#AMAKAxNewAfricanWoman

Art. It knows no bounds; nothing of it requires physical strength; rather, it's the birth of a mental beauty that emerges from one's soul. So, the question remains: Why do women still see an underrepresentation in the art space?

If ever it were labour, they would reply that the answer lay in strength. If it were success, they would claim endurance. So, why art?

Pondering, let's all sit down and discover what truth could emerge from this injustice. The talent exists, wavering down. From her beautiful hair, magic happens the moment she lays her fingers on her wand and manifests beauty into reality. Then a world is born: its garden, green and warm; its grass soft as it pulls from the settling sun. She made this with now-muscle-tired hands and heavy bags under her eyes. So, in sight of this beauty, why?

Before you speak, you need to understand, "So why?" Isn't for your answer. On the contrary, we urge you to listen and understand what we say behind the messages. Remember, the pain of the paint is tears that traveled down her face. Is that why you see it in a different light? You question her material, but don't you know it is made of soul? hers.

Tiredness hangs on backs, stretching generations. Crys. Screaming from the insides of her womb. Ancestors, hoping that what is rightfully theirs comes to them through her. Peace is all they ask for, so why? Why don't you let them rest?

Stories touch. Art possesses. Engulfing you with the eternity of meaning that lies beneath it. It swallows you peacefully. Blissfully. It doesn't tell you a tale; it gives you all the tales. Each stroke was aligned with the beauty of the constellations.

Still, you turn. Lie. Ignorant. Why so?

We beg, forgo prejudice, and look. We ask no more; just look. Swim with us into the catastrophic beauty of her canvas. Bored. No. See life. No, no, see death. Rebirth. Allow yourself to be reborn from her second womb. Cry. The lights will burst into your eyes, and the echoes will rupture your drums. And you. Cry. You made it beyond the blindness of man and onto the arms of her. Safe and forgiven. Your kicks are part of the process. Be welcomed.

Still, you turn. Lie. Ignorant. Why so?

Your eyes don't blink? Remaining strained. Unwiped. It told tales of hate. Unwashed hate. Unblinking eyes. To be a man is to be wary; to be a woman is to be calm. Just blink.

The stars cannot be reached. Unless in her work. A portal. Stair. You're invited; let your ego not pull you away. It taunts you from truth. From heaven. She holds the stars in her hands. Dirty. Of various grades. Nevertheless, she holds them, keeping you. Safe.

Don't sleep. Not without prayer. Ask, beg. That she forgives you. Then she will speak to you, telling you, "My grudge was heavy, but it lays on the canvas." So why? See, the art is redemption, hope, and the key to salvation.