Share On Facebook
Share On Twitter
Share On Linkedin
Share On Pinterest
Share On Reddit

By Mandla MD Sambo

The cry of the African girl child,
trapped in the modified “new world”.
She looked in the mirror saw nothing,
but an unrecognizable image,
torn down and degraded for being different.
She seeks to define herself in her own words,
Yet she is filled up questions hoping to find answers.

Staring at the blank walls, an open canvass,
she saw a reflection of the person she is,
yet the questions never stop raining down on her.
Am I pretty enough dark as I am?
Will I ever be up there amongst the stars?
Seeing as I’m not as radiant as they are,
I don’t sparkle as much.

Will I ever measure up to the standards set for me,
Because with every picture I see,
I am told that being curvy make me a symbol of the unwanted,
a shapeless metamorphism of the undesirable.

Where is that one African man, a man that will hold my hand?
And wipe away my tears,
accept me for the dark skinned African woman I am.
If only washes could rid me of the negativity
Surrounds my African colour,
Maybe then I can finally be myself without fear.