The silence was your golden ticket
To some, your words were the once awaited fate.
People were waiting with bated breath for the State of the Nation.
However, you gave us your verse.
In beauty and grace, you spoke about becoming and what elements shaped you.
So, ssshh. Yes.
You could have released a memoir filtered with politics and power.
But, then, would it not be another power play from the oval to your head.
So, I thank you for your silence.
It spoke volumes to the stadiums in the States and South Africa too.
I saw the elegance of how you represented your version of becoming a Black woman in the space of control and power.
Not the oval or paperback can create a nuanced narrative of what they think or imagine the First Black Lady should be in this State.
So, I thank you.
I thank you for your silence.
Your silence told us how Black woman have become accustomed to state the palatable to sell to an audience who don’t know that some things are just not ready for you and the world to purvey.
So, I applaud you.
First Black Lady.
You told them only what they needed to know.
How you became a person in silence as the State of the Nation unfold.
I have become eye candy.
A flashy picture to win an award.
An instagrammable moment.
Yet, my belly cries for a good meal just before church.
I held onto my guts for you to swoop in the troops and gain your research grant and scratch off your tax rebate.
My plight is your salvation for the first world problem which is to be seen as helping and also being heard that you uplifting the poor.
But, in my world, I am dying.
A slow death if I might add.
I die every day you post that a fly was living on my face, so that’s that.
This is my norm.
I cannot reach out from this hell hole, because my poverty has stunted my growth and lured a particular clientele to keep me strapped to my bed.
But, once I am fed, you didn’t see who I really was.
You failed to see me for I am other than your project or a moment in the trenches with the squatters for your journals or National Geographic memories.
So, as I age, why do you blame me for using your triumphant poverty card.
I am the beggers, domestic and factory workers child.
This request is profane.
Since your pictures had brought life to what should have been PG rated to be unveiled.
I need a scholarship, a job and just mere guidance since I was only in the slums.
Will you allow me to access your tax bracket friends? Will you introduce them to your porn stash? Am I just the hidden secret that no men should remember again?
So, I beg of you stop asking my brother for a picture.
I cannot stand the manner you have made me your social media moment.
Because, when that little boy will need your help to defend him from Trump or Brexit, you will be gone claiming a past debt with SARS and not help him climb to obtain what he wants.
Gabriela Carolus is a budding poet. She aims to write about terms and ideas that people take for granted as the ordinary and intimate. This year, Gabriela works as a Guest English Teacher in South Korea. She hopes that her readers will continue this journey with her to reveal the challenges of living and working across different continents as a millennial. This year will be her first publication to Voice of Eve in April 2019.
Name: Gabriela Penelope Carolus
Nationality: South African
Poetry posts: https://medium.com/@gabrielapenelopecarolus
Short stories and illustrated poems: https://www.patreon.com/GabrielaPenelopeCarolus
Email address: email@example.com