The African Dream

When they painted the African narrative

They did not anticipate growth.

Or perhaps they prayed against it?

The beauty of the African dream,

the black dream in the white mind

is that it never comes true.

It must remain blurry and murky before it can be realized.

For it is upon the pot-bellied rulers that they discuss

“the New Africa”

the “Rebirth”.

The beauty of the African dream-

must be found in the impoverished infant

suckling a dried and withered breast

of a smiling corpse

The beauty of the African dream

is the illiterate woman,

toiling the fields,

for crops that will never yield.

Of the dirty children playing under the

Amarula tree.

The beauty of the African dream

is found in the colonized ideology fed to the locals

in the disguise of the Saints and Mother Mary.

That is the only narrative the white mind

can swallow with his morning tea.

Mother, A wonderful Headache you gave me

And Mother,

You only ever taught me to love and to be true,

Assuring me that this was enough armor to meet the world with.

And Mother,

You prepared me to hope in the stars and pray to the winds.

And Mother,

You promised that faith could conquer all battles.

And Mother,

You made me understand the pain of others before my own.

And Mother,

You taught me to sooth the wounds on the backs of my foes.

And Mother,

You showed me that wisdom would always dwell in the rows of cornrows that lay upon my head.

And Mother,

You sang the hymns on the misery of wars un-fought.

And Mother,

You decorated my childhood with stories of the evils of men.

But Mother,

You taught me to be silent too soon and

too often.

The Many Falling Queens

Young girl, I pray you see these vultures hovering over you.
They prey on innocence.
Taking blood when able.
How can you decipher their evils?
My young one, they will come bearing gifts
of perfumed prose,
that may seem heartfelt but is rather a memorized eulogy.
Silky phrases that plead the divergence of legs,
and the raising of hips.

Young girl, I pray you believe your worth.
Immeasurable and unquantifiable.
Young girl, I pray you learn to love the broken reflection.
Tender and complex.
Young girl, it might seem like you will never win,
in this game of greed and falling queens.
But know this
That the worst of the vultures,
that suck you dry, leaving you hollow and barren
They are birthed
out of you

The beauty of creation

Pulling him to her breast,
She realized what she feared was the newness.
The feeling that perhaps
This moment had never occurred before and so,
the burden of creating something completely new had been given to them:
these young reckless lovers.
Who knew nothing more than to give of themselves,
Hungry, not to conquer but to be conquered.
They reeked of passion,
blinding and burning.
But even in the midst of passion,
She found herself gasping and wondering if the burden was too heavy.
As she moulded her body alongside his,
would this be enough?
She realized what she feared was the newness.
The beauty of creation that lay in the sandy horizon
And the failure of never reaching it,
blanketed her naked statue.

Familiar

I’ve met you before.
Somewhere between the conversing streets of death and life,
we met behind a forgotten alleyway.
Discussing our dreams and failed attempts to climb the moon,
and define the way the sun shone across our souls.

I’ve met you before.
When I met that full outburst of laughter, I wept.
Feeling the waves of familiarity and comfort wash over me anew.
I could live and die many times over to hear that laughter.
SO full of life, pain and strength.

I’ve met you before.
Carrying your brokeness in a little tin jar.
And painting your portrait of pain so beautifully.
As I sit and contemplate,
Only now do I see the unshed tears under your heart.

You were beautiful before they told you

You were beautiful before they told you.
Before they molded you into the temple of their becomings.
All you see now is a price on your soul.
But please take a moment to realize,
that the broken pieces are not a mess.
And as the sun falls into meditation;
as it makes intercourse with the moon,
translating the words pressed over your heart,
into a melody we never thought to listen to-
You should hold tight to the webs of faith set before you.

You were beautiful before they told you.
Your blackness is a narrative few will choose to understand.
It is not an apology nor a monologue.
The beauty of your kinks and locks in conversation with the curve of your breast,
Requires a special appreciation.
So do not despair,
when you are sold below the price of beauty,
on a market which places perfection as a necessity.

You were beautiful before they told you.
You are not an idea nor a single thought but rather a discourse of many colors.
I could tell you this until the end of time.
But do you see it?
You must resist the desire to desist from breaking free.
These chains that print self-loathing over the bridges of your ancestry,
Have blinded you.
And now the shadows in your eyes,
make it impossible-
for you to feel the sunshine,
dancing under the soles of your feet.

Beautiful Black Shadow

I am the whispers between the arch of the backless gown,
The beautiful black shadow that lingers
in the deserted alleyways.
I am the apartheid of femininity
the war on women,
and the voice shouting above the train.
I bow to your order,
Shedding myself as I go along.
Bringing gifts of silence to my matrimony of selves,
Holding within, thoughts of flight, of dreams, of hope.
I am the many who drift along the edges of this globe,
gliding over the circumference of existence,
trading in goods of sexual prowess and the need
to be loved.
Within myself, I see mirrors of who was, who is and-
who could never be.
I pay homage to the black sisters who wish themselves yellow,
Who pray chemicals over their kinky crowns,
who lift thighs high in salute to an identity
they have been thrusted.
I am the whispers, the prayers, the moans.
I am without but yet somewhere I am within.
Somewhere within, I am the beautiful black shadow that talks-
in the background.

Nameless man

I fell in love
with his words,
That draped comfort
over the damp walls of my
solitude.
He was without a face,
but his voice echoed rhythms
that drummed resurrection within me.
He fell between the cracks,
He stepped over the broken shards
of a fragile identity.
Painting portraits upon my lips,
He
loved
me
slowly.
He curtained sunshine over my heart
and wrote peace under the soles of my feet.
We moved in melodies in midnight whispers.
caressing the complex knots of sorrow
between these legs,
he forgave the confusion of love.
Kissing life into the emptiness of my past.
He dwelled deep within me.

The women underwater

I speak for
The women underwater.
Those who have not drowned
But have adopted the art of sinking
Beneath.
Beneath themselves
And
Below the world.
They stand like unmoved pillars.
Waiting with no expectation.
Who are these women?
They that navigate the dark ocean depths,
with the familiarity of a well known story.

I speak for
The women who have studied the art of invisibility
and apologize their identities,
over their spread legs and wetness.
Who have learnt guilt to be synonymous with happiness.
They lurk between themselves
and around concrete walls.
Holding their breath
and wishing drops of joy
to fall above them.
On their way to nowhere,
They move silently.
These are the women underwater.