When you're alone, with nothing to say. When you're alone, with no dream to wish. When you're alone, with no one to guide. When you're alone, with no tears left to cry. When you're alone, with no words to write. When you're alone, with no memories to think of. When you're alone, with no recollection of yesterday. When you're alone with no hope for tomorrow. When you're alone, with no memory of love, joy or happiness. When you're alone, so alone, like the only one is existence. Then, would you remember me?
Anaphora (pronounced uh-naf-er-uh) is when a certain word or a phrase is repeated at the beginning of a clause or sentence that follows each other.
I have a dream. A dream of a beautiful tomorrow, bright and clean. Where hard drugs and corruption is dead leal. And no man go court free for whoever he kill.
I have a dream. A dream of light and patience, put in practice. A dream where illegality and shame are put to justice. Where all war and arguments are ended with earthy smiles and ocean hugs and sky kisses. Where every fight is forgotten with the letters of true peace.
I have a dream. A dream of our pregnant tomorrow. She gives birth with tears of joy in her eyes. We congratulated her knowing fully well that it's the end of our sorrow. She birth us a new era of patience, progress, prosperity and peace.
Today, I read poems people wrote about their grandmother. Even though I didn't see mine or witness her love, I know what her touch felt like. What I heard of her was how much she loved and cared for me. My grandmother thought me how to sleep with my eyes open. Wide open to look inward and feel the weight of my heart. In her eyes stood magical galaxies. In her heart sat a revolution of beauty and talent. Sitting under the baobab tree that served as kitchen, Grandma would wake before the first cock's crow to burn dry woods. Everyone is still asleep. The day just begin to yawn in dusky Dawn. Grounding pepper on a flat stone to make our local dish. My grandma first taught me how to endure the peppery fish. Smoke filling the morning till it touches the sky, Grandma would lay me on her sweaty back which served as my first bed. I clocked one and she passed. Well, that was destiny. All left with me is imaginary memories and a wishful smile. For I never knew my grandmother but I felt her love.
Her hands are twisted in voices unheard. Her lips are adored with words, unspoken. Her curves are perfectly shaped, unnoticed. She is shy for being noticed.
Her hair is painted to the back. On her neck is a bead gifted to her by her grandmother on her first breathe. On her waste are crystal adornment on her first broken teeth. She is shy for being noticed.
Plumpy and natural. She chuckles to her lifestyle so feral. She's music knitted in raw gold. She's shy to be noticed but secretly bold.
Her hands are twisted in voices, unheard. Her lips are adored with words, unspoken. Her curves are perfectly shaped, unnoticed. She is shy for being noticed.
Her hair is plaited in weaves and splashes, to the back. On her neck is an ancestry bead gifted to her by her grandmother, on her first breathe. On her waste are crystal adornment of love, on her first broken teeth. She is shy for being noticed.
Plumpy and natural. She chuckles to her lifestyle, so feral. She's music knitted in raw gold. She's shy to be noticed but secretly bold.
I remember entering a beauty contest with the kinky coiled hair seated on my head. There, I find out that black girl like me were different from me. Their hair were silky straight, long and shiny. Despite the burn of chemicals on my scalp and the smell of sulphur that filled the room. I was impressed at the prospect of having straight hair. It was beautiful and celebrate and I with my kinky hair felt inadequate. Over the years, I spent thousands of dollars to have a long, straight hair. And a thousand more on wigs and extensions to make my hair look fuller. I didn't realize that then, I was gripped by insecurity.
As a young of 12, it stayed with me into adulthood. To be an African born into America. It is to be born into a world that makes you inferior even before you take your first step. Or learn your first language. To be under constant mental and spiritual attach that you have to fight alone. It's not only our bodies that were taken during slavery, but our identities as well. We were told that our hair doesn't grow.That knowledge and wisdom was something we never know. And that everything they gave us, was an opportunity. That our nose were too wide. And our lips were too big. That our skin is too dark and our features and structure, were too thick.
At 15, I use to look in the mirror for hours. Thinking, what if I was more beautiful? That if my hair could reach my back. What if my eyes were blue or green. Like the dolls and Barbie's I watched on the television screen. If my nose and lips were a little smaller. What if I was prettier? Television shows made me feel I wasn't alive. Magazines made me feel there was something wrong with me. As if I'm incomplete and I need to be changed because I don't fit into the society, far and near. By the society dominated by white. Yet, I'm privileged. Yet, I'm refused over and over again.