I will always slightly resemble your grandmother.
90 years of numb.
45 years of fear.
I can’t allow myself to have fun, people like her don’t know how to get happy and remain grounded.
Your mother, a rustling of wing feathers.
A new born’s cry.
Who am I, I ask myself whenever they label me as a sassy black woman, a frustrated black woman, a strong black woman or a bitter black woman.
They never ask her.
Your sister, a cannonball that keeps missing the mark.
Reloading and targeting everything that stands in my way.
Learning French to find out the opposite of misogynoir.
I always will have a slight resemblance to a beautiful struggle.
A whirlwind that’s a carousel of colourful flowers.
Violent rains putting an end to a drought.
By Vimbai Lole