Story Time

Lemme tell you wha had happened.

Erased from our mental history were the memories of a identity worth having.

So we’re mixed.

American with some Cherokee too, add some creole and geechee, but only because you don’t know enough to know- them latter groups was niggas too.

…anything and everything but being what we are: Black Africans…unless we talkin bout Egypt. Negros love claiming what today is considered alabaster.

Meanwhile skippin over the whole western hemisphere of Africa.

Where the breadth of slim’s nose, aunt sue’s pigment and grandma’s hips were born. Where our culture and customs originated before their diasporic remaster.

No more tribes, no more wars. Just the field or a stove.

Gained a partially unified identity, until up came jim crow.

…but we forgot our tongues. And Africa, it seems forgot us.

Yet now we stand!

…on masa’s bordered land; instagram flag wars and arguendo re who was bought and who sold.

Maybe in another 500 years our children will know that Auntie Njinga was right, Grandma Ashanti ain’t never wrong. They’ll refight our war. Update this poem. Add to it an ending on how the first Black Nation formed.