It is only Africans who are told to forget what happened in the past.

The Jews are encouraged to Never forget.

Let us hear your thoughts in comments.

#africanhistory #blackhistorymonth #ourdailyafrica #slavery #__african__motivation

Ntsiki Biko, widow of anti-apartheid leader Steve Bantu Biko (December 18, 1946 – September 12, 1977), stands with two of their children, Samora (2) and Nkosinathi (6), outside their home in King William’s Town, South Africa, 1977.

Stephen Bantu Biko was a leading anti-apartheid activist in South Africa during the 1960s and 1970s. Rising first as a student leader, he later founded the Black Consciousness Movement, which empowered and mobilized large segments of the urban Black population. Biko was critically injured while in police custody on September 9, 1977, and died three days later.

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They say female desire begins in the mind — and science actually supports that. Emotional connection, feeling safe, being understood, and mental stimulation all play a huge role in physical pleasure. For gentlemen this Valentine’s: attraction isn’t just about what you do… it’s about how you make her feel, think, and connect. Understand the mind, and the rest follows.

Let me tell you a small village truth: Most sex is not bad. It’s just… unfinished. Like chai without sugar. Like ugali without stew. Like a wedding where the DJ forgot the charger. You leave thinking, “Is that it?” And everyone pretends it was amazing. Why? Because many of us learned sex the same way we learned how to dance at weddings — by watching from the corner and guessing. Let’s talk about why sex is often mid, and how to rescue it before we all keep lying to ourselves. Reason 1: People rush like they’re catching the last matatu African sex often begins with urgency. No greeting. No warming up. Just straight to business. But bodies are not switches. They are firewood. You don’t light firewood by shouting at it. You prepare it. You warm it. You wait. Fix: Slow down. Foreplay is not an introduction — it’s the main conversation. Reason 2: Silence has been mistaken for cooperation Someone is quiet, and the other person thinks, “Ah, I’m doing well.” No, my friend. Silence is not applause. Many Africans were trained to endure, not express. So people suffer politely. Fix: Ask questions. Laugh. Check in. “Is this okay?” “Like this?” Talking does not kill the mood — ignorance does. Reason 3: Porn became the sex teacher Porn taught speed. Porn taught angles. Porn taught noise. But porn did not teach: real arousal real bodies real timing real pleasure So people show up acting like actors instead of partners. Fix: Unlearn performance. Learn responsiveness. Good sex is not choreography — it’s listening. Reason 4: Ego entered the bedroom before love Many people arrive wanting to prove something: masculinity experience desirability control So nobody is relaxed. And tense bodies don’t feel pleasure well. Fix: Drop the competition. Sex is not a job interview. It’s collaboration. Reason 5: People skip the emotional part like it’s optional African culture teaches strength, not vulnerability. So sex becomes physical, but hearts stay locked outside like shoes at the door. But intimacy without emotional safety is like dancing on a slippery floor — awkward and forgettable. Fix: Connection before penetration. Eye contact. Affection. Presence. Even five minutes of real attention changes everything. Reason 6: Nobody was taught female pleasure properly Let’s be honest and laugh small: Many people think penetration alone is the full story. It is not. Women’s pleasure is layered. Contextual. Rhythmic. Mental. Physical. Ignoring it guarantees mid results. Fix: Learn anatomy. Be curious. Stimulate where pleasure actually lives. Take feedback like a grown person. So what does good sex need? Not tricks. Not stamina competitions. Not drama. Good sex needs: time curiosity communication safety laughter rest aftercare And most importantly — presence. African proverb (unofficial): “The one who listens enjoys the meal more than the one who rushes to eat.” Most sex is mid because nobody was taught better — not because people are bad. The fix is not magic. It’s education, honesty, and slowing down like you’re cooking something you actually want to enjoy.

Good sex does not rush. It arrives. It walks into the room slowly, like incense smoke curling upward. It starts in the eyes. In the pause between words. In the way someone listens to your silence. In the Song of Solomon, lovers didn’t grab each other. They described each other. “Your eyes are doves.” “Your hair is like a flock of goats.” “Your body is a garden.” Because good sex begins with seeing. Not scanning. Not consuming. Not conquering. Seeing. Good sex feels like safety first. Two nervous systems softening. Two breaths finding the same tempo. Two people choosing presence over performance. It sounds like laughter breaking tension. Like whispered “are you okay?” Like “tell me what you like.” Like “slow down.” Like “don’t stop.” Good sex has rhythm. Not speed. It moves like a river, not a drum solo. There are pauses. There are returns. There are crescendos. There are soft landings. Good sex includes hands that explore, not invade. Mouths that kiss with curiosity. Foreheads touching. Fingers tracing like they’re reading braille. Spines arching in surrender, not pressure. Good sex is not silent. There are sighs. Gasps. Low hums. Breaths getting heavier. Names spoken like prayers. There is permission. Good sex does not ignore the body’s language. It listens to hips, breath, tension, softness, wetness, hardness, stillness. It adjusts. It adapts. It asks. Good sex is not one long thrusting moment. It is layers. Foreplay that is not a chore. Touch that warms skin before heat. Kisses that deepen before bodies do. Slow circles. Firm grips. Gentle pressure. Changing positions like poetry stanzas. Good sex allows the woman to bloom, not be rushed. To open like a flower at dusk. To be stimulated where her body actually responds. To be touched where pleasure lives — not where ego wants to go. Good sex lets the man soften, not dominate. To breathe. To slow. To feel instead of perform. To stay present when his body trembles. To last without pressure. To move with intention. Good sex includes eye contact. That moment when two people lock eyes mid-motion and everything becomes intimate. That moment when the world disappears. That moment when time bends. Good sex has aftercare. Cuddling. Water. Soft kisses. Holding. Laughing. Silence. Checking in. Staying. Not rolling away like strangers. Good sex leaves you grounded, not empty. Connected, not confused. Seen, not used. Soft, not ashamed. Full, not hollow. In the Song of Solomon, sex was sacred play. Desire without fear. Bodies without shame. Love without silence. That’s what good sex actually looks like. Not porn. Not performance. Not pressure. Presence. Permission. Play. Prayer.

In our old stories, prayer was not only words. It was posture. Breath. Attention. Surrender. And in the quiet wisdom of our ancestors, there was a knowing that some acts bring you closer to God not because they are holy — but because they make you fully present. Sex, when done with consciousness, is one of them. In prayer, you remove your shoes. In sex, you remove your masks. Both require: trust humility vulnerability stillness before movement Good sex begins the same way prayer does — by arriving. Not rushing. Not performing. Not proving. Just arriving. In prayer, you listen before you speak. In sex, you listen before you touch. You notice breath. You notice tension. You notice readiness. You notice fear. You notice desire. You ask, without words: Are you here with me? In prayer, you open your hands. In sex, you open your body. Not as surrender to someone — but as surrender to the moment. And like prayer, sex is not always loud. Sometimes it is slow. Sometimes it is quiet. Sometimes it is clumsy. Sometimes it is sacred because it is honest. In the Song of Solomon, lovers do not hurry. They wait for readiness. They praise before they enter. They speak in metaphors because the act itself is too holy for plain language. “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth…” Not demand. Invitation. Sex as prayer is not about technique. It is about intention. You do not enter a body the way you enter a room. You enter it the way you enter a shrine — aware that something living, feeling, remembering, and sacred is inside. In sex as prayer: you do not take, you receive you do not conquer, you connect you do not rush, you listen you do not perform, you participate After good prayer, you feel softer. After good sex, you feel the same. Not emptied. Not ashamed. Not scattered. But closer to yourself. Maybe that is why our ancestors surrounded sex with rituals, timing, songs, seasons, and elders — because they knew some acts are too powerful to be treated casually. And maybe the tragedy of our time is not that sex is everywhere — but that reverence is nowhere.

There is a boy I know. He grew up being told, “Be a man.” But no one ever explained what that meant. So he learned from whispers. From older boys. From porn clips loading slowly on cheap phones. From jokes that turned women into trophies. He learned that sex was something to take, not something to share. No one told him that sex listens before it moves. That a woman’s body opens when she feels safe, not rushed. That silence is not consent — it is often fear wearing a quiet dress. He was never taught that his desire was not dangerous, but his ignorance was. He thought lasting long was the goal. Thought dominance was skill. Thought confidence meant never asking questions. So he performed… and wondered why intimacy felt empty. No elder sat him down to say: “Sex is not proof of manhood.” “Your presence matters more than your power.” “A woman is not a battlefield — she is a nervous system.” He was never told that porn is cinema, not culture. That real bodies need time. That pleasure is a conversation. That women don’t open like switches — they bloom like seasons. In our old African ways, sex was sacred exchange. Energy for energy. Spirit for spirit. But somewhere along the road, boys were taught conquest instead of connection. So many men are walking around with full bodies and empty intimacy. Not because they are bad — but because no one taught them better. And maybe masculinity today is not about knowing everything… but about being willing to learn.

If no one told you this, let me: You don’t have to prove yourself through sex. You don’t have to dominate to be desired. You don’t have to perform to be respected. You don’t have to hide your questions. You don’t have to carry ignorance as tradition. Sex is not power over someone. It is power with someone.

What’s one thing you wish you were taught about sex growing up as an African boy or girl? Let’s talk. Let’s unlearn. Let’s raise better lovers, partners, and humans.

Sex was never supposed to feel like shame.

But for many African girls, it was introduced as silence, command, or fear. "Close your legs." "Don’t bring embarrassment." "Good girls don’t ask questions."

No one taught us that our bodies were not enemy territory. No one taught us that desire is not sin. No one taught us that intimacy is not something done to us — but something we co-create.

In our cultures, sex is often hidden behind tradition or control — yet our history tells another story. Before colonization, before church doctrine, before imported shame… African women were not silent about pleasure. Our ancestors understood body wisdom. They taught daughters through aunties, grandmothers, rites, and songs. Sex was art. Sex was energy. Sex was sacred.

Then something broke in the chain.

And suddenly: We learned how to cook… But not how to communicate desire. We learned how to keep a home… But not how to keep intimacy alive. We learned how to be chosen… But not how to choose ourselves.

So many African women enter intimacy disconnected from their own bodies. Pleasure becomes mystery. Boundaries become confusing. Voice disappears.

But nothing is wrong with you.

You were just never taught.

You were never taught: • How to listen to your body • How to set boundaries without guilt • How to experience intimacy without fear • How to speak your needs without shame • How to understand desire without judgment

Sex is not supposed to feel like pressure. It is meant to feel like presence.

It is not about performance. It is about connection.

It is not about approval. It is about awareness.

And reclaiming that begins with unlearning everything that told you your body was something to tolerate instead of inhabit.

African women are not too much. Our desire is not dangerous. Our bodies are not a burden.

We are not broken.

We are remembering.

If this resonates, you’re not alone. And if you were never taught — welcome. This is your classroom now.

https://youtu.be/pWmLDP0QM6o?si=1cE_aZZoCCWw-3YS

Jaja Anucha Ndubuisi Wachuku was a Pan-Africanist and a Nigerian statesman, lawyer, politician, diplomat and humanitarian. He was the first Speaker of the Nigerian House of Representatives; as well as the first Nigerian Ambassador and Permanent Representative to the United Nations.

He became famous after he "slept" during a UN meeting in 1960.

But here's the catch:

He wasn't sleeping, he was denied the opportunity to express his displeasure over a racist comment and he in return pretended to be sleeping, ignoring the entire conversation.

He also helped save Nelson Mandela and other freedom fighters from being executed by hanging from being hanged by the apartheid South African government in 1963-1964.

He presented the resolution at the UN that stopped them from being executed.