I see my niece drawing a young African girl with brown eyes, dark skin and kinky hair.
Who fell in love with a prince in shorts , a sleeveless dashiki shirt and a glorious afro. I half rolled the millet pancakes into my hand-made lunch box. I was 40 and she, 15. She told of his most typical Afrikaans accent of a "Hi" and her nervous "beeni" which meant 'Yes' in Yoruba, when he professed his love in Ananse land- Our very own La La Land. No fairies, just a bunch of bees being generous with their honey and firefly lanterns flying across the elephant parks of Zimbabwe.
I would send a mail to Mama on the moon and tell her I have found my soulmate in
J'oburg- "She is an Afronaut too, Mama". I would tell her that home was fine just the way she left it but she'd sure squeeze out the truth from my eyes like lemons in a video call. So much for technology!! you can't even tell a lie anymore! At least Nkoloso died for a noble cause.
I would want to walk into any library and have multiple shelves reading 'The Africa We Desire' authored by African writers; and have magazines and graphic headlines telling of our movies in the Oscars and music in the Grammys while they speak of the African revolution- a revolt against our own thoughts. A rebel against self, where the African is a reader and our politicians, pacesetters.
O we will be mentioned by name. The promises of our forefathers which they nailed unto our Sur and bid us farewell beneath their sored breaths, we will be mentioned by name.
I see my niece drawing a young African girl with brown eyes, dark skin and kinky hair.
Who fell in love with a prince in shorts, a sleeveless dashiki shirt and a glorious afro.
He was a vampire too, and could survive in daylight.. 'How?' You ask?
Melanin... he had melanin.
Who fell in love with a prince in shorts , a sleeveless dashiki shirt and a glorious afro. I half rolled the millet pancakes into my hand-made lunch box. I was 40 and she, 15. She told of his most typical Afrikaans accent of a "Hi" and her nervous "beeni" which meant 'Yes' in Yoruba, when he professed his love in Ananse land- Our very own La La Land. No fairies, just a bunch of bees being generous with their honey and firefly lanterns flying across the elephant parks of Zimbabwe.
I would send a mail to Mama on the moon and tell her I have found my soulmate in
J'oburg- "She is an Afronaut too, Mama". I would tell her that home was fine just the way she left it but she'd sure squeeze out the truth from my eyes like lemons in a video call. So much for technology!! you can't even tell a lie anymore! At least Nkoloso died for a noble cause.
I would want to walk into any library and have multiple shelves reading 'The Africa We Desire' authored by African writers; and have magazines and graphic headlines telling of our movies in the Oscars and music in the Grammys while they speak of the African revolution- a revolt against our own thoughts. A rebel against self, where the African is a reader and our politicians, pacesetters.
O we will be mentioned by name. The promises of our forefathers which they nailed unto our Sur and bid us farewell beneath their sored breaths, we will be mentioned by name.
I see my niece drawing a young African girl with brown eyes, dark skin and kinky hair.
Who fell in love with a prince in shorts, a sleeveless dashiki shirt and a glorious afro.
He was a vampire too, and could survive in daylight.. 'How?' You ask?
Melanin... he had melanin.
Beautifully written. Thumbs up
ReplyDeleteThanks Hilda💕
DeleteWow. Amazing piece 😍
ReplyDeleteThanks ☺️💕
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