my Africanisms by Yvette Adams
Who are you to judge and define my Africanness?
My skin ranges in colour- light as day and dark as the night.
The texture of my hair has its own agenda- from bone straight to a curl that is so tight.
My heritage, so rich and full of colour.
Yet, so much shame to call you Africa, ‘my mother’.
For you see, mother, my brothers and sisters of this land do not see me as sibling.
Rather, I am to them a stranger, a nobody who cannot offer a thing.
If only, they could see that my soul bleeds to compensate for lack of my blackness and being judged on my whiteness.
Do not forget me in your struggle, because my brother- it is our struggle.
My identity calls for a revolution- but respect my history, my pain, my struggle to be seen, by you brother-as a proud African.