A white man once asked me: why are you black?
I shrugged, hid the detest of the hate he spat under
my unceasing laughter, stood still, and sent my
eyeballs into his eyes so even when he shuts them
he could still see me.
My melanin filled skin comes with an unfathomed
stubbornness, that whenever I bathe the surface
with bleached oil, I end up harming my soul yet not
My skin is rooted from melanin blood, whenever a
fresh wound opens, thick black pigments find their
The melanin found me worthy; gave me wings to fly
like a bird freed from a dusty cage.
It sprouts my colour on every tree, bearing fruits
that sing songs like a nightingale.
It found me worthy that it wears me permanently
like an armour plating; gives me a metal hat to
shade my head from thorny words.
I might be a victim of non privilege,
with a black face, placing me inferior to some worlds.
But the melanin found me worthy…
Who am I to say no?
Matthew Blaise is a young poet who dreams of butterflies,
and writes to emancipate himself through poetry.
When he is not checking out doing charity, his mind wanders through the universe in search of beauty and meaning.
His poems have been published in print and online,
he currently resides in Lagos.
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