I come from women who left the wombs of women with names that do not roll off your tongues so easy.
Women with war plastered forcefully across their hearts in vessels of spilled bloodlines.
A nation filled with soldiers for brothers and an army for a family name.
Women who have surrendered to welcome death as if they are long lost friends. Women who left their birthright, their heritage
Homes with children who sought asylum whilst they ripped wombs during childbirth.
And children who denied themselves childhood because being real has no meaning.
My love, I stretched my way out of my mother
I imagine you gracefully have lowered yourself out with every push so
I will name you Ayah just like the miracle that you are.
At the time where periods call your uterus home, make up resides on your face and
Boys sing songs of praise to you, I pray you know that you are more than words,
You are more than worthy, more than your father’s khabil
You are more than the cleanliness of your home & more than the colour of your skin.
You are more than the “you are a woman, iska xishood”.
You are grace, you are patience, and you are love, human, passion, fire & ambition.
My moon, may you light up most when you are drowning in darkness.
Memoirs to Ayah