#colonial aftermath

My hair is made of magic, My limbs are built from dreams And my voice is the soul of Old forefathers who died in chains On a land that wasn't theirs. My skin is made of gold Coloured brown by the dust of this journey, This struggle, this grandmothers story Where there is justice in the end. We just have to wait for it - While our backs break and our brothers fall in war, And our rivers fill with blood and our homes are plundered, our cultures bludgeoned so the babies Lose their tongues and can't speak to their mothers. And we are divided. So we wear our hair straight and scrub our skin light Contort syllables in our mouths and bargain for relevance. Prove something to them, While we wait for justice. My eyes have the sun in them, The curves of my body are the map that leads us home. Do not insult my beauty, or my power Because I am a deity born into strength, A seed of African glory flowering bright. So do not insult my beauty, I have been tempered by war and by hunger And the cruelty of men. This fierceness I learnt from my mother, Whose smile is my own. So do not insult my roots, my people, Check yourself - Because I am the one who will deliver the justice.