A perfect example of why I love the poeticians is our newcomer, Nobuntu.

She wrote to me out of the blue saying she was inspired by the readings we are having and would like to attend. She said she had thought she had left that life behind. That life of poetry. That we remind her of who she used to be.

She came to a reading and was too shy to say hello after. I encouraged her to write something for our third event, themed Lust and Love. And so she did. And she was worried. And I was worried that I pushed her to something she will hate.

And then the lady roared. She let out a poem so sexy, so strong, so well delivered the audience sat in shock and joy and clapped and clapped. Yes. I will never forget that. Welcome back, to the new old you. Warrior!

Here is one of her older poems:

Black girl

Black girl with many issues

Throw away your box of tissues

The time has come for emancipation

Sing your song of celebration.

How long shall you cry, wail, woe is i?

Black girl raise your chin up high!

Like the peacocks that grace your garden, walk tall

Like the lioness that protects its pride.

From the mountains of Kilimanjaro

To the rapids of Victoria Falls

Leaping to the edges of Morocco

Black girl your voice will resound.

No longer will you be the Pregnant

Barefoot, mother of ten cooking supper

In the kitchen, broken, being beaten

You my child, a priestess of the highest order

You my child a fertility Goddess

You my child a descendant of the great warrior uShaka

They scoff, but flee when the lioness roars.

Black girl, I cradled you from birth

Shielded you when all they did was hate.

Watched over you when you blossomed.

When your anger reared its ugly face, I pruned you.

Today Black girl in your stride, today, the horn of Africa

Looks up and smiles, a tiny seed, unwearyingly

Watered with love, strengthened with character

Fertilized with hate and cultivated with sorrow.