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My black is the A that completes the word AESTHETIC
Out of the whitewalls, I pass
My image shining like fine jewels
I know my worth and won’t trespass
I have the strength to carry my pride
From the colour of my skin to the texture of my hair
To the length of my strands & the life in my Smiles
To the shape of my nose that perceive the wind of peace
To the shape of my legs that walks forth to wear glories
My black is beautiful!
Have you not seen a black woman?
A black woman with the veil of beauty
Her speech so soft like silk
Overloaded with respect and love
Her hips so curvy like a marvellous gown
She’s never too fragile to break silence
Never too afraid to let you know that her black is beautiful with her shiny skin that kisses the sun
She defines obviously what a beautiful black woman entails
Have you not heard of the rain?
The rain that washed away the Father’s farmland
The rain that took roofs to miles
The rain that left the house door ajar
The rain that flooded east, north, west and south
The rain that left children wrapped in their mothers’ bosoms
The rain that left the elders sitting close to the fire
But this same rain never washed our colour away!
They say our bile duct secrets the black pigment in multitude; well, who knows why God gifted us so good.
Have you not seem to understand the souls of Africa men?
The souls of Africa that flourish like gold mines
The souls of Africa that dazzle like diamonds
The souls of Africa that stand firm against her foes
The souls of Africa that fought for justice
The souls of Africa that treat human not as debris
Have you not heard of them
Have you not heard of late Mandela of South Africa
Late M.K.O Abiola of Nigeria
Late Gaddafi of Libya land e.t.c?
To my fathers, mothers and grannies, my daughters, sisters, nieces, cousins, my colleague and friends in the race
This is my voice,
My voice from plantain plantation
From cotton pickers to cattle herders
From Virginia to Brazil to Morocco
From Arizona to Alabama to Libya
Voice from Cuba, Uganda, Algeria and South Africa.
This is my voice which crosses the Atlantic Ocean to humbly tell the people
That my black is beautiful
My voice speaks for all of us when I say again
My black is beautiful
Our black is beautiful.
WALKING FROM THE PAIN & SCARS TO STARS
Scars are not signs of weakness,
They are signs of survival and endurance.
— RODNEY A. WINTERS
For every wound is a scar and every scar tells a story
Every scar tells a different story and my scar
Reminds me that I did survive my deepest wound
My scars took me through a deep, dark and scary journey
It pushed me to and fro like a rocking chair
Yes, my scar did paint my heart with humour and turned my blood to black
It made me crumble like ancient bricks of Jericho
My scars spelt pains to my eyes and made me searched for death
I had an excursion with my scars
We saw life at different and several ends
We saw life at its favourite colour spreading its wings of love
We saw life like a schoolboy go home to meet his lifeless families
My scars left strands of black rays piercing my nostrils like oxygen
But my scars healed!
My scars healed and gave me a sit under the orchard Park at night
To ponder over my loss and gather ingredients for resurrection
My scars healed and I count my glories like they are stars
My scars healed and I walked away from it to Bliss and love
Indeed my wound was an angel in disguise
My scars healed as I met with light at the end of tunnels
My scars healed and told me that
My arms should reach out to embrace strength and glories
My scars healed
My beautiful scars healed and I walked away from pain to stars.
THIS IS HOW WE USED TO LIVE UNTIL ……?
The boys enjoy the drops of rain/ the splash of water against each other’s thigh / as they joyously design the fele-le ball with their tiny legs / the kids pick up snails besides the river shore/ papa is just a day to his golden jubilee/ mama won’t let the house fall in love with decorum as she signs at the top of her voice
Chineke ndi ma o
Ndi ma ,ndi ma o
This has been her favourite song / since she followed mama Ebuka to St Louis Catholic Church/ this is how we used to live in a small world with big people/ until we were asked to do what? / Until what really happened? / This is how we used to live with harmony until the monkey sojourned and never returned/ until we wore the destructive gown of Uncle civilization/ until our heart became think and dusty / until we no longer want to sit down and drink palmi together under the raffia hut
About the author
Akinola Amina is a poet and a writer, she’s also a girl child activist as well as an advocate for mental health, she attended Lagos State college of health technology. Her works appeared on THE SHALLOW TALES REVIEW, LOUDINK HOME OF ART, POETRY JOURNAL, POETRY TUESDAY, AL MIRAATUL MAGAZINE and forthcoming ON WRITER’S HUB ANTHOLOGY OF INDEPENDENCE, she’s writing from Lagos Nigeria.
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