka again!


I am glad I live in a country

Where the Afrikan dream is possible

Under the rainbow umbrella of the greatest piece of literature written

Where my constitutional rights have been embalmed

And are enforced by the police…

Not the ones that service the township lesbian

But the ones that serve us, everyone else

That counts…


I live my life deceptively cushioned in the comfort

Of theoretically being the perfect B.E.E candidate






My gear is basic,

Chinos, shirt, waistcoat,
Sometimes a tie

I call it androgynous, with no gender association,

In the township they would miss the sophistication,

They would call me  stabane…

Like some common township lesbian


I frequent the dodgiest

And best restaurants in Johannesburg

Attracting the attentions of the curious

And turning up the noses of the conservative.

With no fear

Because I am not some township lesbian.


I fear not, because my car is parked on level -1,

And I do not need to confront

Men suffering from the

Manifestations of masculine ineptitude

At Bree taxi rank.

Unlike a township lesbian

I go home to gated safety


I am not a township lesbian.

Not a lesbian from the township.

No, never.

Not a…

I am not…


I saw cross the street,

Into my reality.

Her gear was simple:

Chinos, shirt, waistcoat.

She wore a tie.


On her face she wore

The disgust of male ineptitude

Which is mirrored every time

She catches a taxi to her life

Her arms appeared tattooed as mine are,

But hers were not of ink guns

Created in sterilised suburban parlours.

Hers were the scars she got

From that time she wrestled with the mass of muscle

Which held her down as it raped “woman” into her.

From that time she thought her friends to be her gated safety,

Yet they beat her girlfriend on concrete used for level -1.


Her eyes are cast down

As not only the conservative turn up their noses.

Down cast as the police ridicule and abuse

As half a statement is scribbled in blue ink


She, was apparently a township lesbian

She was me…

Is me…

She was you…


Russia and it’s accepted abuse of the gays and lesbians of its loins

Is a shame,

And I may not ever drink vodka again


But never again will I not be her

Never not be her, my neighbour

Who lives adjacent to the street where violence reigns,

Next door to them who accept hate as common and not crime


I am not a township lesbian.

She is not a township lesbian.

I am she.

She is me.

We are not township lesbians.

Merely soldiers in the same trenches

Where we fight

Internally and externally to just fucking be.

HOLAA! back at us.

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This entry was posted on 22/08/2014 by in Gender & Identity.

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