The Ink from a wounded heart

I am a woman. I am the world. I am myself.

My name is Resilience, and my voice rises with the crashing drums of misery. I was born from the fire of unyielding chauvinism, yet I burn with an infinite love for my homeland. The land of my ancestors, where the shadow of colonization still lingers like a specter in the night. From this sacred soil—the cradle of the world, the heartbeat of Africa, Yet shackled by the powers that be—I write.

From the land of Marie-Josée Nsamba, the Black Eve, and Kimpa Vita, the fearless, I write. From streets where every breath carries the weight of unspoken pain, I write. From cities draped in the illusion of freedom, I write. From places where bullets scream louder than the song of liberation, Where life is stolen in the blink of an eye, and death has become a familiar scent, I write. I write from alleys where human skulls replace streetlights, From neighborhoods where the dreams of women and children are trampled into dust. I write from the depths of a nation bleeding, A land where every wound tells a story, A place where silence is suffocating, yet my voice refuses to be drowned. I am a woman.

I am the Democratic Republic of Congo. I am myself. I carved my strength into paper, Etching my voice into existence, Screaming of a season that is nothing but a nightmare, nothing but damnation. 2025—a year soaked in anguish, in terror, in unfulfilled dreams.

I am the daughter of a wounded people, A nation whose women are the only balm for its aching soul. I have been stripped of my softness, disconnected from my own femininity. Yet I stand, unbroken, a voice of both pain and defiance.

Somewhere deep inside me, buried beneath sorrow, there is a narrator of hope. I call out to her I am waiting for you. I feel you in my suffering. I hold you close, along with your dreams, your love, your children, and your vision of a liberated land. I whisper my gratitude for the flickers of hope you send me in this darkness.

I am a woman. I am the world. I am Africa. Even as their boots press against my throat , Even as my lips bleed from the force of their fists, I swear on the fire in my soul I will never stay silent. I will not remain in this valley of captivity, no! I will rewrite the story they have forced upon me, I will break the chains of the demons that haunt us.

Here I stand. I am a woman. I am the world. I am myself. I am the mother of Africa. I am the heartbeat of the Congo. I am Congolese