I know of my beauty but

I can’t help but acknowledge my ugly

It’s like a disease, you know…

The way we were taught that beauty was anything other than what we are
That beauty couldn’t be color
That good meant light
That calling dark, beautiful is simply something people say to sound artistic
Or to fulfill their “empowerment” quota
I am nuance
I am the shaky balance between love and delicate (self hate)
When you see me it should be clear what the fight for self looks like

I am duality, in a world where what is dark has to be controlled and palatable

The darker you are, the more polite you should be

Loud uncontrolled laughter from fair skinned women is called expressive

The Nubian girl is called ghetto for doing the same

But the Nubian girl managed to free herself

She is both loud and composed

And her dark brick exterior houses her sensual lace with ease

She isn’t just surviving, she’s alive

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Seeping Through the Cracks

There is nothing more tragic than lost significance,
You let the waves of your hair define your crowning glory so when you lost it, when it all fell out you deemed yourself to be something less.

And finding like-minded souls whose hearts rhythm beat differently enough to create hooks and choruses with the melody of your heart made you believe you were keeping time,

But as you realised that bad songs sometimes have good rhythms as you realised your own symphonies, your conduction proved off beat with what you thought were kindred souls.

So remove yourself from these things you have made piggy banks,

From these mere mortal entities that you have placed your self-worth,

Look within… you know your song even when its drowned out by the drumming chorus of circumstance and ill encounters,

Are you listening ?

Listen, you know what you want,

You have turned Nefertiti into Bible serpent,

Being tempted by lesser fortunes, because your greatness lies in the uncomfortable cracks within the brokenness of your soul and so you hid. . .

You fled the cracks, thinking you were fleeing past mistakes and what had hurt you —

But you ran away from lessons . . .

Learn. And when the tears of lesson fall let them soothe, let them go,

When you’re done, listen…

 Open Heart

​When I started writing this piece these words popped into my head…

“She had to let go of what was only good to her five senses and start engaging with what fed her soul.” This random phrase inspired this piece.

The pressures of this world are no secret we all know what its like to go through something, we all know what its like to not only want a breakthrough but to NEED it. I’m a Christian. Yes I said it. Before you switch to the next blog post or just close this page completely. Let me just say that I am not a Christian because I’m perfect (I’m almost the complete opposite) I’m a Christian because I need God. As I write this I’m starting to wonder why I’m even writing about this topic, but if you’re out there and you believe in Jesus as I do but you still struggle, and I mean STRUGGLE in your faith. I’m right there with you, but I just want to say that God finishes what he starts, you once had a fire in your heart for Him and somewhere along the way your weaknesses or life in general have sidetracked you. You might even feel like ” You know what Lord, maybe this Christian thing is not for me, I just can’t seem to get it right” I felt like that too, I think I still do, but I know God always wins ! He is not man that he should lie.
They say that writing is self therapy and that’s what I’m doing right now, yo y’all I’m not ashamed to say I struggle and I’m trying but its hard. Its hard to want to pray, its hard to want to read my Bible . I haven’t been writing cause I wanted my next post to be about a breakthrough in my faith. But I’ve never lied in my writing. I’m not gonna start now. Being a Christian is hard, but I believe its worth it. As I write this I keep thinking.   ” God please help me” if you are in this season in your life and you’re holding on to the faith that you will be steadfast in the Lord one day, say this with me,

” Lord I am yours. My life is yours. I gave my life to you but I’ve fallen off track. I’m sorry Lord, please forgive me and strengthen me. In Jesus Christ name. Amen”

If you prayed this for yourself or someone else I want you to know that you’re not the only one going through a rough patch in your faith. This season will pass. I believe it will, God bless ! 

You Can’t Define My Kinky

You can’t define my kinky.

You can’t put your finger on how I twist my braids like this

 You can’t define how my fish net stockings are not intertwined with your need for lust, I mean intimacy

You can’t define my kinky.

You can’t understand how I write words like this.

Nor comprehend why you’ll never understand why the way I’m made up is not for your articulation neither is it something you can touch.

It’s only to be admired.

 It is a Van Gogh on a New York Museum wall.

 It is the ruins of the Colosseum in Rome  Messed up enough to look ART .

 But not whole enough to be defined.


I’ve been on many fashion blogs recently and seen an array of African inspired clothing. I’ve gone into the music library on my phone and pressed play and listened to American and British artist’s belt out African inspired ballads and thus one thing has become profoundly clear to me… If you don’t have a solid sense of identity, people will give you one and run with it.

Now don’t get me wrong, a lot of the African print you see online is truly African print that is worn traditionally by some African countries, and some African inspired music is somewhat authentic to the theme. But, that’s the thing, only some. It is impossible to completely encapsulate a continent with 54 countries in one song or in a headscarf. The countries out of Africa seem to think that they have defined what being an African is, that by wearing Nigerian inspired clothing and trying to sound African on a song is reason enough to define Africaness. Which obviously isn’t true.

I read a novel by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie called Half of a Yellow Sun in which she makes a strong point about who should be writing the stories about Africa. That someone’s identity should be defined by them first before people hop on to whatever definition suits them. There is an African proverb that says, “Until the lion learns how to write, every story will glorify the hunter” but first, before we Africans write the story, I have to pose the questions, “Do we know who we are, and can that be defined simply?”

I think that answering that question is the greatest hindrance to our progress as Africans, because after being colonised and then being independent, the remnants of who we are has been tangled in pre- colonised African and Independent African. My point is that Spanish people aren’t just tequila and salsa the same way all Africans aren’t an African rhythm and headscarf. Also, it’s very important that we as human beings think about how we define ourselves and if that is what we project

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When Art is Uniformed

I tried to hide my weird, but

It just so happens that weird is called


When its put on camera,

So,  I got up, out of the hallows of wallowing in my indifference

Contoured my cheekbones

And smudged my eye makeup to look the part

I pressed record on the camera

And I realised that my weird began to feel strange

When it was all for show

When I was trying to make it a declaration to the world

That this, too, was acceptable

When I became an advocate for my weird

It wasn’t mine

It became something for all the grief stricken to march for

It became a hashtag for the media obsessed

It became a statement to excuse, not glorify my weird

So I took the regular face towel and rubbed the ordinary from my weird face

And when all the mascara and bronzer was off

I looked into the camera


And took me and my weird outside to play

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