She Who Carries the Sun

 

She Who Carries the Sun

I am woman,

not just a name,

but a rhythm,

a drumbeat echoing through generations.

I am the hush before dawn

and the ululation that follows victory.

Ndiri mukadzi.

Ndiri simba.

Ndiri hupenyu.

I was raised on stories told by firelight,

where grandmothers wrapped wisdom

in proverbs and prayer,

where “musha mukadzi” was not just a saying

but a crown placed gently, yet firmly, upon my head.

A home is a woman,

and I have built many,

even within myself.

I have known the language of becoming,

in the quiet stretch of my skin,

in the shifting of my bones,

in the sacred ache of growing into myself.

This body,

this miraculous, ever-changing body,

has carried more than just flesh.

It has carried dreams.

It has carried pain.

It has carried life.

We are the daughters of red soil,

feet kissed by dust,

hearts rooted in resilience.

We learned early,

how to carry water without spilling,

how to carry burdens without breaking,

how to carry silence without losing our voice.

But oh, how we rise.

We rise in marketplaces,

in classrooms,

in boardrooms,

in prayer rooms where tears become language

and faith becomes breath.

We rise in laughter that refuses to be dimmed,

in hips that sway to the music of survival,

in hands that create, nurture, rebuild.

Tiri vakadzi.

Hatinyarari.

Hatiperi.

We are not fragile stories,

we are epics.

We are the woman who births nations

and still finds the strength

to braid her daughter’s hair in the morning.

We are the woman who bleeds without dying,

who bends without breaking,

who loves without measure,

even when the world forgets to love her back.

There is something holy about us.

In the way we gather pieces of ourselves

after every storm

and still dare to bloom.

In the way we wear our scars like gold,

unapologetic, unashamed.

In the way we whisper,

“Ndichazviita”,

and we do.

So today, I celebrate her,

the woman in me,

the woman in you,

the woman who came before us

and the one yet to come.

I celebrate her stretch marks,

her map of miracles.

I celebrate her tears,

her rivers of release.

I celebrate her laughter,

her rebellion against despair.

I celebrate her becoming

again and again and again.

Because to be a woman

is to carry the sun in your soul

and still rise,

even after the longest night.