Grab a cup of coffee and settle in, for this will surely need your time.

Tuck your hair back and set your biases aside, as I lend you my lamp to see the world from where I stand—because on this side, it’s pretty dark.

Let me introduce myself properly:

I, am a Black woman.

I suppose that’s all you need to know.

I’d have to write my name on a placard each day for you to remember it, so today, let’s not give it a futile try.

I’m Black, not just because of the color of my skin,

but it’s fancy acronym that defines my struggles.

The “B” in Black stands for the Burden I bear on my shoulders to be three times better than my white counterparts to simply be seen.

And then there’s LACK,

Quite the word for all that was stolen from our ancestors:

Their Lives, Accents, Culture and Kingdoms.

The “R” in Black stands for Rest—

the peace we’ve been denied.

Independence was the lie our colonizers sold us,

Freeing our bodies but capturing our minds.

The Society is a constant mirror pulling me back to reality,

reminding me where to sit when I board the bus.

You’d rather stand than sit beside me—

black is my color, not my diagnosis.

We masquerade lies in a barrel and call it inclusivity,

then send it to organizations that only need more shades in their palette.

But nothing changes.

Tell me, why is it okay to believe I can do all the hard work just because I’m Black?

It’s called race, but why am I the only one running while everyone else watches?

I don’t have to be a criminal to fear the IRCC, racism, inequality, and the police—

I just have to be Black.

My hair tells my story,

Black, hard curls, tangled roots,

painful to comb through,

but beautiful when braided, united in their strength.

My true beauty lies in unity,

woven with memories of pain, captivity, and bonded by trauma.

So when next you see my Afro, remember: that’s my crown.

Sometimes I silk-press it, try to mimic my colonizers,

But with only a drop of water, I’m back to my origin.

No matter how hard I try, I’m reminded the Pacific is not an adventure,

but my ancestors’ point of no return,

the only path that leads me back.

So the next time you ask about my hobbies,

don’t expect swimming to be one of them

cos the water was where all the slavery began.

The stories of Igbo Landing live rent-free in my mind.

I wonder what lies at the bottom of the ocean—

monuments, or the missing branch in my family tree?

But while you swim,

remember to always come back up.

Cos when we drown, it’s all Black.