“I knew that I could make a difference in the world, one bold stroke at a time.”

A letter to grief

“Somehow, though, there was a chapter slowly closing all the pain to allow me to acknowledge myself, the anger now the knowledge of my experience.”

“But when the interview was long over and there was no longer any pressure on me to deliver a neat answer; when I was in bed tossing, turning, and poring over the minute details of my day; when I had seemingly all the time in the world as the night stretched before me, I still had trouble hitting the bullseye. Almost like I didn’t know myself — like there was a schism of the self.”

“As a poet, I write of mass Black exodus, ancient memory, unspoiled land and what I mean is that I want somewhere of my own.”

“I choose to share my beauty with those who cherish it and who won’t tarnish it. It’s not for the world to take what’s mine and feed it through a machine that creates plastic barbie dolls; slaves to an industry responsible for corrupting a generation of Kardashian wannabes.”

“Who knew a little unbounded sensual self-touch could lead to such liberty?”

I felt like I was a superhero being able to help everyone. But I wasn’t a superhero…

I‘ve been trapped in this narrative of “not fitting in” and disliking myself so much so that true self-love has been foreign to me. In fact, it’s been so much easier sitting in this place of self-hate than working towards anything else.

Hip dips galore. Stretchmarks spotlighted. Acne scars untouched. What does it feel like to love myself without inhibition?

I had a voice in me that kept telling me to go on… Was that God?

Feel empowered in your own skin.

In my sunflower state of mind, there was peace, there was time and there was me.

“Strengthening my relationship with my hijab was key to fostering a healthy relationship with myself. And by doing so, I learned that being a hijabi is about recognizing the strength it takes to look past the surface to uncover true beauty.”

The most important search of my life…

Musings on African identity: to mixed children, my thoughts go out to you as you would feel quite like me.

Dissected, chopped and carved, like a butcher’s plaything / I am repeatedly punished everywhere I reside. 

Written in my time with God in the morning, I hope it blesses someone.

Living in my mum’s shadow…

To all the others like me stumbling bravely on this dark road, I’ll think of you.