Children

I do not want children.

Rebelling against my heritage,

my culture, I repeat,

I do not want children.

Let me tell you why.

My blood is hot and my voice is loud,

my skin is dark and my belly big.

I am progressive,

a feminist,

a thinker,

a researcher.

I seek knowledge

and I like to think I have a lot of it.

Yet I look at my mother,

true Yoruba woman,

a mother,

progressive even.

And she still

holds

herself

as

God.

In the end I must obey.

In the end I must respect.

In the end she dictates my life.

As if she was there when the world was created.

As if she was there when the first volcano erupted.

As if she was there when life first began setting of a chain reaction that ended up with her being able to claim ME as hers.

I was a gift from God.

I am a gift from God.

One she asked for without a single thought to if I wanted to exist or not.

And now that I’m here,

I am under her control.

I love my mother but I cannot follow in her footsteps.

I do not want children.

If this is what is in my genes,

If this is what I will become,

I do not want children.

I cannot become another human being’s benevolent overlord.