Don’t let this be a trend.
Or a good book that we open and never read the end.
Don’t let this be a good movie that remains unplayed
After we paid money to watch it.
I want this to breathe infinitely.
Into the coils of our children.
I want it to strangle them until they’re body adapts and they inhale it
I want it to etch itself into the insides of our voices.
So we no longer have to whisper our greatness.
Across the bottom of our phrases and dialect.
I want the paint on our faces and our personalities to be permanent.
Like a black marker
Slashing across pages in a history book.



A signal flare into the emptiness.

Red breathing light exhaling onto the walls of my soul.

There is a sharpness in my breath that is stabbing my lungs.

I am exhaustion.

Monotony neatly packed in social media feeds.

Unable to breathe as my beliefs are slammed back against the wooden boats.

The New World just never seemed that inviting to me.

I want to remember the Old World, with the old gods, not the new.

I want more colors and flavors in my eyes.

Instead of the bland mashed potatoes of colonialism.

Show me a sidewalk painted with textiles in a minimalist style.

Matched with sky-scrapping buildings draped in kente.

A virtual assistant that understands what I say.

‘Ok, Google.’ Show me how to make my grandma’s pound cake.

Google: “Here’s a recipe, if in doubt ask your grandmama.”