to be African, to be Woman, to be Creative, to be Fashionable, to be Intelligible, to be be IMARA

imara by Mshana

This is the canvas and the pages on which I curate and display the life I wish to create for myself and other liminal hu-women like myself. I explore here my passion for fashion, present my literally inspired visual arts, write my visual arts inspired written works, share my linguistics, travel diaries, show my finding comfort in food, and heck, whatever else I feel like... Welcome and enjoy!


She died from ruminating on the shit he fed her.

Time of death, 12:07 am. May her soul rest in peace!

He pulled the knife she had been using to chop up the sweet potatoes they were to have as a midnight snack and pierced it straight through her heart. Just like that, she fell dead on the floor and her last words were written in her blood.

“You owe my unborn daughter her last name. I may forgive you but she will forever haunt you.

Your love was the only thing I ever wanted that I never had, never felt until now.

You were the best thing that ever happened to me until death happened.

You are the only thing I had ever fought so hard to obtain until you were lost to me.

You were so good to me until you were not.

You made me feel so good until you didn’t.

You were my happily ever after until the book ended.

You caused me so much pain until you set me free.

You killed me.

A long time ago…”

It turns out the knife through her heart was euthanasia. He had grown tired of killing her over and over again so he decided to set her free because she, she died a long time ago.

She died when he declared to the public their love none existent.

She died when he left her after promising her forever.

She died when he denied knowing her to save his cheating ass.

She died when she found out she was not his one and only.

She died when she lost herself trying to find him.

She died when he started digging her heart to see how deep her love for him went.

She died when the open casket of a love promised was lying in front of her.

She died when she realised she was in love with the idea of his presence.

She died when she realised the man she was promised was not present.

She died from ruminating on the shit he fed her.

It turns out… She was dead long before he killed her. And this death, this death right here was like a ready-to-be-born baby clinging on to the walls of its mother’s womb. It doesn’t know the pain it is causing her. It thinks it’s too big to fit through the little hole so it’s doing her a favour…saving her the pain, without knowing that if only it lets go, she will be free from the pain with just one long push. And when it finally decides to let go, she can breathe again. She is ready to heal.

In death, she breathes. She heals.

I dare you to be her and not die.