AFRICAN
Sun-kissed, pearl-smooth skin—
Melanin declares my existence.
Roots sink deep into the land,
My voice once undermined—
But never ignored.
I am noticed, even when they dread it.
Oh, African child, walk with your head held high.
They may try to hate me,
Yet I leave a mark that cannot be erased.
Even when abused, I am not a victim.
My story is not of suffering nor survival—
It is of prosperity, unity, and tradition.
Call me backward for embracing my heritage,
But you cannot deny that I have one.
Superiority tried to break me—
Instead, it built my will.
I gained the strength to do what’s never been done.
Look through history:
If my Black child was the most abused,
We were also the bravest.
My journey goes beyond international acceptance.
It is one of pride, of grace—
Not the ordinary kind,
But one carved in the fire of generations.
You cannot generalize me.
I am too profound.
I have many forms—
My shades, diverse.
My DNA, infinite in design.
Even when overlooked,
I am still the most recognizable.
I shine. Always.
I am divine in every shape I take.
Say what you will—
But if I say “I am African,”
None dare argue—
For my roots are undebatable.