This paper contains a collection of creative works in honour of Bessie Head. In these pieces, we express our gratitude to her and our opinion of her. We write both in poetry and in prose.
A Flower of May - Faded too Soon Among thorns and shrubs Across the vast and barren desert Sprang A laurel the flower of honour and fame Radiating Beauty, love and serenity never felt before Proclaiming Issues and Ideas never heard before From Grass to Grace Like a diamond under the heap of sand She was unnoticed Because of her race and economic status She was a queen mistaken for a servant It never crossed their minds that That poor mulatto girl Would grow to be heard To be the voice of the voiceless To be a hero in literature With such boldness and wit She was raised from grass to GRACE
From a Diary of a Young Coloured Girl
I just could not believe it when she related it to me. It pained me and shattered my whole life into pieces. It was with great pain that I learnt my true identity at thirteen. How would you feel when somebody tells you your mother is not your mother? I always wonder why it had to happen to me. I felt I could not take life any more. I questioned the existence of God and despised the shallowness of wisdom of humankind. If I knew life could be this bad, I would have said no to life. I am confused, where do I start, where do I go from here?
On Leaving South Africa to Botswana
Several questions crossed my mind after I got the permit that ordered me to leave SA for ever. Should I go? How about my friends and neighbours? Oh no! I can't take it any more—racial discrimination, sexual abuse and all that. I have no moments to treasure—only trauma. I will therefore be brave and daring—I pick bits and pieces of my blasted life and carry on. I bravely venture into the uncertainty of my future. The sun hasn't set yet and the earth is only beginning to roll and expose wonders. I make best of out of every situation. There I go!
Borrowing Bessie's shoes I would say don't mind if they don't fit too well; they are borrowed, old, and too big.
She Said... My skin colour Black skin Not the colour of freedom But rather oppression Who am I to cry to Who am I to laugh with Who am I to eat with If I am discriminated Because of my skin colour My smile does not mean laughter My laughter does not mean I am happy My suffering does not mean I am INFERIOR Bessie's Marks Like a lioness She made prints Prints which reached the next lifetime Hers were different from others She proved what exactly warriors do They stand alone as she did Bearing all sorts of pain Betrayal, hate, instability and loss Alone she was born Sad as she became A woman alone A woman without race Made all her marks Imprinted in history Lost A soul so lost No family A soul so lost No race A soul so lost No colour A soul so lost No body could help A soul so lost Sought its eternity A soul so lost Found comfort at last A soul so lost Was in the next life A soul so lost Found its home in heaven Queen of Words She created words of mind Took them and with a pen Placed them on paper Stained paper with wisdom Something great came out of the simple Bringing out a hero out of each living soul To her ordinary is unique In an ordinary country she makes a difference And she put Botswana In a map of African literature.
Copyright © 2003 the authors.
Last updated 22 May 2003