I wrote a poem about my coming-of-age as a young black woman and fighting to find myself and my voice in the world.

Rose Nmai
@rosenmai034430
1 month ago

I grew up hearing tales of forefathers,
Children of the Golden Land, they say.
A place of history,
of brave heroes and heroines
who fought to bring freedom to my motherland.

But the stories didn’t end there;
there were tales of past generations,
Ones who gave everything up
to be in the white man’s shoes.
The leathery goodness, shoes polished so brightly
every morning you could see your future in them.
But what future was it?

It was one where daughters tended to the home,
while sons left for what I call the white man’s box — the office.
Pardon me for my wording; I am a little bitter,
for I find a flaw in these tales.

What happened to liberation?
Who was set free?
Was it the children of the land or only the sons?
Is that the future I am doomed to?
Maybe not.

For in the era I was born, things had changed.
I see the daughters not confined by the walls of their homes;
They too can have a say.
So, I too can have a say.
Oh, but I was wrong!
And I know you might be wondering, what could it be this time?

Ever heard of the curse of being a child?
At first, it starts with the tickles and awws,
Everyone finds you adorable yet stupid,
With a head that weighs you down,
A body that cannot hold you up.
You are cradled until you are ready to stand alone and utter your first word,
And then ssshhhhhh… That’s when you meet the masters.

The loins that bore you now own you:
Go here, do this, come here.
There are no marked-down rules,
But you know there are rules,
And the worst of all: “I SAID!!!”
You must obey the voice of your sires,
No questions asked,
No suggestions needed from you.

But have they forgotten,
I was born with a head atop my body?
I can speak for myself now,
I can think for myself now.
But forbid it that I do so;
they would say I am drunk on rebellion and insolence. But I, on the other hand, do not think so.

I thought growing up meant stepping up,
Having a say in what tomorrow holds for me,
Holding my head up high in this so-called free world,
Or saying my mind without having to look over my shoulders.
But oh was I wrong!
Growing up meant becoming my sire,
Reading a script that was prepared for me before my first sound.

With all these rants,
Don’t call me ungrateful.
Believe me when I say I love Mama from the deepest parts of me.
I want to make her proud,
I want to be a good child.
But what is it all worth if I have to lose myself?
I just want to be me.

For I am no longer a stupid child,
Now I know not to touch fire because I have been burned,
Charred by the unforgiving plague of a beardless home.
Incubated from an innocent child to a woman,
Forced to take a sword and fight a battle I was never ready for.
But bless me, I was never alone.
After every fight, I was cradled in the arms of Mama and a tribe of sisters.

Oh, you would think I must be lucky then,
But that was not the case.
Because for every battle fought, I had no say.
The armour I wore, I had no say.
The sword I slayed with, I had no say.
I had no say, I had no sleep.
I had no sleep for fear of dreaming,
Dreaming of a future me that is a stranger to myself.

Is this all there is to life?
Was this worth losing myself to?
Because the person in the mirror looks nothing like me.
Surely there must be something I can do.
I must break through the shackles,
That unseen barrier that chokes out my song.

A song that sounds like me,
A me who is not afraid to speak up.
Oh, I can hear the melody loud and clear,
And how it drowns out the noise of fear.
The fear that my words would mean nothing,
The fear that my dreams would end up in the gutters,
The gross gutters of Accra.
For I am more than just that.

I am a song,
A symphony that tickles the sides of this unforgiving world.
I have a melody, a tune that goes like this:
“Oh, you daughter of the golden land, come out of the slave mind. A mind that only takes orders. Orders that feed the fat belly of fear. Choose your armour and join this fight, a fight where you whisper to the younger daughters that their voices matter too. We see them because we can hear them.”

Oh, such a sweet melody.
Now I can have a good night’s sleep
I am no longer afraid to dream.
Because the woman I see in the mirror is really me!

#Poetry #Africanwriter #Poet #writer #comingofage #girlchild #writingcommuinity

---