by Afutami

What it means

Girls don’t have the luxury of time to choose when to become a woman.

The gift of womanhood was forced into our hands in sentences ending with periods, bloodier than any commas hold.

Overnight, we have to bend our chests, cover ourselves, and lower our voice.

Boys however, boys take their sweet time before entering manhood.

Some never even graduate–their fathers never showed them how. Society looks away when they throw tantrums and now they hurt others to get what they want, not knowing how to take a no.

We forgot to help our boys to understand how to ask for help, to let greed pass, or to ‘use their words’.

Once men, however, men are quick to assume the role of fathers.

Perhaps there’s something in being strong enough to shoulder others, patient enough to breathe in, and kind enough to love someone more than himself.

But women; women should be allowed to take their time before motherhood. To decide if they even want to.

We are allowed to make up for the time we did not have to be selfish. We deserve that taste of space and agency. We should be granted the innocent pleasure of keeping our minds and bodies to ourselves, for a change.

So what if we want to cling on to our womanhood for a little bit longer.

How can choosing commas be so bad?

by Afutami

To the men who had found a home in me

For as long as I could remember, I thought I was looking for a home
But what greater privileges are there in the world,
than being a safe haven for someone to remove their armors for a while?
A nook for them to peel artificial layers of patriarchy,
one self-imposed expectation after another?

Through the curves and in-betweens my body provides,
men would rest their mind, and sometimes their heart
The bravest would even build a temple
an encanto territory to wish, to accept, and sometimes to cry

To the sharp edges of my thoughts,
some dared to wander, and to wonder
The humblest would turn it into a dance floor,
a festive room to tango, to box, and to finally see

When I let you in, know that its because
You have seen me for what I am

But when you mistook me for something or someone else,
I will politely ask you to leave

When I let you all the way in, to the deeper corners of me,
know that it means I trust you too

Though I know better than to make you home
or to let you make me a permanent one

by Afutami

Madrid at Midnight

“Velázquez is amazing, but Goya—Goya is my hero.”

You said this while looking up to the names of Spain’s greatest painters carved on the wall in the entrance gate of Museo del Prado, the very building where I spent hours being awed by both of their many deeply inspired paintings just the day before.

“Do you think you admire Goya more because his paintings capture the essence of humanity?”

I asked this because you told me that your deeply held belief is that people have an ‘essence’, and they won’t be ‘fulfilled’ until they have truly connected with it. I wasn’t sure I was sold on this idea, because I always thought the self is an ever-evolving being.

Velázquez (well, his statue) was right there sitting behind us, minding his own business. It felt a bit like we had the whole building to ourselves.

At that point we have spent at least five hours talking to each other, althought it barely felt like a couple. Earlier that day, you suggested that we meet by the El Retiro Park main entrance gate at 8 PM—the one by Plaza de la Independencia, you added. Upon entering, take a left—said you’d be easy to spot.

You were. Somehow I knew I would be spending my last day in Madrid with the right soul.

We walked from one end of the park to another until we found a bench and were too engrossed in our conversation to even realized it was 15 minutes to midnight. The moon had moved from the left end of the horizon to the right, I told you. To which you replied, “You know it’s the Earth that rotates, right?” (Señor, and there I was thinking mansplaining was beneath you.)

We talked about how capitalism fucked us all, how it yielded an education system that numbs everyone, and whether when we meet again in 10 years we would’ve survived climate change. We talked about why people are addicted to religion, or any system that doesn’t require them to think on their own, because quite frankly, a world with too much uncertainties gets really scary really quickly. We talked about a lot of other things in between.

Alas, we had to move; some of the park’s gates were closed already (thank the universe we found one that wasn’t) and most restaurants were closing already even though we haven’t had dinner.

After being in denial for almost a good hour, we finally succumbed to the reliability of fast food chains that still open past midnight. We went to a KFC place nearby even though you took us to the wrong direction at first (it was when you admitted that I will always be right and if I wasn’t it’s all your fault lol). You hated crowds in general, so we took the food to the steps right by the Grand Via square and talked some more while munching chicken.

This time we talked about privileges, families, and guilt. And that the only way to deal with guilt is by using your privileges to help as many people as possible, the same way living people deal with their guilt towards those who passed before them by living their life to the fullest. Beware of the slippery slope towards the messiah complex though, you reminded me.

We didn’t get much sleep that night, and I couldn’t help but felt like we were literally in a Before Sunrise movie. Nothing about that evening was ordinary—you were a stranger but felt a lot like an old friend. I laughed a lot, and yet can’t get enough of our non-stop banters.

It was short but really sweet. The night did become good (what was it in Spanish again?) and I think for a brief time, our souls connected, which is always rare. For that, I am grateful to the universe.

Good bye for now, Seńor.

by Afutami

I haven’t been home in two weeks

The moment Mom texted me that Eyang’s condition had plunged, I packed for three days and left for Bogor in a heartbeat.

That day was chaos: I remember two ambulance rides, two emergency rooms, six hours of being worried because we couldn’t find a single HCU in town, panicking because we couldn’t find type A blood for Eyang, and mild shouting across the hospital because one extended family member thought we didn’t need to take her for this procedure that medicine clearly dictated she badly needed.

I remember having to make a lot of medical decisions that day. I remember not feeling like a granddaughter but a parent, not only to my Eyang but to her son and daughter, who probably were just as worried but slightly more desensitized to the worst possibilities. I remember wondering whether all the medical TV series I watched had helped me or made things worse.

I remember feeling scared of losing Eyang. A lot.

I remember being sent back to exactly a year ago, on Feb 25, when Bapak passed away. Or a few months later, when Wikan left. I remember the pain from losing them. I remember fearing the feeling of losing, perhaps more than losing itself.

On the other side of the city, that weekend there were two happy occasions: one engagement, one wedding—one big wedding. I scrolled my Instagram, looking at pretty, happy faces (oh so happy). Then I looked around me, and the mess that prevails, of the sick family members, of all the fighting that we had that week. And yet how minute that is, when you put it next to a whole war going on in the other part of the world. Children losing parents and homes.

It is so peculiar how both happiness and sadness are true, how they could both happen at the same time, in parallel.

I packed for three days but was away for almost two weeks.
Two whole weeks of pure chaos.

But c’est la vie, my friend.