Heritage day is a South African public holiday celebrated on the 24th of September. On this day, South Africans across the spectrum are encouraged to
celebrate their culture and the diversity of their beliefs and
traditions, in the wider context of a nation that belongs to all its
people.
. . .
I am black, bold & beautiful.
I wear my red skirt like a trophy.
with its colourful beads glinting against the African sun.
My orange head band. Iqhiya, gracefully wrapped around my head. To show my respect as a Xhosa woman.
I wear my mothers white beaded bracelet. Intsimbi. White is to evoke purity, strength and power (Amandla).
My tribe plays my song.
The beating of the drums echoes across the valleys, the clapping of the women's hands and their strong vocals overwhelming the night.
This is my culture.
This is my extraordinary heritage
I am a black, bold & beautiful Ndebele woman.
I wear my red skirt like a trophy.
with its colourful beads glinting against the African sun.
My orange head band. Iqhiya, gracefully wrapped around my head. To show my respect as a Xhosa woman.
I wear my mothers white beaded bracelet. Intsimbi. White is to evoke purity, strength and power (Amandla).
My tribe plays my song.
The beating of the drums echoes across the valleys, the clapping of the women's hands and their strong vocals overwhelming the night.
This is my culture.
This is my extraordinary heritage
I am a black, bold & beautiful Ndebele woman.
I am a black, bold & beautiful Xhosa woman.
. . .
here are the images I took this past weekend.
Etienne
 |
| Zulu Girl |
Ndebele Wear
AmaXhosa
How stunningly breathtaking
The Zulu Men
Londani
 | ||||
| Me |
don't forget to subscribe, comment and share
Heritage Day
27 September 2016
Heritage day is a South African public holiday celebrated on the 24th of September. On this day, South Africans across the spectrum are encouraged to
celebrate their culture and the diversity of their beliefs and
traditions, in the wider context of a nation that belongs to all its
people.
. . .
I am black, bold & beautiful.
I wear my red skirt like a trophy.
with its colourful beads glinting against the African sun.
My orange head band. Iqhiya, gracefully wrapped around my head. To show my respect as a Xhosa woman.
I wear my mothers white beaded bracelet. Intsimbi. White is to evoke purity, strength and power (Amandla).
My tribe plays my song.
The beating of the drums echoes across the valleys, the clapping of the women's hands and their strong vocals overwhelming the night.
This is my culture.
This is my extraordinary heritage
I am a black, bold & beautiful Ndebele woman.
I wear my red skirt like a trophy.
with its colourful beads glinting against the African sun.
My orange head band. Iqhiya, gracefully wrapped around my head. To show my respect as a Xhosa woman.
I wear my mothers white beaded bracelet. Intsimbi. White is to evoke purity, strength and power (Amandla).
My tribe plays my song.
The beating of the drums echoes across the valleys, the clapping of the women's hands and their strong vocals overwhelming the night.
This is my culture.
This is my extraordinary heritage
I am a black, bold & beautiful Ndebele woman.
I am a black, bold & beautiful Xhosa woman.
. . .
here are the images I took this past weekend.
Etienne
|
| Zulu Girl |
Ndebele Wear
AmaXhosa
How stunningly breathtaking
The Zulu Men
Londani
| ||||
| Me |
don't forget to subscribe, comment and share
. . .
Well. The inspiration came from my current work for risen mags on 'skin'. I then went back to the time where I was so insecure about my skin growing up. As a POC, an African, it was really difficult to dismiss the little insults.
This African born girl grows up to see that her body is wider than those white girls at school. That her breasts are bigger. Her hips have more volume. Her lips are plump, her pubic hairs curly. Her hair, rough, and frizzy and curly.
Its all very strange.
Why doesn't she look like the others?
Why is she not being complimented?
Why do they not see any beauty in her?
So her attempt to look like them was to physically try to rid her skin pigment,
because they couldn't see her in the dark.
She wants her friends to see her and to notice her.
All this is pathetic and disgusting.
The shade of your skin doesn't make you more beautiful or less.
The shade of your skin is yours. Its YOURS.
Take care of it.
Because if you won't, then who will?
If we're not going to fight for ourselves, who will fight for each other?
Love Yourself.
You're unique.
You're beautiful.
From
Dumisa (do-me-suh)// Soyduim.
The African Curse- The Inspiration
25 September 2016
. . .
Well. The inspiration came from my current work for risen mags on 'skin'. I then went back to the time where I was so insecure about my skin growing up. As a POC, an African, it was really difficult to dismiss the little insults.
This African born girl grows up to see that her body is wider than those white girls at school. That her breasts are bigger. Her hips have more volume. Her lips are plump, her pubic hairs curly. Her hair, rough, and frizzy and curly.
Its all very strange.
Why doesn't she look like the others?
Why is she not being complimented?
Why do they not see any beauty in her?
So her attempt to look like them was to physically try to rid her skin pigment,
because they couldn't see her in the dark.
She wants her friends to see her and to notice her.
All this is pathetic and disgusting.
The shade of your skin doesn't make you more beautiful or less.
The shade of your skin is yours. Its YOURS.
Take care of it.
Because if you won't, then who will?
If we're not going to fight for ourselves, who will fight for each other?
Love Yourself.
You're unique.
You're beautiful.
From
Dumisa (do-me-suh)// Soyduim.
 |
| Art by : FoxyFries |
. . .
She's scrubbing her skin viciously.
Her skin.
Dark and dry.
It's scorched by the African sun.
They call it the "African Curse".
A vile taste stays on her tongue.
The smell from her fingertips nauseates her.
A vile taste stays on her tongue.
The smell from her fingertips nauseates her.
Her room.
Scattered with magazine pages,
filled with images of beautiful women.
She wants to be that woman.
Beautiful and light.
Skinny and flat.
Her hair.
Dark brown and rough.
A petting zoo, a flaw.
Her lips.
Too big,
too plump,
too brown.
Her breasts.
Too big, too brown.
She's still rubbing her skin.
She's taking care of her flaws.
She's going to be beautiful now.
She's going to be loved now.
leave comments below & share & subscribe please
- soyduim
The African Curse
|
| Art by : FoxyFries |
. . .
She's scrubbing her skin viciously.
Her skin.
Dark and dry.
It's scorched by the African sun.
They call it the "African Curse".
A vile taste stays on her tongue.
The smell from her fingertips nauseates her.
A vile taste stays on her tongue.
The smell from her fingertips nauseates her.
Her room.
Scattered with magazine pages,
filled with images of beautiful women.
She wants to be that woman.
Beautiful and light.
Skinny and flat.
Her hair.
Dark brown and rough.
A petting zoo, a flaw.
Her lips.
Too big,
too plump,
too brown.
Her breasts.
Too big, too brown.
She's still rubbing her skin.
She's taking care of her flaws.
She's going to be beautiful now.
She's going to be loved now.
leave comments below & share & subscribe please
- soyduim
written
for my muscial theatre trinity exams, grade 6.
inspired by sylvia plath
results: (92%)
There’s a sigh that floated in the air.
Not heard by anyone but myself.
My hopes and dreams have been shattered,
and my heart pulverized.
Tears run down my eyes as my mouth judders,
as I remove now,
this vow band that mocks me every time I lay my eyes on it.
I have the heart of a bull.
Which is trying its very best to get over you my love.
I’m saddened and alone at night.
Bemused, blanched with fear of tomorrow.
Such a calamity our lives have become.
I have no words but just selfish prayers,
pouring out of my mouth like tar.
The house lingers of bruised souls,
mixed with echoes of whispered surrenders.
I remembered you.
with my soul clenched-
in that sadness of mine that you know,
as I catch a glimpse of my battle scars
which have remained for the past three years of our false unity.
I’d ask you to kiss me with your fist.
You’d do so and soften the blow,
by breathing in the psalms of maskil in me-
As the wind sways my hair into my deepest follies.
This- This wind places orange poppies in my hair,
telling me,
the best thing that should’ve happened to me,
was to be treated like queen.
But men use women,
they love us and when they done with us,
they throw us to the dumps like scraps!
But when a woman lives young and beautiful.
The world is hers.
So then you said goodbye,
and i was left naked.
inspired by sylvia plath
results: (92%)
There’s a sigh that floated in the air.
Not heard by anyone but myself.
My hopes and dreams have been shattered,
and my heart pulverized.
Tears run down my eyes as my mouth judders,
as I remove now,
this vow band that mocks me every time I lay my eyes on it.
I have the heart of a bull.
Which is trying its very best to get over you my love.
I’m saddened and alone at night.
Bemused, blanched with fear of tomorrow.
Such a calamity our lives have become.
I have no words but just selfish prayers,
pouring out of my mouth like tar.
The house lingers of bruised souls,
mixed with echoes of whispered surrenders.
I remembered you.
with my soul clenched-
in that sadness of mine that you know,
as I catch a glimpse of my battle scars
which have remained for the past three years of our false unity.
I’d ask you to kiss me with your fist.
You’d do so and soften the blow,
by breathing in the psalms of maskil in me-
As the wind sways my hair into my deepest follies.
This- This wind places orange poppies in my hair,
telling me,
the best thing that should’ve happened to me,
was to be treated like queen.
But men use women,
they love us and when they done with us,
they throw us to the dumps like scraps!
But when a woman lives young and beautiful.
The world is hers.
So then you said goodbye,
and i was left naked.
Bitter Sweet Battle Scars
15 September 2016
written
for my muscial theatre trinity exams, grade 6.
inspired by sylvia plath
results: (92%)
There’s a sigh that floated in the air.
Not heard by anyone but myself.
My hopes and dreams have been shattered,
and my heart pulverized.
Tears run down my eyes as my mouth judders,
as I remove now,
this vow band that mocks me every time I lay my eyes on it.
I have the heart of a bull.
Which is trying its very best to get over you my love.
I’m saddened and alone at night.
Bemused, blanched with fear of tomorrow.
Such a calamity our lives have become.
I have no words but just selfish prayers,
pouring out of my mouth like tar.
The house lingers of bruised souls,
mixed with echoes of whispered surrenders.
I remembered you.
with my soul clenched-
in that sadness of mine that you know,
as I catch a glimpse of my battle scars
which have remained for the past three years of our false unity.
I’d ask you to kiss me with your fist.
You’d do so and soften the blow,
by breathing in the psalms of maskil in me-
As the wind sways my hair into my deepest follies.
This- This wind places orange poppies in my hair,
telling me,
the best thing that should’ve happened to me,
was to be treated like queen.
But men use women,
they love us and when they done with us,
they throw us to the dumps like scraps!
But when a woman lives young and beautiful.
The world is hers.
So then you said goodbye,
and i was left naked.
inspired by sylvia plath
results: (92%)
There’s a sigh that floated in the air.
Not heard by anyone but myself.
My hopes and dreams have been shattered,
and my heart pulverized.
Tears run down my eyes as my mouth judders,
as I remove now,
this vow band that mocks me every time I lay my eyes on it.
I have the heart of a bull.
Which is trying its very best to get over you my love.
I’m saddened and alone at night.
Bemused, blanched with fear of tomorrow.
Such a calamity our lives have become.
I have no words but just selfish prayers,
pouring out of my mouth like tar.
The house lingers of bruised souls,
mixed with echoes of whispered surrenders.
I remembered you.
with my soul clenched-
in that sadness of mine that you know,
as I catch a glimpse of my battle scars
which have remained for the past three years of our false unity.
I’d ask you to kiss me with your fist.
You’d do so and soften the blow,
by breathing in the psalms of maskil in me-
As the wind sways my hair into my deepest follies.
This- This wind places orange poppies in my hair,
telling me,
the best thing that should’ve happened to me,
was to be treated like queen.
But men use women,
they love us and when they done with us,
they throw us to the dumps like scraps!
But when a woman lives young and beautiful.
The world is hers.
So then you said goodbye,
and i was left naked.
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