Just because you put milk in your coffee, doesn’t mean it’s not black,
Just because after days of sitting indoors the pigment of my skin goes a bit lighter, it doesn’t make me less black than you,
Just because I speak the language of your oppressor and wear the fashions of your allies it doesn’t make me confused
You heard me play the Mbira and saw the the tune of that Congolese song sneak into the crevices of that sleep deprived look on my face, and leave a smile in its place. Then when I told you I liked that Taylor Swift song you, again questioned my “blackness” but you see, that’s the thing, my identity was never supposed to be a question.
You made it one.