You cannot sit there and begin to imagine
half of what my struggle here has been,
the slow and agonizing safari I found myself
forced to take into the depths of my self,
to realize that the box I checked to self-identify
within these borders opened me up to so much hate.
You cannot even begin to imagine what
being Black, being African
is about for me, in this day and age,
and within my personal geographical context.
Yet you find it so easy to spit out words,
to push racism underneath the rug of comfort
that you’ve lived in for your entire caucasoid existence.
You cannot even touch the depth of hate
that this country has dealt me personally,
and that others with my velvet black skin
have had to deal with, and to live with, and to survive.
Or, in other cases, die specifically because of…
You shall not. And you will not, ever, tell me how
I should feel about colonialism or the Black experience.
My skin color and my experience is utterly different
from yours; you are a white male, I am a black female.
The African experience cannot begin to be understood
on ANY level by you and your limited mind.
Yes, you understand that colonialism is bad,
but do you understand what it means for me to
live black? To live African?
Yes, I do not cheer on the USA during football.
And, yes, it is indeed called football, not soccer.
Because football is in my blood, in my heart and
it has no color code.
I cheer because it is a sport. Not because
it is a reflection of my feelings or my stand
on colonialism or racism.
You cannot and shall not ever begin to understand
my life as an African female in a foreign country
where I am part of a vast majority
that faces a struggle that you
shall never be
So do not think you can tell me
I should feel
about being who I am,
about my continent’s history
and my own personal struggle to live African
in a world that, sometimes, fails to be a comforting haven.