Like you, I am tired of waking up to news of death.
Start now. Start where you are. Start with fear. Start with pain. Start with doubt. Start with hands shaking. Start with voice trembling but start. Start and don’t stop. Start where you are, with what you have. Just... start.
The day your education makes you roll your eyes at your father. The day your exposure makes you call your own mother uncivilized, the day your amazing foreign degrees make you cringe as your driver speaks pidgin english, may you never forget your grandfather was a farmer from Oyo state who never understood english.
The white feminist becomes the CEO. The black feminist becomes the exiled rebel. The white feminist speaks about teaching literacy like i should thank her, hold her hand, kiss her for teaching children of darker skin. The black feminist should be grateful. The black feminist wears her natural hair, she is called ‘too rebellious’. The white feminist cuts her hair, she is brave. The white feminist gets featured on TIME. The black feminist is the fine print.
So many broken children living in grown bodies mimicking adult lives.
I tell you sometimes the moon is too weak to be full.
I am too full of life to be half-loved.
I have pasts inside me I did not bury properly.
Daughters do not have to inherit the silence of their mothers.
Nobody warned you that the women whose feet you cut from running would give birth to daughters with wings.