The Red Woman
𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 & 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛
𝙱𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛
𝙸𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛
𝙼𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚊 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚊,
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚒 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚑𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚖
𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎?
𝙸 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚢
𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚎
𝙼𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍
𝙰𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏
𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍
𝙻𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊
𝙼𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚢
Une Photo
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Les fleurs rouge, rosâtres
Telle une sucette dans les mains d’un enfant, elle fondent dans le décor
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Des herbes virevoltant
Gauche, droite
Elles se succèdent, mais toujours pointées vers le ciel
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Un detail, ses colliers
Sont-ce des rîtes
Sont-ce des gri-gri?
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De l’argile, de la craie
S’étant le long de son visage
Dessine et contour sa bouche, son nez
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Se fraient
Deux yeux, non pas hagard
Mais ferme et savants
Ils percent et traversent les mondes et les âmes
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Des pointes de doigts quoique abstraite
Parsèment de manière colorée
alentour ses yeux, son nez, sa bouche
Subjugant
Et subjuguée je suis
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De part le nid qu’arbore sa tête
Anticipant
Alors qu’un oiseau s’en serve de réceptacle
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Tel est pris qui croyait prendre
Tel épris,
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Jumelles Du Mondrian
One of my favorite mangas growing up was “the twins of destiny”. In French, it translates as “Les Jumeaux du bout du monde”.
The picture that inspired this image is that of a little girl looking exactly like the one(s) in this illustration.
She is however vested differently, and of a different complexion.
I thought of giving her a twin aesthetically identical to her but inherently different per her complexion, hair and color taste.
Also, being that i to some extent reject mimesis, Mondrian “Composition II” in red blue and yellow, help emphasize my different take on the original piece.
Bororo
Bororo oh bororo,
you women who did my hair from as long as I can recall.
My head tightly locked in between your legs, you birthed the thinnest and tightest braids from my hair as I screamed and cried from pain.
With your obscure artifacts, tailed combs perhaps
your fingers dancing through and fro my kinky hair
Oh how much I cried, and many with me
Crying from the physical pain as well as the many smells attacking me all at once.. emanating from in between your legs
sign of how much you’d walked and traveled..
telling the stories from city to city
they were breathing testimonies,
taking away the breath of who ever came near.
Alas always, after many tears and suffering,
as promptly as your fingers ceased dancing upon my hair
as if possessed I rose and grabbed
the nearest mirror, oh sweet vanity
and proudly admired the art you made
I was pretty!
Just like that I forgot all the prior qualms
& rushed out to whomever wanted to see
oh how pretty I was that day.
I hope to one day
have my children experience the same
Crown of Thorns
In 2010 i wrote a poem about a rose.
That rose was an imagery of my personality & being and it went something like this.
I am a rose, a dark rose
but only my name presents darkness
I am a rose, a dark rose isn't that sublime?
both colors combined present an oxymoron and as such my existence also divine
I cry, often
river, of thorns
thorn my heart, as such I am thorn between existing and living
constantly, simultaneously, intrisecally.
Cantankerous, dark, saturnine
within me a feeling that was, and is no longer but provokes nevertheless fear & awe
Suddenly a light and a hint of warmth seemingly a sweet misfortune
Yes as if tomorrow, I remember
when the morning dew
At dawn, when the crepuscule had gone far, far away
At dawn, then, I will count you,
What will be the end of me
enamored of you I was
my mind radiant, luminous
The seasons
***Honestly this poem doesn't make much sense in English***
Woman, Mursi Woman
Let me tell you a story.
I was born in the summer, precisely the summer of August 1991.
I was born in France, but the months following my birth I was brought to Africa, Cameroon.
I grew up in Cameroon, a country rich in culture & couture seasoned with bold and colorful rites.
Somehow I was never very much into those rites.
I found them scary, and for the most part of my life in Cameroon I was scared.
My fears rendered me unable to explore my own culture, and it's only now at almost 27 years old that i am willing to explore.
A few months ago I came across the picture of a woman, and I remember being both mesmerized & astounded.
I was mesmerized by her untypical beauty & astounded by her body modifications.
She was wearing gauges in the most unexpected place, her mouth.
I always thought gauges were an occidental concept.. an imagery of the caucasian craziness.
Seeing her reminded me of my own culture, and as I saw I realized that despite not trying to get closer to my traditional rites, I knew them but somehow managed to bury them somewhere hidden even to myself in the abyss of my consciousness.
With some research, I discovered that this woman and that particular rite belongs to the Suma & Mursi Tribes; They can be found in Southern Ethiopia, precisely in the Omo Valley.
She was staring straight into my soul as if saying "Bond, James Bond". She is Woman, Mursi Woman.
L’à venir
What is yet to come dances seemingly a child
Sometimes it stops and you can almost grab it
oftentimes it swiftly shimmies away
a never ending carousel
Always ingenuous, always free
She Carries Me
Oh African Child do you recall?
wrapped on your mother’s back, did you ever fall?
Once unable, Later eager to walk you laid,
flat on her back & often you wondered,
Oh how strong is my mother!
Carrying on her back her burden & mine intertwined.
Her Love transpired as she worked under the unforgiving sun,
The cloth of her love firmly tightened around my small body.
As I grew, strong, proud & healthy
whilst not literally, she still carries
me on her back, my burdens and my siblings’ aussi
So often i sit in awe as I wonder,
how on earth did i deserve such a woman,
my mother.
Sleep Sleep Little Child
Sleep Sleep little child,
oh how safe must you feel
from your dad’s embrace
You know, You’re sure
That sometimes a mother,
can be your father.
Perception Vs. Reality
I wonder if one can tell the reality behind this illustration.
I usually write poems, song lyrics or quotes under my illustrations
However, this time i’ll write an explanation.
Perception:
A black & white illustration of a beautiful child looking back at us the viewer with his/her innocence and pure eyes.
he holds a cup; was it full before?
Was the cup filled with water? Did he drink the water, did he splash his face with said water.. or maybe both?
Butterflies surround him/her, they are equally as astounding looking as the child.
Overall, this image must signify beauty & innocence of a child.
Reality:
Taking in context that Mater Dei represents our Mother Africa
and knowing the harsh reality that some African children face,
we can further dive into this image.
A black & White image, for Black and white often mask imperfections & give them an iconic/artistic dimension.
The black and white is indeed the center piece of this illustration, for as it masks imperfections, it goes as far as masking whether or not the water dripping down this child’s face is clean or not.
As the child holds the cup seemingly empty, we may wonder..
the water, did he drink it? Did he use it to splash his face? Furthermore, was it clean?
The hues of red on his shirt actually represent dirt.. beautified dirt, but dirt nonetheless.
this shirt has been worn several times in the last 4 months, and was probably a hand-me-down from an older sibling.
The child’s lashes are both black AND white. It represents the eye crust often present on those (often misleading) images that the occidental media feeds us, as they demand for us to feed-the-children.
The Butterfly seemingly swarming the child are in reality flies attacking the child’s face, as they will soon elect housing on different areas appealing their fancy.
Lastly, “pure eyes” as inscribed around this child’s left eye.
This indicates that despite all these tragic occurrences, a child’s eye remains pure.
I hope you see beauty in both imageries.
