Speaking my mind

Speaking my mind

I'm seen as forbidden fruit,

and not the other kind hat was once yearned to eat, 

but forbidden fruit the one people choose to acknowledge doesn't exist, 

I do not exist.

My name as African as they come, 

and yet I'm told my colonial tongue does not project that.

They say I speak with an accent, they say it doesn't sound right when you speak to your elders like that. 

They fear my tongue like it burns villages and homes,

every sentence heard as a battle cry, 

seen as a war. 

Like my tongue thought it better than others. 

Like my tongue held thorns instead, 

that hurt every time I'd said to you that I do not understand.

How each vowel that comes out of this mouth does not build me a home. 

The truth is I grew up alone,

the voice I'd hear my own, 

and I loved that time, 

time that I spent on me, 

time spent were I was myself,

my own tongue the fire that brought light to the darkness around and nothing more.

You'd look at me, 

your eyes red with regret, 

like they'd be an explosion,

right here, right here with you,

like the words I'd speak the ticks that wind down the clock, 

till it reaches it's peak, 

on that mountain I realised it wasn't me the fuse, 

but just you that saw earthquakes in the words I'd speak. 

Like the damage didn't end here. 

Like it gave you nightmares as you'd sleep.

I'm not sorry, 

that my tongue spits syllables that feel foreign to you on your ignorant lips, 

I'm not sorry for your  words a river, 

bringing a boat to me, 

then me saying to you I'd rather walk. 

I'm not sorry for having an accent, 

that makes traditional words have a lighter complexion. 

I'm not sorry for speaking to you a war, 

and if it explodes, 

I know, at least my truth will cut deep. 

Maybe then the damage will end here. 

Maybe then as I speak my mind, 

the fire that starts here will burn the nightmares in your sleep.

15/07/19✅