BLAFROKAN - Many Tribes, One Blood

Nwanyi: From Cursed and Condemned to Divine

You and I were never properly introduced, at least not in the ways of my ancestral Mothers who walked in knowing sacred science. From day one our acquaintance was tainted by “the curse” I inherited being born of you, having one of you, made in your image, Woman (Nwaanyi). Millions have you birthed, nurtured and buried, returned unto your Source, yet “the downfall of ALL humanity,” attached to my womb. Here I stood as a young girl child tethered to a lie, sewn into my psyche, “you are inferior.” The “holy books” sanction this, the classroom indoctrinates and school yard participates, “you play like a girl.” Except I didn’t, and my favorite subjects were science and history. Labeled tomboy, a “badge of honor I rejected, I Am decidedly incarnate female. And while my father’s love and elation welcomed me to the world, proudly named me, his daughter and successor would be socialized by society to devalue the Source of her power, what makes her and the cosmos whole, the womb. 

Fast forward, somewhere between age 11 and 12, the moment our teacher informs us we’ll be learning sex education. Sent home with a permission slip, my mother unknowingly co-signed my divine feminine miseducation. There I sat in a room full of curious, impressionable and immature sixth graders studying three dimensional diagrams of the standardized pale male and pale female reproductive anatomy. We learned the mechanics and functions, then here comes the blood. The unnerving topic I imagined shamed us girls, why we would bleed each month. And thus the “curse” further woven into our young hearts and minds. Since when has bleeding had a positive association. From childhood, one cuts their finger, busts their lip or has a nose bleed the response is urgent and to stop it. Because the mere sight of blood is a vital indication something is wrong. I would have found consolation, had I made the connection between Christ’s holy, sanctifying and salvational blood and the Mother. Life forms in her womb, sustained by the holy, sanctified, salvational blood, she sacrifices while staring death in the face, to birth life. I also imagine I would have been met with repudiation for speaking such HEResy and labeled a HERetic having a “hysterical” fit! I, a scribe of HERmes.

Basically this lecture left me feeling taxed for being a girl but I was expected to carry it with grace. On the other hand, boys will be boys. They endured the brief embarrassment of wet dreams, which was a prequel for “adult play.” They had their own personal joystick to shamelessly explore and learn to pleasure themselves. After all sowing their wild oats is socially acceptable, tolerated and even promoted. More or less, this sex ed lecture green-lit a carefree, or haphazard and irresponsible existence for males. And this ain’t no euro penis envy, psycho babble nonsense from Freud. This is pale male patriarchal socialization and politics. For us young girls, our lesson was sobering, our bodies required maturity, responsibility, a step into adulthood, and the fellas could catch up should and when they please. 

Celebrate when she starts her period! Except that’s not what happened all. I was a tender 12 nearly 13 sleeping in on a Saturday, woke and unveiled blotted blood spots on my sheet! Horrified, no! This was not a Carrie reboot, I saw this as a clear symbol of womanhood! I ran into my mother’s bedroom, announcing my graduation. “Mama, I’m a woman!” I was so sure of it, all ninety pounds of me. She was quiet. “I started my period.” In retrospect, I think she was grieved to witness the little girl she bore seemingly yesterday, swiftly evolving into womanhood. Calm and nurturing she explained this new stage and how to properly care for myself. Lovingly and delicately she emphasized the importance of hygiene, proper sanitary use and disposal. My moment of feeling like a blossoming rare flower embarking the wonder woman soon diminished. Replaced with a new chore, something to endure, PMS, cramps and inconvenience. My initiation into the sacred blood moon circle would be dreaded for countless moons to come.  

Shame, insecurity and pain visit once a month, lasts about a week or less if you’re lucky, and interrupts the flow of our lives. And every woman’s worst nightmare, a leak, through your clothing in public. [scream here] And behind that would perhaps be fumbling your pads or tampons onto the floor in a public setting, like at your high school locker, on the school bus, in the office, anywhere for that matter [insert “why God” expression here].  And why is this such a big deal anyway? God forbid anyone realize, you’re female! The divine feminine walking, talking representation of the wombniverse, who happens to be her period! It’s a big deal because society shames us for menstruating. It’s literally considered a curse.  

The insecurity, in the form of a shadow attached to your uterus. Just writing this unearths my own levels of suppressed and unwarranted guilt associated with being female. How and why some men become squeamish, uncomfortable, or dismissive at the varied topics of female reproduction, feminine care, feminine divinity is baffling.  Ironically, they are forever seeking to enter her gates of heaven, doing any and everything to eat of her sacred garden. We are the gravitational pull and the black hole which no man can escape. Could the insecure male behavior be rooted in his rejection from accepting the divine feminine that he is modeled after, that balances and harmonizes himself. Have we internalized his projected insecurities as our own? 

I was asked what do I worship. Yes I worship the Black woman, the African woman. I have no problem when I say it. I will say (it) anywhere, anytime, any place. I know where heaven is.

– Yosef Ben-Jochannan

Then there’s the pain, the doubled over in fetal position cramps. In the west, the local drug store becomes a girls best friend. It’s triage in battle, supplying plenty of bandage and morphine. You get medicated and wrapped tight so you can return to the fight and carry on like a man, except you’re not and still bleeding. We go through life under the blood stained banner with no further education beyond consultation with the only “new friend” and “expert” forced on you to visit once a year.

“Scoot down to the edge a little more, open wide, wider.” He rolls the stool closer, leans forward within a foots distance between my vagina and his face and asks me to “relax.” Just another annual meet and greet with my Gynecologist! I would argue everything about this is foreign to the African/Original Woman, even unnatural. We’re talking about trusting the most sacred area of my body to be examined by someone I don’t even know on a first name basis, a pale male at that! Oh right, he’s credentialed. It feels all the way wrong but we are grand-mothered into this western experiment forced on our enslaved foremothers, sanctioned by our moms and all other women infected by this toxic culture having fallen asleep at the mothership! This was beyond a personal violation and uncomfortable, yet normal, the standard practice, get over it. There I sat in the waiting room, walls colored pastels, how comforting. The examination room, sharp edged countertops, sterile metals tools, stark white lighting and white walls. It’s completely void of Mother Earth (Uwa) tones, paintings, sculptures or any expression glorifying the The Great Mother (NneChukwu). It’s undeniably clear, nearly every early reminder of you, my womb, has distressing memories attached. The mere association with you offers two positives, sex and child bearing. And depending on your perspective birthing children is another punitive reminder.

“I will surely multiply your pain in childbearing, in pain you shall bring forth children. Your desire shall be contrary to your husband, but he shall rule over you.” 

Genesis 3.16 

Thats from the so called “holy book,” the bible written by humans, perverted by man. My rebuttal, to hell with 99% of what that book says about women, written by humans, perverted by man. And if I consider our current relationship with many of our men, avoiding husbandry and fatherhood when they choose to participate in sacred sex, it only gives lens to the burden the womb bares, birthing bundles of joy. From pleasure, to pain, then solitude in the form of abandonment. We are still left holding the bag, the womb, in single motherhood.

There is a war on the womb.

– LaWanda Thomas 

I realized the war is deeper, far reaching within. It is the girl child who is socialized to resist fully embracing and cherishing all of herself, Her Divine Sovereignty. I think when “war” is spoken of, it often suggests an external assault. However, the attack on the womb comes from both pale and melanated, male and female, institutions and individuals. To one degree or another, they are collaborators, apologists, sympathizers or willfully ignorant, consciously or unconsciously participating in spiritual, mental and or physical matricide. 

Black Crucified Woman In Dark by Ramon Martinez

Now She is blasphemed from the left, by her “protectors” claiming anyone can assume Her identity by sheer feeling or choice. The enemies of NneChukwu (The Great Mother), need not attack her out right with bullets from five pointed star badges of dishonor, nor mass incarcerate her. Though the divine daughters are not immune to either of these war strategies of institutional oppression. The ultimate motherfucker, is turning us against ourselves. The objective, convince us to endorse the dethroning of our divine sovereignty and the usurping of our identity. If we will accept the lies, shame, inferiority, insecurity and self hatred as evolutionary soul food, we will desecrate our very being and pervert the true knowledge of ourselves, and fall into self destruction.  

Sacred Black Mother by Akachi Azubike

The Ancestral Mothers intercede. Her labor pains and love pushes the earth to tremble, jostling our genetic memory of sacred high knowing for divine healing, renewal and rebirth. We seek truth, despite the genetic invasion of our bodies through rape, confusing and muddying our holy blood and holy waters. We reject the chemical warfare from The Pill, man made toxins, plundering and pollutants destroying Mother Earth (Ala). Her mother natural remedies and power prevails. We return to her as she reveals sacred stones, healing herbs, hidden wisdoms and spiritual technology to be our true selves. 

Today I say a prayer for all of my mothers, ancestral, flesh and spiritually bonded. For all those who lost their womb in the war, were injured in battle, or were left scarred by decisions made in ignorance, I pray for your full divine feminine restoration. I pray the next generation of daughters know from conception to the Queens chamber of rest, their divine sovereignty and likeness in The Great Mother. May they know we formed in the purest beauty and love that is her mortal expression made Woman, first human made flesh. I believe in my soul when the African (Original) Woman heals her womb, whole nations will heal and eventually the whole world, Uwa. 

I embark on a journey to restore relationship in Divine Order, Balance, Harmony, Righteousness, Truth, Justice, and Reciprocity with my center of gravity, my source of power, my womb in perfect whole being. Onwa Obara Nso, Sacred Blood Moon.

NneChukwu. Amenet. Amma. Hawah. Mama. 

“Mma” is an Igbo word meaning “good” and “beauty.” It also can be used for “Mother.

Good and Beautiful is Mama. 

Revised 3/11/2022; Original title: “Onwa Obara Nso: An Open Letter to My Womb”

The Creation of God by Harmonia Rosales
Akachi Azubuike

Akachi Azubuike

Chief Editor of Blafrokan | African Vanguard | Journalist | PhotograpHer + Creative

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