Nya ébok rà

Control isn’t just a word to rhyme in poetry class. It’s the pattern that pragmates the cervixes of life. I knew how to breath, eat by listening to the voices that scream the loudest when my soul is reeling in unfathomable silence;

“Nya ébok rà this is what you should do”

I’m not used to the uncertainty that taints my own voice, or the scent of naivety that trails my skin. I’ve been told I’m too wayward, addicted to carelessness like it was heroine. Control is the word associated with power, they said,

Nya ébok rà, control will keep you strong, even if it’s just a bubble of illusion that distorts perception.

There are daddy issues interwoven in mummy issues interwoven in life issues. It’s not like me to leave things alone and freedom is like the stars I sleep under every fortnight so I could dream in bright white light. When the last piece of me broke away, I ran up the a mountain, pointed my forefinger to the air and screamed,

Nya ébok rà I hope I’ll swim back whole some day.

Nya ébok rà

Black enough

You ought to have to have seen her

Black body paint dripped from mane down to ankles

styled with a latex jacket and thigh high boots

A cigarette pressed lightly between her lips

You ought to have seen her

Her skin coalesces with the golden shy sun

She metamorphosed into a shade of deadly night

Belladonna like the devil’s berries

Honey coloured eye reflecting jewels

shea butter dripping from endless tamed lush kinks

Authentic she is, a goddess to behold

Belladonna like death cherries

Her footprints spirals in desert sand

Causing confusion wherever she trod

Posing for the cover of blacknvogue

Nubian temptress to the very end

And to think she had to scream her lungs

to break through a forcefield of deafening silence

they said she ought to behave whiter

Seemingly she was black enough

she was stunting on cloud bursting lilac skies

One could build a dam from her tear droplets

she lined a path from where she’d been

was forbidden to tango with ethereal solace

She was a drifting butterfly

perching on a fallen crimson leave

bejewelled by virgo’s decadent virtue

paradise cradled between her bosom.

You’ll remember her by her acerbic glances

the confidence that’s apparent through her melanin glow

they said she was black enough

to which she replied, “I didn’t chose it, I got lucky”