APRIL 2022 THEME: THE AFRO LADY
Big, black & bold,
I’m on top of the world.
I break stereotypes like a glass smashed on a brazen wall.
The curls of this baby on my head,
Signifies the complicated life of a black woman.
I wear my afro like a crown, look how it stands out in the crowd.
I once heard I could name my hair – it’s my child, you know
Freedom, Colourella, Perfection – oh, how I brainstorm names
One. I think. Two. A name. Three. I think again.
And after moments under the star-lit sky
Giving names to the little stars that cover my world like an umbrella
A name for my baby flies into my open heart of colors
Authentica – I hear the whispers in a dazzling twinkle.
tap the decline button // when ‘not being enough’ // rings on the cell of your body //
for your body is a symphony // of perfect punctuations // from a fullstop that stops the crowd // or sculpts them into comma that pauses //
as your heart creates bold rhythms // for your feet to dance away grief // and your shadow pleads to rest for a minute //
as your feet stamps empathy // on sheets of paper turned to soils // and your palms create beats to join the song //
as your voice speaks loud // echoes louder than loudspeakers // soothing hearts // craving to listen //
as your hips sway to notes // notes weaved into music // music created by the confidence you command //
as your lips curve into a crescent // your teeth glows like your skin // causing eyes to look a third time //
as your eyes are an ocean // radiates calmness // or becomes a storm // that terrifies weakness better than angry dogs //
as your hair is the shape of satisfaction // like a woman on her first day at work // as your hair beams like Christmas lights //
as your hair is the crown the world craves // governing glittery gold // an orchard it is // just like your body that bears fruits
There are ways to liquefy ladies with
sequel of determinants, held to their
mouths like cliches into harmonicas
you start, like biceps to the skin to
adjectivise [ebony, red-lipped, afro-
ed] a woman into colors/flames of
turnings —you become a cherub,
winged, telling God how even an
eyeliner afro heaves you weave into
a boulevard of lust, glossy affections
like a sleeping centipede nodding
to every praises moistening its legs
into a classical form of c r a v i n g
Lord, how do we break away from
things that birthmark our hearts,
like hair, like hair, like the afro a
lady wears to squeeze my heart
into tight rooms it does not fit?