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You think this is a tantrum?

Child

This is the wrath of gods
who waited centuries
before they raised their hand.

I am not your wounded girl.
I am Nemesis unchained,
Kali in stillness before the storm.
My silence was mercy.
You mistook it for peace.

I do not wail. I summon.
I do not flinch. I fracture.
Your name is already ash
on the altar of my patience.

I offered grace.
Now I offer consequence.

Run if you like.
Pray if you must.
But even Olympus learned
no one walks away
from a goddess enraged.
Anger, when divine, doesn’t shout. It judges. And every empire built on dismissal learns the cost of silence misread.
embryos abandoned by narrow-minded chauvinists
became creations that  were left to the vagaries of women
hallowed feminists with their Ankara bags
perfumed head-ties with glittering beads
the sounds of their colliding bangles filled the space
they had no invitation to the platform
but their ways had won a people’s heart

protectors of knowledge
intellectual midwives
the people of the Village of Faces
salute you!
this is a praise poem; powerful women is different from women in power

— The End —