Black fishnet stockings.
Black thigh-high boots, block-heels, slightly worn out-leaning to the left
As if to mimic her disposition,
Black leather skirt, fitting-like a glove, with a silver zipper running down the front, starting from the meeting of her thighs and stopping just above the boots.
Burgundy sleeveless top stopping just above her pierced navel,
Black leather jacket, unzipped, collars slightly raised
Crimson red lipstick, deep purple nail polish,
Gold eyeliner, inch-long eyelashes
Thick black afro
Silver loop earrings
Purple clutch bag.
She walked down the street with fierce determination
She blocked out the incessant whistling and jeering
She walked, defiantly refusing to be reduced to just a skirt.
See, she was a vessel
A book with many chapters
She carried the pain of her mother, the shame of her sisters, the stain of her grandmother
She carried the dreams of her mother, the fame of her sisters, the beauty of her grandmother
She carried the names of her foremothers, the blood of her ancestors, the stories of the freedom fighters,
She carried the hopes of her people,
She carried the vastness of the continent, the songs of her tribe,
The chants of those that prophesied and healed
She had a voice. She was a voice.
A loud voice, a soft voice, a command, a request,
A whisper, a scream, ululation, a cheer,
She carried an ocean in a tear,
She WAS an ocean,
Waves of emotion,
Fear, joy, shame, enthusiasm
Rage, despair, trust, disgust
A raging storm and a passive calmness
A well of arousal, and a pit of indifference
She was a medley
And yet all they could do was reduce her to her wardrobe,
All they saw was a skirt.