Dispersal
I never crafted sandcastles in the Sphinx’s shadow
or dangled my feet off the edge of a plateau
or laid my laundry out to dry on the banks of the Nile,
and my watch has never been a sundial.
Besides the fireflies I had another nightlight,
and I have never felt the joy of watching a flock of flamingoes take flight.
I have never stood in the water wondering where the Niger ends and the Banau begins,
nor have I wished my closest friends were the daughters of chieftains.
I would not know to avoid the tsetse flies,
nor could I tell the difference between a monkey’s cries.
I have never savored milk straight from the fallen coconut,
nor my own path through the forest have I cut.
My native tongue is not Swahili,
and I would be ashamed to dance in the rain freely.
I could never ask an okapi what happened to the rest of its stripes,
and too much rain or not enough have been the least of my gripes.
I have never balanced basins atop my head,
nor have I drank from a cow who has bled.
I am a daughter of the Diaspora—I could have never been Other,
could have come from a world where every man is my brother,
could have been from a tribe—more than families or clans,
but that isn’t all, there is more this life spans:
I have never been forced, tattoos are a choice.
My tongue has never been cut to silence my voice.
Rather than around my neck, I like my rings on my fingers and in my ears,
and I balk at a plate in my lip just to fit with my peers.
Against the neighboring tribe I’d like not to declare war;
I was claimed, now I have named myself, and the benefits I cannot ignore.
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