Amoke,
I see your pains
A mother needs her child by her side even as a symbolic act of capitulations.
Mother,
Let's be sincere with each other!
Let's call the spade, a spade!
Let's not sober any further.
Mixed, black, or white
Average, tall or of short height.
Africa is home to all,
And America is my space.
Insults might add salts to our wounds
It heals but never kills
I might call you an illterate
And spit on your face
But it'll never change the face of fate.
Starve the love in your heart to death
And leave this side of the earth.
Live off home's natural wealth
And breathe its fresh breath.
Let's not write to each other
Or wail farewell,
Dear mother.
Let's not say a call,
But instead a prayer.
Let our memories grow tall,
For what doesn't kill the heart makes it stronger.
YOU ARE READING
My Voice, My Choice
Poetry#1 in africanpoetry #6 in racist This poem collection contains various atrocities that happens between mothers and their daughters. 'My Voice, My Choice' is a debate between an educated daughter and her illiterate mother. Experience is the best teac...
