All things present

SOON! her identity yells

soon by BlackMagic feat. Tems
~|| Waiting for the sunrise, waiting for the moonlight||~

Her lost identity
Poem by Okah Alaere

~My mother says I'm black before I'm woman, my father says I'm woman before I'm black, my lover says.....~

At sun rise with a fine plate of puff-puff  she moves house to house knocking for validation in people's opinions ignoring her lost identity at her door step.

At the moon's whisper she giggles vulnerably to the soothing words of another broken soldier.

A he filled with palmy and complains
who vigorously pounces on life's fragility, troubles and all the expectations but he has non to offer and refuses to gulp his Adams apple and let down his shoulder.

Culture in her proud full tribal marks shockingly tells her she's life, all hope lost in red shaky marks of pain.
Not tribal marks
Would culture understand the defilement?
who is he to pounce, and who are you to define us ?

Pride in all her expensive beads and wrappers wakes her up the next day and the spine on her back feels straighter, finally she walks like she has diamonds at the meeting of her thighs.

Thank you Maya Angelou she laughs,
laughter that is only committed to mockery cause within her thoughts and her spine she knows tomorrow that naked and shameless stubborn guest will be back , insecurities inherited from the great apple, good and evil, what's ugly and what's not.

I should have resisted and picked life's dazzling tree she muttered to her self but now she doesn't mind she waves at her flaws knowing that's what makes her unique.

But tomorrow had found its way to her heart, that day her mother told her she is black before she is woman,
her father said she is woman before she is black, her lover said his a wounded soldier before his a man
and she said man down like it were a battle field and realizes she's hurt on the same field
and he made it about himself, should she say woman down or black person down.

The world is a war zone sharpen your mind for it.
I look forward to see who we are against, just old men with big bellies and young men standing for them. I take a better look and see my very own lover, no wonder his a wounded soldier, no time for pity plays, his now my enemy.
I did my assignment I know Margaret thatcher, Chimamanda , Hilary Clinton and many more, the battle would be like we swept them off guard and just then gossip did we hear in her cheap clothes.

How dare she fight, didn't he tell her how he likes his woman at the sideline quiet, anyways she wouldn't survive and if she does no one would want her.
She isn't even my type, I like mine thick, I like mine thin, she isn't fair enough
No!, she isn't dark enough, she's too masculine and she's too feminine.

l lost my focus in radical words, it hit me and I reply stray bullets.
Men don't gossip
Who set the rules, oh heavy words his lips stumbles on
Just like that casala don land.

We were arguing on our side when the enemies attacked, we weren't even armed, I had read well, I did my assignment isn't that the point, I thought no guns allowed , this was a different kind of war.
Besides the  battle was meant to be in the morning, who gave them the upper hand and let victory be announced in the dark night, at the early hours of 2am like an African election of dogs and wolves.

But bitter words  he forced sweet out of his mouth,
If you sway your waist a little to the left and a little to the right maybe we'll let you go old man jokes, mad dog's bone.
ohh shouldn't he be pregnant with shame but no I bare the child for I am woman.
You scratch my back I scratch yours he says further
I rather die like the rest soldiers than be a concubine of Solomon, like Ayra star I know what I offer and the sun can't beat that, talk less of you.

I went from fighting insecurities to being in a mans world and those same attributes I badly wanted to be perfect seem like what put me in trouble, she's done fighting and I just want home.

Now under his agbada below his pot belly claims that I am weak but I am not.
I run back home and meet my   identity at my door step
But puff puff, men in agbada and buffalo soldiers is that not my home,
who then is this stranger and where then is my home, will I ever find my identity?
  

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Hope you liked the gift, carefully written poem expressing an Average female and every emotion of Anita Benson

Teasing Time.

“ oni mé Oma rhọvwẹ.
Mummy I'm tired”

“Nigbati o ba gbadura lalẹ, gbadura si mi (when you pray tonight, pray against me)”

“ Ah!, Fucking Judas, Tosin you are a bastard I swear.”

“Mo sọ fun ọ pe ọkunrin yii nlo jazz( I  told you this man is using jazz).”

“See whether you like it or not, tonight we dig my sons grave or we die here.” 

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