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In this gold house, my mother does not have a face
So, I let the rain from her head
Fall upon my afro in a bid to find my way
For I am a frail red girl with black lips
Hiding from the shadows above my mother's hair,
Standing still, so when all is over, I will stay closer
To my mother, that she might use the black lines on my body
As a guitar to drown the silence killing her slowly.
When all is dark and I can feel gloom kissing my eyes,
I stretch my hands out over ten seas
Searching and searching, for what I know I will not find,
For what I know I cannot hold - my mother's face.
Testimony Odey
Here we tarry
There was a time when the tales lasted- Bluffing about whistling in the night Saying from the bush comes the ground string, From the backyard comes the ground string Biting you to the feet of the ancestors. Tarry we here As we whistle in our agony through the night Of our painful daily strive. If only the tales were true The lot of us that live would crouch at the feet of the ancestors. I shall whistle through the night for this day a news Was declared against my morning and night prayers. I shall sigh than the breeze through this wet trees And If the ground string tarry I shall whistle and tell the ancestors they lied. For my agony it self has bought a old rusted flute, Together we shall whistle!
By Oluwadamilare Akinsole
Affinity
My sister and I are one of a kind, She stands bright while I prefer the dark,
People bask in her light, while I am occupied with wallows of sadness.
I never sought her light.
Instead, I watched from afar.
Ever so often she would pull me close and whisper,
“Come as you are, let them see you through my eyes,
then they will understand that you are a wonder”
I Paint With Words
A painting is worth a thousand words. How do I express something with endless interpretations with mere words ? How do I narrow down a painters intent with so many colors dancing on his canvas ? Red could mean danger and blood Red could symbolize freedom born from the sacrifice of blood and tears The painter could just think red is pretty. Only he knows the truth. The goal of art isn’t always to be understood Sometimes we’re meant to marvel at it’s endless possibilities There is a sort of beauty in not knowing. I am a painter And my colors are my words.
by Osas Patrick