Mayok Media

Category: Poetry

  • Healing Prayer

    “A prayer for the weary mother…”

    Mary Mba (Ph.D)

    Divine Creator,
    I come to You not as a perfect parent, but as a weary soul.
    You saw every tear I cried in secret.
    You walked with me through hospital rooms, courtrooms, classrooms, and grocery aisles where I counted pennies.
    You saw the strength I didn’t even know I had.
    And You see the pain I carry now.

    I release the guilt.
    I release the shame.
    I release the need to be understood by those not yet ready to see.

    Restore my joy.
    Send peace into the hollow places.
    Send healing into my memories.
    Let those I have lost find their way back—not just to me, but to truth, to clarity, to gratitude.

    Let me live. Let me rest. Let me rise again—not as a fixer, but as a whole woman walking toward light.

    Amen.

  • Three Generations of Resilient Women

    Mary Mba (Ph.D.)

    She walked alone,
    my mother—
    first girl in Ezialayi
    to sit in a classroom
    meant only for boys.
    She wrote her name
    on chalkboards of resistance,
    etched it into history
    with every lesson she taught
    as a teacher,
    as a principal,
    as a mother.

    She taught me
    to speak softly
    but walk boldly.
    To read by lantern light,
    to lead from the margins,
    to wear my worth
    like a second skin.

    And I—
    I carried her books in my blood,
    her courage in my bones.
    As I studied, birthed, worked,
    nursed babies between classes,
    and stitched dreams together
    with whatever thread I could find.

    You watched me,
    my daughter,
    small hands in my robe,
    head high in meetings,
    feet tapping under tables,
    learning early that women
    do not wait for permission
    to rise.

    And now it is you—
    hooded in honor,
    garlanded in grace,
    degrees blooming
    in both hands.
    A granddaughter.
    A daughter.
    A rising sun.

    This is not just a graduation.
    It is a legacy fulfilled.
    A lineage of learning.
    A full circle closed—
    only to begin again.

  • To My Warrior Daughter, Ezinne

    By Mary Mba (Ph.D)

    You were born with a fire
    not of fury—but of grace.
    A soul etched in brilliance,
    with sickle-shaped cells
    but a spine carved from steel.

    You never asked for the burden,
    yet you carried it—
    through pain, through hospital rooms,
    through nights when sleep
    was a stranger,
    and the world demanded
    you rise anyway.

    And rise you did.

    Bachelor’s and Master’s
    in four short years—
    a feat in itself,
    but not nearly the whole of you.
    You led, you served,
    you built bridges and broke ceilings.
    You didn’t just study systems—
    you challenged them,
    reformed them,
    made space for others
    where none was given.

    From Chicago to Paris,
    from student government chambers
    to community campaigns,
    from admissions tours to advocacy halls—
    you have walked with purpose,
    and spoken with power.

    And through it all,
    you remained my daughter—
    my joy, my heartbeat,
    the reason I pressed forward
    when life made retreat so tempting.

    I watched you fight invisible wars
    with visible poise.
    Your smile never betrayed
    the fatigue in your bones,
    your dreams never bowed
    to the weight of diagnosis.

    You are not a miracle.
    You are the maker of miracles.
    Your name, Ezinne—
    a good mother,
    a good heart,
    a testament to a life
    rooted in grace and defiant strength.

    So today, I do not just celebrate a degree.
    I celebrate a woman
    who redefined resilience.
    Who dared the world
    to expect more from those
    born into battle.

    Congratulations, my love.
    You are all things radiant,
    and the future is already
    better because you are in it.

  • The Ones I Live For

    Mary Mba (Ph.D.)

    To my children –
    Who bring light to my tired eyes
    And laughter to rooms where grief once sat,
    You are the reason the world still feels kind.
    Even in hard years, like this one,
    You make joy out of ashes,
    Surprises out of sorrow.
    With your love, you cradle me
    As once I cradled you.
    Your gifts – small, thoughtful, immense –
    Are my balm and my crown.

    To my mother –
    Whose absence never erased presence,
    Whose picture still guards my heart,
    Whose spirit lingers in my wisdom,
    I was proud to be your daughter.
    I am proud still.
    You taught me to give,
    To stand,
    To mother with fire and grace.
    And even now,
    When I mother my own,
    I hear your voice humming through me.

    Today I live in the middle—
    Between the one I came from
    And the ones I brought forth.
    And in this middle space,
    This beautiful stretch of love,
    I celebrate being held,
    Being seen,
    Being Mother.

    Today I live in the middle—
    Between the one I came from
    And the ones I brought forth.
    And in this middle space,
    This beautiful stretch of love,
    I celebrate being held,
    Being seen,
    Being Mother.

  • What You Call Yourself

    by Mary Mba (Ph.D)

    I said I am, and the world listened—
    not with ears, but with form,
    shaping itself to match my breath,
    rising like clay in the hands of faith.

    I whispered I am tired,
    and heaviness sat beside me.
    I shouted I am lost,
    and every road curled into fog.
    But when I dared to say I am light,
    the dark cracked open,
    and stars rearranged themselves
    to guide me home.

    What you call yourself,
    the universe carves into stone.
    Call yourself broken,
    and even the morning will hide.
    Call yourself whole,
    and healing will find your name.

    It begins not in your doing,
    but in your seeing—
    in the hush between thoughts,
    in the way your spirit hears its own echo
    and calls it true.

    Be careful with your I AM.
    It is not a small phrase.
    It is fire from the bush that burned
    but was not consumed.

    So stand firm.
    Speak wisely.
    Perceive clearly.
    And know this:
    the God within you is listening.
    And responding.
    Always.

  • Erasure

    Mary Mba (Ph.D.)

    for Sony Labou Tansi, Martial, Chaïdana, and all the unspeakables; for those who remember what was said and what was unsaid

    What happens when words vanish from policy, from screens, from speech?

    “Erasure” is a poetic meditation on censorship, identity, and memory—drawing inspiration from Sony Labou Tansi’s La Vie et demie, the Trump-era word bans, and the resistance found in storytelling. Through surreal imagery and postcolonial echoes, the poem explores the silencing of identities—and the defiant power of naming what was meant to be forgotten.

    They said:
    Let’s keep things neutral.
    Let’s clean up the language.
    Let’s not say diversity—
    it makes some uncomfortable.

    Let’s say merit. Let’s say unity.
    Let’s not say transgender.
    Let’s not say pregnant person.
    Let’s not say climate change so loudly.
    (It’s just weather, after all.)

    And so, one by one,
    the words went missing—
    folded out of funding reports,
    redacted from federal websites,
    tucked behind quiet executive orders.

    The list grew.
    Evidence-based. Science-based.
    Vulnerable. Equity. LGBTQ.
    Non-binary. Racial justice. Systemic racism.
    Female. Woman.
    Each word silenced carried with it a body,
    a memory, a need unmet.

    Sony Labou Tansi once wrote:
    “They renamed everything. Even the dead.”
    In his world, absurdity was law,
    and survival meant remembering
    what you were told to forget.

    Here, too, people remember—
    in classrooms, in poems,
    in quiet footnotes and fiery sermons,
    in stories passed between colleagues
    over coffee or courage.

    We are not always loud.
    But we speak.
    Sometimes in metaphor.
    Sometimes in satire.
    Sometimes in comedy.
    Sometimes in laughter.
    Sometimes in carefully chosen words
    that slip through the cracks.

    The words will come back.
    Soft at first.
    Then steady.
    Because language—like truth—
    always finds its way back to the mouth.

    Full list of words banned by Trump, including ‘Climate Change’

  • The Museum of Gods

    Mary Mba (Ph.D.)

    A Lament for the Stolen Sacred

    They came with ships and sermons,
    crosses in one hand,
    guns in the other.
    They found altars we had made from stone and spirit,
    and called them blasphemy.

    They did not bow.
    They did not ask.
    They took.

    What they called idols
    were our elders in wood.
    Our prayers in bronze.
    Our wisdom braided into clay.

    They shattered the shrines
    and stole the statues.
    Said, “You are savages,”
    as they wrapped our gods in linen
    and mailed them to Europe.

    Then they built museums—
    temples of theft—
    where people now stand in quiet awe
    before the very things we were beaten for loving.

    And they say:

    “Look at the craftsmanship.”
    “Such primitive elegance.”
    “How valuable this is.”

    But what they mean is:

    “It only became sacred once we took it.”

    They bow now—
    but only to the plaque,
    to the frame,
    to the price tag.

    We see the altars behind glass.
    We are told to be grateful.
    That they were “preserved.”

    But what they mean is:

    “You were never meant to be trusted with your own holiness.”

    So we light candles in our lungs.
    We whisper prayers in hidden tongues.
    We touch soil and remember its name.
    We bow—not to stone,
    but to spirit.

    Because we know—

    A god behind glass
    is still a god.
    And the stolen sacred
    still sings.

  • Ode to Camp, or: I Died in Couture and Came Back in Sequins(A Poem in Heels)

    Mary Mba (Ph.D)

    Darling,
    I was born in a wig and reborn in rhinestones.
    When the doctor slapped me, I said,
    “Not the face.”

    I am Camp.
    Not a style,
    But a resurrection.

    I paint my lips with irony,
    Contour my cheekbones with pastiche,
    My eyeliner so sharp it cuts through heteronormativity.
    I don’t cry—
    I glitter.

    I’m the chandelier at a funeral.
    The swan dive in a cocktail dress.
    I’m Bette Davis lighting a cigarette with your expectations
    and exhaling a monologue that ends in thunderous applause
    from ghosts who wish they were this extra.

    Camp is a wink in a war zone.
    A ball gown in a bunker.
    It’s knowing the script, tearing it up,
    and then delivering every line in a British accent
    with a martini in one hand and a drama in the other.

    I am Cher in a headdress.
    Gaga in four looks.
    RuPaul crowning queens like the Vatican crowns Popes
    (but with better shoes).
    I am Divine divine.

    My aesthetic?
    Apocalypse but make it fashion.
    My gender?
    Sequined disbelief.
    My spirit animal?
    Susan Sontag’s typewriter tapping out “Notes on ‘Camp’”
    in six-inch stilettos with a smirk.

    I am not real.
    I am more than real.
    Too much?
    That’s just enough.

    So let the naturalists mumble in beige.
    Let the tasteful bow in their taupe blazers.
    I’ll be over here—

    In tulle.
    On fire.
    And perfectly,
    ridiculously,
    fabulously—undone.

  • The Ritual

    (modern, meditative, drag/makeup/spiritual glam tone)

    By Mary Mba, Ph.D.

    I sharpen my face with light.

    Draw bone from shadow.

    Lips from silence.

    Gender from powder.

    This is not hiding.

    This is revelation.

    Each line I blend

    resurrects someone

    I have always been

    but never been allowed to be.

    I become a woman—

    not by birthright,

    but by brilliance.

    Not by biology,

    but by brushstroke.

    Some faces arrive weathered.

    Wrinkled. Withered.

    Time-carved and ghosted by youth.

    But in these hands,

    they rise.

    High cheekbones from jowls.

    Bright eyes from years of sleep lost.

    Goddess from grief.

    Glamour from grief.

    I do not pray at altars.

    I paint them.

    I become them.

    This is drag.

    This is devotion.

    This is how we survive

    in a world that dares us to disappear.

  • My Ethiopian Brother

    (For Abera)

    He came quietly,

    not like thunder

    but like spring rain.

    One moment we were strangers

    at the African Student Association meeting,

    the next—

    he was on the floor

    building towers of blocks

    with my children,

    laughing like he’d known them forever.

    He never asked if I needed help.

    He simply showed up.

    When the injury struck,

    and word spread like wind through our small community,

    Abera was there.

    Trash bins emptied.

    Toys sorted into corners.

    Tiny socks folded by a pair of hands

    too young to carry the weight he chose to lift.

    He swept not just my floors,

    but the sorrow gathering in my heart.

    He played with the children

    like they were sacred,

    never an inconvenience.

    He called me Big Sister,

    and I trusted him with the title.

    Because he earned it.

    On the day I delivered,

    he became the village.

    Took the children to school,

    dressed them in joy for picture day,

    brought them to the hospital

    to meet their baby brother

    as if ushering in royalty.

    Even after healing,

    he stayed—

    a constant presence

    until graduation carried him

    back to Ethiopia.

    Now, he’s a doctor—

    a healer in name

    as he always was in spirit.

    And though an ocean stretches between us,

    I tell his story like scripture

    to every Ethiopian student I meet.

    I say,

    “There was once a young man named Abera,

    whose kindness held my house together

    when I could not.”

    And they smile,

    because they recognize his name—

    and somehow,

    his spirit, too.