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I am an African child
Born with a skin the colour of black
Bright, brilliant, Strong and bold; I'm gifted, blessed and Talented enough to be the best

I am an African child
Sailing far from my home,
traveling to America the land unknown.
Scared and lonely I can only wait,
for the white man I am filled with faith

I am an African child
Sold to the white man
Captured in metal shackles
Work all day and night
I am so afraid
The big white man captured me
Will I survive this?

Often the target of pity
My future is not confine to charity
Give me the gift of a lifetime;
Give me a dream, a door of opportunity;
I will thrive.

I am an African child
Strong, Fearless, Resilient
Son of Eidangbe the Great-Grand father, and Grand father Ugbozorba  the father of Ogudu, and Eluede the father of aziagbemin son of the soil.
Rich in texture and content
Full of potential for a better tomorrow.

© Godwin Valentine 2019
This poetry is a piece about the live And childhood of the the African Child, growing up in the early 80's and 90's wasn't a very good experience for the African child as he was surrounded by so many vices such as slave trade and and human tracking but regardless the African child remains strong, fearless, resilient and full of hope, not letting his immediate environment affect his potentials, the African child is blessed, he is successful and he is the real definition of childhood, and I'm proud to be black and I'm proud to be an African... The names on the last verse are my ancestral African father's names originated from ancient city of Benin...
My ancestors ran
Thats why I'm not American, or British, or Jamaican.
it's because, they ran.
Away from the slave traders
away from the greedy chiefs who clinged glass with the slave traders.
They ran...
That's why I'm sitting on hard bench with no money and wallet
That's why i will go home after writing this poem to no electricity
and no water
and no polony.

My ancestors ran,
that's why I'm a coward and I'm alive today.
Because great great great grandfather slept in a cave instead of die in a slaveship.
Great Great great grandfather would have won the marathon.
Great great great grandfather is a hero
because he ran.
Layi Glover Jun 27
It was unforgivably uncomfortable,

The prying gaze of the Sun.

It felt like a million eyes staring

Without blinking censuriously at my soul.

Stripped of pride with nowhere to hide,

I felt naked, wrapped in her fury;

She spoke sternly without pity.

Her words pierced my skin like arrows

Poking at the very core of my sanity;

I raged with sadness, helpless, drying.

Till Night came in shining armor:

To save the day.

© Layiglover
Layi Glover Jun 27
It was a weary afternoon.
The sky was drowned with angry clouds,
The ambience, drenched in strokes of blue
For the sun was in hiding like it had a flu.
"The earth must share in our agony"
I thought to my self as I stared at the skyline
Which not so surprisingly was visible:
There was hardly anyone within sight,
The regularly buzzing village square
Was doused in a silent melancholic tune
The memories of our sons and fathers
Danced to with reckless abandon.
It was a grand fest of pain and sorrow.
Every turn, every corner was painted red.
The air reeked of bravery and courage,
The valiant heroism of the weak.
"Rain!"
A little girl shouted from a distance.
Everyone rushed out hurridley
To behold for themselves this miracle
"The gods have heard our prayers"
Mama Iyat shouted dramatically,
As she started to do a dance.
The gods are mourning for the souls lost,
Weeping for what the senseless war had cost
little African girl, you belong with the sun
little African girl you grow with the soil, the trees, the earth.
Your melanin glows whenever light shines upon it.
Your beauty aligns with the galaxy that surrounds it.
When you see the way your hair defies gravity, the way it curls and is a beautiful bundle a top of your head, what do you think?
I hope you don't think of perming it so it could be completely straight, so it could lose it's fun, because it should stun anyone who walks by it
You should never have to think that your hair is not beautiful with it's tight curls because I 4c you glowing radiantly as your hair surrounds you, I see you loving yourself every way imaginable to man, I see a girl who was taught that your hair is too hard to handle, I see a girl who wished she had straight hair so she would look pretty all the time
I see a fighter who fought to stop the hurt she brings to herself.
Little African girl you are beautiful the way you are.
From where you came from your, beauty stuns them all.
I made this poem while thinking of myself, not only is this for me, but it is also for the African girls who think that their hair isn't beautiful the way it is
NuBlaccSoul Apr 29
be – becoming being*

Our war is a spiritual war. The great depression is our lives* – Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

I remember her.
But I remember her differently
now.

She was melody,
a sweet-sounding summer song.
Ballads bellowed below, brass bass
reverberated, thumping. Round gongs
going gag.
Her eyes spoke the misery of worlds weeping,
Yet, with a smile
Brought peace to a ravaged soul.
Memories morphed into melancholy
Our dry bones with melting marrow
of pain cracks again
Letting it seep through cracks of a once
whole heart,
though to be incapable of feeling

Redemption – left for dead – rose.
Wallflowers wallpaper into still reds.
Red of blood, reds of passion, red of danger,
reds of sins.
Sin that not even the lucid can avoid.
Velvety crimson haemorrhaging life.

Becoming being. Be. Breaking black.
A scene of a thousand and one sunsets,
A sight of a freedom of doves only to be a cage
of crows, crying. captured. enclosed in a darkening
memory.

Flaking coffins of my palate
coronium incence with crow craniums
Imphepho smoking the air inviting the future
to witness the past to see what yesterday blew into
now.

Galloping eyes tracking along this rented tent.
Tentative.
Her hand planted on my ****** canvas
stained my natural state to resemble
her unstained unnatural state.
We bury grown grudges in the ground,
between the granite and the shrouded ghoul,
tucked in like borrowed breath where death
dies, and life stretches
its nucleus beyond body.

X, with forgivable sins and unforgettable flaws,
faults and ****-ups.

A departing enigma of arrival.
Cell One below
The Fifth Chamber of the Pits planked
neatly wound around the whirling netherworld
the land of the dead undergoing going undead
the abode of the ******, drowning
eternal dam of damnation, sinking
Some shades so summer:
Gehenna;
Abominable Abaddon;
Acheron;
Avernus;
Sheol;
Hades;
Tartarus;
Tophet;
Nifhei­m.

I remember her.
She would remember me differently.
Only as a thought of momentary joy,
An anomaly of an intimate feeling too great
to define.
We were calms amidst of tornadoes.
An avalanche taking over her very being,
her effervescent existence dissolving dizzily
Pulsing through her veins torpedoing, consuming
the inner faculties – the fabrics of the core.

Plastic spring, summer-bright bundled
an autumn animosity and wintery nu-ness
a calm sandy beach with a mayhem of waters
consumed and controlled by elemental thirst.
When the waters come you won’t survive the
waves.
By the time you run, it’ll be swimming against
Currents
An electrifying, electrified pulse of push-punching-shove
tide, tucking safety and tidely in the underbellies of
underleague seas of oceans, bundles of memories below
Beneath Patrick’s rock, exhaling energies from
one lung to squirrel trees.
Money-watering branches.
Twigs in their twilight on an orange afternoon.
Yellow was her blue and her blues.

I remember her.
But I remember her differently now.
Be-coming.
Be-ing
Be.

I have not been home since 13yo
Only a hole
A bundle of dirt, concrete and doors,
Dug out dung sprouts up from a molehill
Caving in.
The house stands. Streets unchanged.
Names named a-new.
People/Animals uncaged. Minds/mannerisms still chained.
The house stands.
9 years since I was last home.
The house that habited home is here, still.
I have not been home.
Nowhere is Home.
4our walls broken like the fourth wall
Home is somewhere not here.
I have not felt home since hands felt, fell
frantically out from my foul mouth,
index finger first  
having lept out,
up from bubbling and bellowing bellies.

Hanging aimlessly at a cauldron.
Caudro on, mokey Margate weather.

A few of us quite simply, and sadly
do not have homes that vibe friendly
enough to call home.
Homes that stretch sufficiently wide
and tower tall enough
to call home.
To protect our reality.

---
Buy my poetry collection here:

https://libros-agency.co.ke/product/chickens-laying-eggs-on-the-roof

© 2013-2019. Phila Dyasi. All rights reserved. All poems are the intellectual property of Phila Dyasi. NuBlaccSoul ™.
If chickens laid eggs on the cannon, what literature would hatch? This is ancestral, past-life reading; this is meditation and prayer; this is future telling, a spiritual fair. philadyasi’s debut collection of poems, Chickens Laying Eggs on The Roof, emerges out of a need to offer a nuanced socio-political commentary on the personal and public space. Shifting between different temporal realities, it all collides into a colourful body of work that spreads itself across spectrums; nowhere and everywhere.

philadyasi, also known as nublaccsoul, is a media, communication and cultural studies scholar. Born and raised in the KwaZulu-Natal province of South Africa. Phila currently lives in Port Elizabeth, where he is both a student and works part-time as a writer. He lives by the motto: Do better; be better.  Phila has featured his poetry in, ‘Experimental Writing: Africa Vs Latin American’ anthology (2016); two anthologies by the Nelson Mandela University, ‘Piece by piece’ (2015) and ‘Carved onto the page’ (2017), Editions: 7 - 10 and 12 of the Cape Town based e-zine, ‘Ja’ (2016-8); international online SWITCH Magazine October 2017 edition; and  www.hellopoetry.com

© 2013-2019. Phila Dyasi. All rights reserved. All poems are the intellectual property of Phila Dyasi. NuBlaccSoul ™.

Chickens Laying Eggs on The Roof available here:

https://libros-agency.co.ke/product/chickens-laying-eggs-on-the-roof
An African girl married a Chinese man,
They spent their honeymoon in a caravan,
Soon they had a baby girl,
She looked Chinese with black curls,
They named her Mwana Dandan
12/4/2019
Mwana is African name for child
Juan Bot Feb 26
The boy walked to the store.
The boy wanted a smore.

He asked the store owner, and the store owner said,
HES BLACK. HE NEEDS TO BE DAED!!

Why is the world so racist? SMH :(

If you laughed at this, you should be ashamed at yourself.
Racism is bad.
Seek
Solution
Need
Restitution
When will
These people
Marked by
Color
And known
By grace
Have a voice
That isn’t only
A chorus
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