The Inheritance of Voice
In this 1983 interview, Buchi Emecheta explained how her husband burned her first manuscript. She also explained how burning that manuscript was "like burning my child," and she never forgave him. I want this noted down. Buchi Emecheta did not forgive him. If Buchi Emecheta had not been that defiant to write again, imagine how her literature and voice would have been nonexistent. Even at that, Buchi Emecheta should have been more documented; for us to know what she felt and how she examined her world. We continue to lose the important histories of certain women.
We listen to the interviews of artists because we want to engage with their depth of creativity and intellectualism. We let them say with their voice how they see the world. I remember discussing the erasure of women's stories from cultures like mine in a podcast conversation with Nicole Asinugo. You think of yourself as an anomaly when you are made to believe all the women before you were docile and did not fight. When their stories are buried, their histories become footnotes to be briefly cited.
I wrote this poem a few years ago, the original poem was published in a literary magazine. However, I am republishing this poem because I wanted to expand on the 'forced' silence I am particular about, one that I seem very much drawn to. We know of some women who defied the culture of silence. We also know of those who did not have the opportunities to do just that but gave their daughters or granddaughters a different way of seeing the world.
I worked my grandmothers and great-grandmother into this poem, imagining them gifting me this inheritance. These women who ate silence were never satisfied. The day their daughters were born, they unwrapped their voices and passed it to them.
The Inheritance of Voice
This is what they do
when your umbilical cord
has been cut,
after the blood has been
washed off your skin,
and you have been discovered
to be a daughter.
The women gather around.
your grandmother
unwraps the pouch of silence
hidden inside her mouth.
She makes sure only
the women can see this.
she unwraps the pouch slowly.
taking time to make sure
the women can witness
this gift of sound.
the women stare in silence
nodding in agreement
as she unwraps her silence,
gently placing power
into your mouth.
your voice is born.
Ijeoma, I will always read every work you put out there. This poem reminds me so much of my mother. Thank you
"You think of yourself as an anomaly when you are made to believe all the women before you were docile and did not fight."
"These women who ate silence were never satisfied"
Thank you, Ijeoma!
Daalu nwannem!