She handed me the book
And its title became my muse
As I stare at the cover page hoping to find answers to the question that
marks an x on my chest
What is wrong with being black?
Why is my skin the color of crime?
And why am I used as a case study for judgment
Am I an outlaw?
Or was I made for another planet
Why do I feel like I was created to serve those with white flesh?
And are the four walls of college an evil forest I dare not venture into?
Or am I too premature to deal with its aftermath
What is wrong with being black?
Why do they terminate the exploits of my forefathers like miscarriages?
Why have they possessed my thoughts with the spirit of the inferiority
complex?
For they have broken the bridge where humanity meets like a confluence point
And have shattered my dreams for better eternity
I sink like the titanic every time my essence is being smashed against the
wall
And when I see the heads of my kinsmen relocated from their bodies or the
branches of their hands searching for the headquarters of their joints like
a missing budget
Or my sisters turned mobile motels and temporary homes for the emotionally
starved
Our belief system carries no more weight as we are nothing but photocopies
of them
Our fertile wombs seen as cursed soils
Why do bullets stay glued to the bodies of my siblings overseas like
magnets?
By Ofem Ubi
I am Ofem Ubi
A student of mass communication
Lover of art, good music, poetry, photography
Christian by birth and till death.
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