"Whispers of the Women" — A Poem for 16 Days of Activism

“Whispers of the Women” — A Poem for 16 Days of Activism

In the quiet corners of our villages,

behind closed doors in our cities,

there are women whose stories sit heavy on their tongues.

They walk with straight backs but broken hearts,

their courage wrapped in silence,

their hope tucked beneath bruised ribs.

AnaMai vedu, mothers of our land,

taught to swallow pain like bitter herbs,

to keep the home together no matter how their own spirits bend.

“Tsungirira,” they were told, endure,

as if endurance was a birthright,

as if suffering was stitched into their skin like ancestral cloth.

Every day, a sister becomes a shadow.

Her laughter dims,

her dreams wilt before they bloom.

Somewhere in Harare, in Chitungwiza, in Bulawayo,

a woman wipes tears before the children wake,

whispering "Mwari pindirai" God, intervene,

because the world has not heard her cry.

She hides the truths that burn her throat:

the slap that echoes louder at midnight,

the words that wound deeper than fists,

the isolation, the fear, the shame

she never deserved to carry.

But today, during these 16 days,

we light a flame for her.

A flame for every African woman

whose spirit has been dimmed by violence,

whose freedom has been held hostage by silence.

We say her name.

We honour her story.

We refuse to look away.

Because her tears are a testimony,

her scars are a scripture,

her strength is a revolution.

And when one woman rises,

the whole village rises with her.

So to my sisters,

vanasisi vemuno nekunze,

those near and far,

hear this truth:

You are not alone.

Your pain is not your shame.

Your voice is your power.

Your life is worth protection,

worth dignity,

worth peace.

Let the world learn your story.

Let the world feel your thunder.

Let the world see you heal.

And as we keep marching from November 25 to December 10,

we say No more.

No more bruises masked as love.

No more silence mistaken for strength.

No more fear hidden in the bones of our mothers.

This is the season of speaking out,

of opening the doors,

of breaking the chains.

This is the season of kusimuka, of rising.

And rise you will,

African woman.

Rise you must.

Rise, until your daughters inherit a world

that knows love but not violence,

that knows justice but not fear,

that sees your worth, 

and never asks you to shrink again.