Eve’s Fury
by Jenny Donaldson
Note from the Author
Femicide. GBV (South Africa’s statistics are horrific).
Male control & domination.
I’ve tried to capture a protest against all of this, and the often-absurd double standards that I see.
It is not meant to be a male-bashing piece, and I know (hope) that there are far more loving men out there than not.
This is for the predators, the bullies and the misogynists.
It is my fury stitched into a collective fury.
Too many stories to mention, I’ve focussed on a few.
If you’re interested in a South African movement, their protest action and the Unburied Casket (which has won awards), you can read here:
https://unburiedcasket.womenforchange.co.za/
https://time.com/collection/100-most-influential-people/2026/sabrina-walter/
***
Target
I am the little girl you pinned down.
Trusting you before I knew the meaning of the word.
Never yours to have.
My body.
Never meant to satiate.
Your lust.
A secret now folded into me.
The cellular memory.
Ongoing, ongoing.
---
I am the schoolgirl walking home.
In uniform.
You - a government employee.
In uniform.
I didn’t want to hear Come give me a kiss.
I didn’t know how to be with my body as I walked past you.
You, mesmerised by the swish of my skirt.
Me, wanting to hide,
brushing your gaze off my skin.
---
I am the girl in the pub close to Uni.
Tiny in stature, fierce in spirit.
You broke me.
Rugby honed muscles carrying me to the toilets.
You tore through everything.
My fists. My NO! My shirt.
My STOP!
Me.
After.
The police station felt unsafe.
Men in uniform.
Alcohol in my bloodstream.
Unbelievable?
I dropped out of Uni.
Spirit torn.
---
I am your ex-wife.
You threatened me, then with a gun.
My protection order.
Powerless against you out on bail.
Your jealous rage.
A neighbour heard the bump. The first.
Your truck driving over me. And again. And again.
She saw the second and third.
Failed by police. The so-called justice system.
In daylight, dying in the rain.
---
I came to the Post Office.
Your parcel’s not here. Come back later.
So I came back.
Daylight - the Post Office should be safe.
Predatory.
You raped me, tried to strangle me, bludgeoned my head.
With a 2kg post office scale.
You moved the dead weight of me.
Doused me in petrol, set alight.
Buried in your yard.
My country remembers my name.
Not yours.
---
I climbed into your white VW.
Met you at the shopping centre, days before.
Unaware – your friendliness and chatter, rehearsed.
Trusting your suggestion of a date.
Falling for your romance scam.
I was one of - - how many?
Syndicated planning – criminal.
My body found by community members.
You’re still out there.
Slime
I repel the taint of your slime.
I fling it back to you,
Slingshot style,
So that you are covered
In your own stench.
Absent Jury
I am a sex worker.
The oldest profession.
Today on OnlyFans.
Basic economics – demand and supply.
My services, because of YOU.
Slag.
Cunt.
Whore.
Labels inked in double standards.
You want a girlfriend experience.
You slam into me, hammer me, nail me but never date me.
Or G-d forbid, marry me.
You judge my body count.
I’m despicable.
A Ho.
Hell, no!
I am mentioned often.
Legislation. Policy. Policing. News.
My Honour, trampled.
The illusion of yours, intact.
You never get a mention.
---
I am the pregnant teenager.
Something must be done.
My pregnancy a shame!
Disappointment. To my family. My school.
A national taint.
Helloooooooo ….
Where the fuck are you in this story?
You don’t get a mention.
---
I am her mother.
Placed her in the baby saver box.
Far side of the crisis centre, unlit.
My pregnancy, unwanted.
Where are you?
If I did want her, I have no means.
Cannot feed her. Clothe her.
Keep her safe.
I could be arrested.
Make the headlines.
Child abandonment.
You won’t get a mention.
Protest
My name is Uyinene. Sharon. Deveny. Luyanda. Melanie. Olorato. Franciska. Hanna. Reeva.
Tsontso.
Too many to list.
Imprinted on a sheet of paper.
5,578 of us bound together.
Killed in the same year. One country.
Our stories remain unburied.
The casket larger than normal.
Beads encase us, stitched by hand.
1 purple bead for each of us.
Carried to the seat of our Government.
Women for Change!
---
My body - not meant for your forceful penetration.
My skin – not meant to wear your bruises.
My cheekbones – not meant to fracture underneath your fists.
My blood – not meant to congeal on the ground.
My heart – not meant to break for my Sisters. For me.
So many times.
My tears.
An infinite onslaught.
Exhausting!
---
I am not a witch.
Not your Bitch.
Not your dishwasher.
Not your white or dark chocolate.
Not your honey.
Not a Becky or a Stacy.
Not yours to dip. Or crack.
Not a sleaze.
Not yours!
---
And as for your policies and laws,
You have no jurisdiction over my womb.
Its occupation is my decision.
Mine alone!
---
I am EveryWoman.
Your daughter, cousin, niece, lover, wife, mother, aunt, grandmother.
Your sister.
Friend, colleague, neighbour.
Stranger.
Stories of anguish woven together!
Generations of fury within me!
---
You are not EveryMan but you are EveryWhere.
Birthed from my loins.
Having supper with your family.
Holding your basket at the check-out counter.
Watching the score with your mates in the pub.
Queuing for the bus.
Holding the grab-handle in the moving train.
Sitting in the back of the minibus taxi.
Watching me as I run at dusk.
Sweeping the corridor outside the classroom.
Laughing in the change room after the match.
Sipping a beer at a friend’s party.
Working, behind the counter at the Post Office.
A Deputy Police Commissioner!
---
E no ugh!
October 2026
Cape Town, South Africa