/a/ woman conquest.
to be a woman.
is a circle of being visible
attention arrives, uninvited
at the home front.
like a gentle dove,
she walks in silence,
yet, she is ferocious,
to intruders.
for dangers wears many faces.
caution is her watchword.
she shrinks from retribution
that the world is not a soft landing.
her fears see the future,
for women are fragile mirrors
they break easily.
mortals roam without dystopia,
but a woman world is not freedom
her steps are calculative binaries.
she endures the violence of unfenced territory.
she lives without identity
where no watches
no warnings.
just her welding the sword of survival.
she must survive where fears lingers like a apocalypse.
she is the sun that eclipse the moon.
fighting everyday for a new dawn.
A Female’s Quiet Battle
To be female
has often meant
to be seen before being known
attention arriving uninvited,
everywhere.
They call me quiet,
an introvert wrapped in silence,
yet even in stillness
eyes find me.
Before I speak,
I am already felt—
like heat on the back of the neck,
like footsteps that never pass.
Silence does not hide me.
It only makes the staring louder
a weight pressing
between my shoulders,
refusing to lift.
I walk with awareness stitched into my skin,
a constant echo of be careful.
For danger wears many faces,
stories whispered
about what could happen
if I am not cautious enough
There are fears I carry
standing to speak,
finding my voice
in rooms too loud,
too watchful.
They say overcome it,
but courage is not simple
when fear has learned your name
They say a woman is fragile
as if strength cannot live
inside trembling hands,
as if breaking is all we know.
And so I shrink sometimes,
not from weakness,
but from knowing
the world does not soften for me.
I cannot choose recklessness
and expect safety in return.
Where others roam without thought,
I measure my steps,
I have learned to fold myself
not small,
but precise
slipping through spaces
without catching
like fabric on a nail.
Even my voice
checks the room before it rises,
testing the air
like something that could burn.
Freedom, for me,
is not careless.
It is the lit path,
the crowded bus,
the seat closest to the door
a quiet math of staying safe.
In those moments,
I am both the one who fears
and the one who guards
holding myself together
with nothing but awareness
They have called me fragile.
But they have not seen
how steady my hands remain
when my heart is running,
how I keep walking
when every instinct says turn back.
Still, I move.
Not freely
but forward.
And if I am watched,
if I am measured,
if I must carry this constant knowing
then I will become
unmissable in another way:
not the girl who shrinks,
not the shadow that passes
but the voice of a woman
that remained
despite the fear.
This is a poem by Hauwa Hassan Haruna, I am an upcoming artist, who fell in love with the literary space and trying to find her own place and voice. I have a post graduate degree in international relations and as an aspiring diplomat, I wish to convey message through writing.
Hauwa Hassan Haruna writes from Minna, Nigeria. She holds a B.A and M.A International studies and diplomacy from Ibrahim Badamosi Babangida University, Lapai. When she is not writing, she travels and loves to cook.