Questions on Skin

Every day the earth swallows
my people. The earth shoots 
my people because our skin
is sun-kissed. Yesterday, 
the cop's pistol was pointed at 
my friend's feet, to fire freedom 
out of him & today my uncle 
is debris floating on water, 
navigating his way home. 
Can history still be called its name 
when it repeats the same outfits,
and its toxins dished to us
like yesterday's leftovers?
Why do we still drink 
from the pots our Grandfathers 
spent a lifetime trying to break? 
We want to walk 
the earth without our melanin 
popping an invite to a cop's bullet?
When will the wary stare,  
tiptoeing feet, & murmurs stop?
When will our joy be un-mimicked? 
Tomorrow will come & I fear
my children will suffer the same fate,
the same war against our skin color. 



Fatherland 
After Ajibola Tolase, Elegy

I did not reply to my mother who asked why 
I was leaving by myself at the sea coast.
I did not fear the storm in the eyes of the sea. 
I did not lose my voice.
It was my fatherland that deserted me. 
She wanted to know why 
I willed my legs to the mouth of the sea.
It was the chains on my hands that broke free. 

It was the chains on my hands that broke free. 
I willed my legs to the mouth of the sea.
It was my fatherland that deserted me. 
She wanted to know why 
I did not lose my voice,
I did not fear the storm in the eyes of the sea.
I was leaving by myself at the sea coast. 
I did not reply to my mother who asked why.

About the Author:

Rahma O. Jimoh is a creative writer and journalist. She is a 2021 Hues Foundation Scholar and a 2020 Pushcart Prize Nominee. A lover of sunsets and monuments. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Lucent Dreaming, Olongo Africa, Native Skin, Agbowo, and others. She is a shortlisted writer in the Poetically Written Prose Contest, The Eriata Oribhabor Prize, and the Abubakar Gimba Short Story Prize. She is the Poetry Editor for The Quills and Olumo Review. She reads Poetry at Chestnut Review.

Feature image by blauthbianca / Pixabay