Seasons of Violence Carrying the tales of their cunts and their cuntrees and their cuntenants, women cross all hurdles, talk in circles, burst into tears, break into cheers, teach a few others, take new lovers, become earth mothers, question big brothers, breathe state secrets, fuck all etiquettes and turn themselves into the truth-or-dare pamphleteer who will interfere at the frontier. And in these rap-as-trap times, they perceive the dawn of the day and they start saying their permitted say. So, when there is an old landowner, who is a bad money loaner, they don’t sit still, they start the gossip mill. And it is the holy writ: women don’t crib on shit, ’cause they don’t ask for it. The logic is clear: he looked for trouble, now they’ll burst his bubble. They bitch without a hitch; speak non-stop like monsoon frogs. Then they plot their foolproof plan, they make their effigy man. This is how the season of protest began. Now, the Nicki Minaj within the novelist must be laid to rest.
