The price of colour-

The price of colour-

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I read in the papers
Today,
A young boy and his father,
Under the blanket
Of night,
Hitched a boat, set sail
Across the ocean;
Behind them- the ground
Waiting, waiting to be
Stepped on and triggered into
Explosion-
(A boy and his father escaped).

Across the ocean,
to a land- the land of the free,
Where freedom comes
With no price, and life
Is valued.

A young boy and his father
Arrived- thrilled- alive.
Two years down the line-
August 11,
The newspaper reads;
A young boy shot down
On the street,
The young boy who escaped
To be free,
The young boy thrilled
To live,
Gunned down, for the colour
Of his skin.

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To my dark sister-

To my dark sister-

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It does not befit-
The ancestors who went through
Ocean and lands,
Sweat and toil,
Blood and sacrifice,
To look down the pigment,
You have been endowed,
And utter the words-
I do not like it.

It does not befit,
The mother who went through,
vigorous nine months,
Housing a young you,
Within her 120 pounds,
While earning her coins,
With menial jobs,
To look down your skin,
Wishing it wasn’t yours.

It does not befit,
The creator- who fashioned you,
Body and soul;
A creation with genes,
Only you have been granted;
A beauty to stand out
Against the universe’s background,
To look down your skin,
Saying- black isn’t pretty.

It doesn’t befit
Your state of mind.
To wish you were something,
Other than what you are.

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Roots-

Roots-

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They told me my colour,
Was like dirt on the ground,
To be stamped on, and trod on-
Had no dignity on the land.

But my mother told me,
It was the colour of the land,
This dull brown, they tramp on,
From it, We will rise.

They told me to back off,
Books weren’t for my kind,
It was picking time in lane’s hill,
Cotton’s all that’s worth my time.

My mother laughed and countered,
Without me there’d be no kind,
For books can’t feed their stomach,
They’d always need my kind.

They said I had no history,
My past was a hole in time,
An arrow which hit its target,
We were a lost- lost tribe.

My mother shook with fury,
At the claim we had no roots;
History’s filled with us she raged,
Our tears, our blood, our joys.

From then, I hugged the library
Time for Cotton, time for books;
When they claim I have no history,
I write out to them of our roots.

The above image is courtesy of All black everything. Tumblr

Flash Fiction: Not alone 

Flash Fiction: Not alone 


I apologise for the inconvenience,” Chef Lee was saying, as customers shuffled out of the restaurant. A number of them upset and vividly expressing their displeasure at his abrupt closure in broad daylight.

Chef Lee stepped out to put a lock on the door having cleared the restaurant of staff and customers alike, only to find a young man with a sour-milk expression, blocking the entrance.
Why?” The youngster asked.

Chef Lee sighed, then replied, “I told you. My neighbour, Muhammad’s family, has been detained unwarranted at the airport and I’m going to support him”. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me“, he added, moving out of the youngster’s way.

The youngster smirked, “what can you do there.” It wasn’t a question, but still, Lee smiled and replied, “reassure him that he is not alone.”


Word count: 133. This story is in response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers photo prompt Challenge. Thank you very much @singledust for providing us with this week’s picture. 

Black History-

Black History-

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The minute she opened
her mouth, He was gone;
He was a criminal,
In the eyes of the world;
A man born from black race,
Against a white skin;
No court of man would,
acquit and free him.
The case was a plain one-
“Her words against his”,
With damning evidence,
Betraying what she speaks,
But the world then was ruled
by prejudiced men,
Who place white color,
Above all else.

But that happened decades
Ago- it’s history,
Depicting the struggles,
Of our fathers to be free.
So when you look down,
On the black of your skin,
Be nothing but proud girl,
You have every right to be.
Black, white are naught but
Colors of the skin,
For, we have the same red
Blood coursing our veins.

The beautiful art above is by Anya Brewley S 

The Cruelties Of Man

The Cruelties Of Man

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It kills me, a little bit at a time-
The cruelties of this world;
The cruelties of man;
The harshness we ooze forth.

We judge a man by his color-
His tribe, where he’s from;
He’s wealth and all his worth;
The Lord he worships at dawn.

And the heart beneath his hide of skin-
Isn’t enough to save him from
the wrath employed by man;
such is the injustice of this world.
And it kills me… A little bit at a time.