Flower in Flames: It's a men's world, #1

By Swit La Pound

FLOWER IN FLAMES  is an embodiement of the daily struggles and battles faced by women and children, generation after generation, to date. The book is narrated in a uniquely unconventional way, telling the story from different characters' perspective, connecting you to how it feels to be a woman, constantly violated, disregarded and abused. It exhibits how it feels  to live in constant fear of what might happen next. .The book takes you through the life of Flora, the main character, and simultanepusly through her family's life as well , as they worked towards a better life in a male dominated society. Facing  traditional hinderances, societal limitations, ommission and failures, especially in the face of Women and Child abuse. The story, which seems to be of hope and becoming what you aspire, at first, crumbles at the hands of male chauvenism and uncurbed crime. Triggering relatable, tragedies, with a sounding plight to stop Abuse against Women & Children and advocating for the unity of women in combating the common oppressor as a united force.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swit La Pound
• Release date: Jun 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393025900

Book preview

THE WHITE FLOWER

FRAMES AND PORTRAITS portraying happiness, equality and love that was not existent, except to the extent of the existence of these frames, which women wore ,together with the plastic smiles they kept hidden to use ,when called for—-ONE BIG MASQUERADE, while shrouding the actual sordid, bedraggled, begrimed and besmirched reality.

Swit La Pound

From the same author:

EMOTIONS: DIARY OF A VICTIM-it’s a men’s world #2

TO:

Victims of Gender Based Violence, Trafficking and all types of abuse and crimes against women and kids; and in honor of women and children who lost their lives, hopes and dreams due to any form of abuse

NO WOMAN COULD RAISE her voice, argue or contrast a man. It was taboo for a woman to be educated beyond mere literacy, or to impart education beyond the set level, to her offspring or other females. They were expected to fully be dependent on their men and the males in their families, heads of households, as well as maintain the fallacy that the man of the house was always right. A man could marry, impregnant or abuse females at will, without consequence. It was acceptable for a man to cheat or be polygamous without regard to their partners’ take on it. Women had to, but agree and conform without reaction or question. Many women fell victim to sexual abuse and rape, without justice, despite some of the perpetrators being openly known. It was their given right, as males, not to be answerable Rules, Rules, RULES!!!! Women cannot walk here; Women cannot sit there; You cannot eat that; You cannot do that; Women this; Women that!! That was the way of life. While every law somehow leaned in favor of men and their rights and freedoms, unlimited, beyond reasonable liberties, prejudicing every woman’s freedom and right to life itself.

PART 1

SHADOWS OF THE PAST

THE FUTURE IS BLEAK, sins of the ancestors visit the grandchildren. Blood spilt takes vengeance on whole bloodlines, cursing and punishing their offspring. Generation after generation, humanity is bent on destroying itself. Greed, inconsideration and selfishness, taking the front line. Guns akimbo, targets chosen. Frail and Feminine blood wail with plight and begging as all guns fire in their direction. Cry my beloved heart, lament for the death of humanity! Our past predicts our future. Our future is bleak, our unchanging ways remain faithful to their rejection of change and difference. We perish in our own deeds as a people!

ALL THE BLESSINGS

(GEM’S VERSION)

GEM; CHIPO; BABALWA

SUNDAY WAS A DAY OF beauty, bright suns, blissful weather and religion. Mornings came accompanied by melodies chirped by birds and skies filled with bright majestic colors, exhibited by butterflies in the open fields. Freedom and unity seemed to reflect on just about everything. The sky, the cool breeze and even the weather itself. People alike, added to the vibrance of Sunday, as if the morning sun called with peace, love and gospel, adorned in Sunday wear, busying along to give their portion of praise and worship. Melodies, praises, worship and sermons rang out at every corner, creating a heavenly fusion of spirituality and repentance. Rich and poor alike, all races, and from all walks of life, families poured out to their different churches to glorify their maker.

Sins and iniquities of the week forgiven and forgotten, friends and enemies all brethren in worship. Those that filled the shebeens and bars the previous night, struggling to wear a sober face in their suits and ties, dresses and heels. Robbers and prostitutes alike, saints on this day. Holy water and sacred bread dotting tables for the receipt of the body of Christ. Loud booming voices over huge and powerful public announcement systems, calling all that are lost to find their redemption, filled eardrums unwillingly. Cleansing; new hearts, new people, new week. Radios and televisions were not to be excluded. Prayer lines were open, sanctified items marketed for sale, and teachings and sermons on every channel, as those commercial pastors contested to get more viewership. Merchants disguised as preachers and servants of the Most-High, while crouching in wait to pounce on the naivety of the desperation of the poor, and make a profit from it. Jaw dropping ‘miracles’ were received with awe, and glory was given with believing hearts. Money plates and baskets made their rounds in every church, begging for that seed you had to plant every Sunday, together with outstanding tithes, demanded in accordance with the scriptures. Give unto God what belongs to God as you Give unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar. Freely given too, in hope of redemption and prosperity. My family was no different.  We were a small family of three, Mum; Dad and yours truly. Religion was of pivotal importance in our home. More for the values preached, than for faithful attendance, as with most people. My mother was one for forgiveness, acceptance, reconciliation and mere goodness. She was the spiritual pillar and mentor to Dad and I, and would try to get us to church every Sunday, though we missed it occasionally, once or twice a month. Like today, we were not attending church though it is a day for worship, it is a day of a different kind of prayer and celebration. Church or no Church, Sundays were just special to us. This one even more special than any other – it is my birthday!!!! Blessed Sunday. My name is Gem, like the precious stones. I am turning fifteen today, this Sunday. I am an only child.  It was my parents who named me Gem, "Because you are our precious stone and your big eyes shine brighter than a gem", they told me. Grandma Karen, on my father’s side preferred Chipo’, translated and borrowed from the Shona people of Mashonaland, Zimbabwe, to mean Gift. Hence, my second name. Nana Thenjiwe, from my mother’s side wanted a pitch at naming me too, so she named me Babalwa’, meaning Blessing, borrowed from the Xhosa people of Eastern Cape, South Africa. Thus, I have three legal names, Gem, Chipo, Babalwa. My names are not mere names, to me and my family. They are a message of hope and symbolic of the various battles my family, at large, fought and victored for me to be in this life as I am, from my grandparents to my parents. I cherish all of them and strive to live up to all of my names and my family’s expectations and wishes.

They have wishes and plans of good welfare for me. I appreciate.

Family and love are the most commonly uncommon concepts in human survival. We have people we share the same blood and ancestral lines with, but whom we truly are unfamiliar with. Families are only so, by virtue of the same blood and lineage, yet all values and support that define the love family is set to give, are absent and ignored. We are parts of families, yet we are alone in our lives.

THE WHITE FLOWER.  FLORA’S STORY

Back in eighty-three (‘83’), well before I was born, of course, a beautiful, vibrant, shy, and intelligent young lady, with dreams filling her head and surpassing even her own expectations, lived in a small town called Ranksville. Her beauty sparkled in one’s eye involuntarily as if hit by the sun’s reflection directly in the eyeball. She had an appearance to reckon with, and uniquely stood out from the rest, as a peacock with it’s flared, bright colors, in the midst of fowl. Her brains, beauty and aspirations, battled within her persona, to shine the brightest, for she had no comparison. In addition, she was bestowed with care, patience, love, understanding and consideration, which made her the more unique, gorgeous and appealing. Her body was in agreement with the rest of her being. Medium height, shiny slightly dark skin, round plumpish face, dancing eyes, and a perfect bottle figure. She was a fruit to behold. Ranksville was a small community town, where everyone knew everyone, and communalism still stuck its tooth in the culture and lives of residents, as ‘ubuntu’ was preached on a daily basis. Families that grew up together and got intertwined through generations to date, resided here. Carrying on as their fathers, and their forefathers before them did. Their history and traditions were infused in their blood. Full of culture, as some would say. Situate away from the busy city life, Ranksville had a slower pace of life and a more "ekhaya’ feeling just on arrival. From the welcoming smiles of the people, to the inviting nature that embraced the small town in its beauty. The roads here depicted the level of civilization, or lack of it, thereof. Narrow, dusty, gravel roads with potholes taking roots in most of them were quite popular a sight. Only a few pathways were tarred, where the scheduled buses would run through, picking up and dropping travelers on their way, along the demarcated routes. Cars and buses had to make way to herds of cattle, goats and sheep, making their crossings to and from grazing lands. While piles of dung, still warm and steaming, greeted early morning travelers along the roads. Infrastructure here was not up to the civilization standards of other towns nearby. Families resided on land passed down through generations, per lineage. Each certain area then, was affiliated with the families who were resident there. Land belonging to families stood demarcated into yards, as it got cut and shared between heirs over years and moons. The house setup of most compounds here was quite similar, with one main house standing in the middle, with tiled or zinc roofing, flanked by mud huts of different shapes and sizes. Thatched neatly with grass, varying slightly in design. Except for the few that belonged to the deep pocketed, that had exotic designs and unique roofing. Instead of mud huts, most of these up-top compounds erected gazebos, with eye catching grass works. These huts uniformly varied in shape and design too. Some were eight cornered, some six, some four and some, just all round. Most of these had the traditional earth flooring, kept neat by applying cow dung frequently.

Except, again, those few that stood out with tiles and cemented floors. A show off, they were.

Most of the yards had gravel pathways and grounds, and got dusty in the wind spells that broke out at times. A few of the houses stood out and had brick pavements, those, yet again, belonging to the financially advantaged.

Water holes and boreholes were not only communal sources of water, but also, a place of meeting and catching up, while one waited in the queues for their turn to fill up their containers. Grass bathrooms, with no proper drainage, except the shallow ridges dug to direct the water out to nowhere, completed the look for almost every household.

Showers and taps were reserved for the wealthy; everyone else had to make do with the old water and bucket system. Pit latrines and the alternative bush toilets were used frequently often, sending bothering swarms of green bomber flies buzzing everywhere, irritatingly. Only those few aforementioned had the luxury of owning flushing, indoor toilets.  The town became a hive of activity and familiarity with the glare of the morning sun. Rank marshals shouted at the top of their lungs, in unison with the hooting vehicles, in attempts to outdo the competition and fill up first, to cover more trips. Suspicious characters lurking in dangerous looking places, were never at a lack, as with any other town. Containers retailing in local cuisines studded every corner, with various deliciously inviting smells, marketing the delicacies they held within. Inside them, old, middle- aged and young women and girls, wearing the familiar colorful traditional attires, in an attempt to appeal to the tradition rooted majority, shared a smile with every face that passed by. All in hope that they would convince them to turn into their shop. Old caravans, tin houses (shacks) and rotting wooden cottages, served as physical stores and outlets for these women. Life awoke with every rising sun here, the chit - chatter shadowed the progression of day and nature itself. Morning air was tainted by hints of animal odors, blending with the naturally fresh scents from the jungles and trees around, presenting an unrefined, but somehow superb and relaxing environment. The dams and rivers that flowed in the vicinity, gave their fair share to the scent of the area. Whistles from naughty birds chirping for attention and food, or maybe companionship, completed the perfection of this raw, untamed community, so it would seem. It seemed a serene, harmonic and humane place to settle.  Homely from the look of the eye, inviting indeed. Suitable for settlement, to start and to raise a family. Here in this town stayed the young lady afore mentioned. Her name was Flora. In this time and period, male chauvinism and dominance was almost a law in itself. Men were considered, and demanded to be treated superior and in charge, over any and all female counterparts. Women were taught and expected to subdue, obey and be subordinate to males – in all things considered important or otherwise. Even within their own households and families, they were to speak when spoken to, and give an opinion if and when required. Speaking out of turn or without invitation was one of the highest forms of rebellion and disrespect here, in this time.

Women’s voices were to echo support for whatever their men stipulated, despite their personal take on it, regardless of how questionable some of the decisions were. And, they were only to be heard in maternity, household maintenance and grocery list conversations.

This was that time when strict dress codes and stringent morale codes were an epicenter of the society’s functionality, per their petty, biased and tipped standards. Women were to wear strictly tailored feminine attires, dresses to be particular, as it was a penal conviction for one to even fathom the thought of pants or otherwise. Married women were to cover their heads at all times, with a doek or hat, and not so much as converse with the opposite sex other than family, lest infidelity and loose morals be the dish of the day thereafter. Lengthy robes were more favored, for their decency at covering almost every inch of a woman’s body, to the toes, while shorter designs attracted the familiar name calling and tags of immorality and indecency. Longer and flared was preferable over longer and shaping, or shorter and revealing.

Getting a formal job was not only taboo, it was also no easy task, for the few empowered women that were sprouting. Preferences were given to men over women, in any field, anywhere. Most of those few numerable men that did consider hiring women, required payments in kind; ‘favors" before you could be hired. Being housewives, vendors, selling from home, being house maids and selling from those containers that studded every corner, were the few job titles considered suitable for women. Even when it came to the training and programs offered in schools and institutes, a clear demarcation between men’s courses and women’s, was evident and maintained, faithfully. Fashion and fabrics, cookery and crockery, at times agriculture, were selected strictly for women who were funneled through, without much of a choice. With the encouragement drawn from the discouragement and preposterous claims that women, were not intelligent enough to take on certain subjects and fields. Mathematics, science, geography and the likes were reserved for men. Women were considered to have no use of these, they fit nowhere in their future job description in this patriarchal society. The few women that were sent to school, had no choice over what to study, and what career to dream about. The setup was permanent and decisive. No such rules were pinned for men, though. Professionally and career oriented, men could secure a job easily, despite being less qualified than women applying for the same job. Socially and maritally, a man could frolic with whomever he so wished, at whatever time, wherever, for whatever reason, and no woman had a right to inquire on any such behavior or suspicions. Even when another woman was presented as the new co-bed sharer with one’s husband, which was quite common a practice too. Huh!. No woman could raise her voice, argue or contrast a man. It was taboo for a woman to be educated beyond mere literacy, or to impart education beyond the set level, to her offspring or other females. They were expected to fully be dependent on their men, and the males in their families, heads of households, as well as maintain the fallacy that the man of the house was always right.  A man could marry, impregnant or abuse females at will, without consequence. It was acceptable for a man to cheat or be polygamous, without regard to their partners’ take on it. Forced entanglements were no stranger to most. Women had to, but agree and conform, without reaction or question. Many women fell victim to sexual abuse and rape, without justice, despite some of the perpetrators being openly known. It was their given right, as males, not to be answerable. Rules, Rules, RULES!!!! Women cannot walk here; Women cannot sit there; You cannot eat that; You cannot do that; Women this; Women that!! That was the way of life. While every law somehow leaned in favor of men and their rights and freedoms, unlimited, beyond reasonable liberties, prejudicing every woman’s freedom and right to life itself. All freedoms and rights, and even mere decision making for women, were stripped and handed over, to be regulated by their husbands and fathers. What to wear and when to wear it; Where to go and how to get there; When to speak and what to say; How many children to bear and when; What children to keep and which ones to dispose of.  All presided over and judgement passed on, by men. Flora was born to a family of four, three boys, her being the only girl and the last born. Her older brothers, all three, having been taught and raised to be ‘men’ in their cultural definition, made no secret of their utter disregard for her existence within the household, nor did they heed her voice when family matters were placed on the table for decisions to be made. They took up the traits of typical men in this time. Her mere purpose, in their eyes, as well as those of every other man in the community, was strictly to be a woman, per their societal definition. Like her mother, as the rules dictated. Cleaning, cooking, sexual gratification (that too had its rules in favor of men, shunning any adventurous woman as a prostitute), bearing children and raising them, as well as staying at home and keeping it homely for everyone, but more especially for the men. Not only for your husband, but for his whole family. When you were married, you got married to the whole family and him. Meaning all men of that family held contributory power, to interfere in marital matters, without boundaries.  Ironing, fetching water, appearing as obedient and subordinate as you could be, keeping oneself well-kept and trained, for subordination astir of marital duties to future husbands, for the yet to be married. Those were the duties and definition of a woman. Basically, her obligation, like every other woman, was to bow down to the self-imposed ‘male gods’ in her life and family. No-matter the heat and weight of the circumstances, a woman was to coil and worship the ground her husband walked on...more like spat on, for her to lick, deliberately!! For those yet to be married, like Flora, at this time, the words of your father and brothers were the rule of law to abide by, till such a time as you would be handed over to he who purchases you. Ramifications for rebellious women, who failed to conform with the status quo, were harsh and definite. Making sure to shun, embarrass, and abandon, those that dared divert or question. No woman wanted to be the talk of town or face the fury of these men, so they all just abided, quietly, like sheep led to the slaughter, voiceless, aggrieved and broken.

While being showered with superfluously dazzling titles, to hide the oozing blood flowing from open wounds, Mrs., Fiancé, Wife, Mother of my children".

Meanwhile, every household greeted you with walls adorned with colorfully loud frames and art pieces, preaching of women’s importance, power, and pivotal roles - contradicting the reality of their actual lives –

‘Musha mukadzi’ (Shona)- ‘a home is a woman’......this one was partially true, only to the extent that women had an obligatory duty, by birth and sexuality, to stay at home and maintain same.

Behind every successful man is a powerful woman - more like ‘behind every man is an afflicted, despotized and encumbered woman, trampled on daily".

"Wathinta umfazi, wathinta imbhokodo’’ (Xhosa)- you hit a woman, you hit a rock’ -For their strength and will, within, go beyond bounds. They absorbed all the disrespect, disregard and abuses, and somehow managed to still wear a smile and raise children.

Frames and portraits portraying happiness, equality and love that was not existent, except to the extent of the existence of these frames, which women wore, together with the plastic smiles they kept hidden, to use when called for - ONE BIG MASQUERADE, while shrouding the actual sordid, bedraggled, begrimed and besmirched reality.

Unions were presented in their most jubilant and love filled versions, in accordance with a strictly written and directed home rehearsal script, before every public family appearance. In this world, the picture presented was more valuable than reality making its way into the light. With the obvious director in charge of how it all should play out  - Head of the house.

Rings burdened with precious stones adorned those fragile faminine fingers, to hide the soot, broken nails and bleeding veins from sight, with shining ignorance quantified into actual currency. A mark of ownership and wealth, for the men.

Women got lost in destructive and  envious gossip contests, over the size and cost of the stones they carried on their fingers.

Selective amnesia choosing to glorify that tiny spec of meaningfulness and value on their bruised fingers, while abandoning lamenting for the obloquious and reproachful reality of their marriages and mere daily lives. The men spent their days basking in their ego and ordering females around, as Kings to their concubines. They would sit at bars, whistling and slurring at women as they passed. While some spent days planning and executing violence and abuse on the weaker sex; women hunts, ruining many on their rampage. After which, they would pride themselves and brag about their sexual prowess, which they took without being given. Those that were married took pleasure in tasting fruit outside their gardens, while closing and locking up those already in their garden and custody, with brute force. Yet another show of power and ascertainment of domination. They would confine their wives to the family home, and freely perform despicable unspeakables, which never got to their servant wives’ ears. Even if and when they did get to their wives’ knowledge, it made no difference.  A man’s decision was the last and only voice to be heard, and his actions not to be questioned or reacted to.  They drank and got drunk, beat and raped at will. While in the women’s world, bodies got dug up from pits, covered by earth and worms, some fished from rivers, drenched and rotting, others, just left to drown in their own blood, in their homes. Their voices and cries hushed, silenced and merely disregarded. A system cozily resident in Ranksville and around.Roots firm and watered, over years and generations, to an extent, even other women considered headstrong women a taboo, and looked on them with scorn and spite, where they were meant to hold up and support. Despite all this surrounding