Cinder by Lethokuhle Msimang

Now I stand at the end of one life and on the 

threshold of another. Contemplating. Weighing.

Above me lie the ruins of life. Instead of blind faith, 

directness, unbound energy; and instead of clearness, 

I have knowledge that comes with experience;

work that is limitless in its scope and significance.

Is it not enough to weigh against love? 

- Agnes Smedley, Daughter of Earth

This is the point from which you heal. Your room emptied of the things you don't wear, you won't miss them, even the things that were rare. Slim your items down to your bare necessities. Pray in the morning, make tea for your mother. Speak to yourself in consideration, be kind. Remember you are young, but you are no longer a child. Picture yourself left with a bag full of clothes, climbing a mountain, being on your own. 

You are simple. The life you want is simple. Learn to wash your shoes, try to rise before the sun. Do not fear a broken man, do not close your eyes to devastation. Do not go about life as if it were weightless, least not before you've embraced that you are black. 

Black as a mamba, black as burnt bark, black as the men you fear in the dark. Do not fear what you are, there is still warmth in a body with scars. Be gentle, daughter of God, as you would with the residual spark from cinder. 

In the distance, there is a mother nursing the wounds of her child. She is the image of what you must become to yourself.