there ain-t nothing that-s black about me
other than my clay-coloured-skin
my roots in southern africa
and my distinct articulations
back home they call me a coconut
coz i be white
in ways i read and write
i show no negritude
by which they mean
hip hop bantu talk and struggle
since my mother is a lekgowa*
and my education ‘private-and-prestigious’
my name and sight deceives they say
for when i speak i talk
like they do about things they care of
and i wondered whether i could be black enough
honestly i-m just a nigga that loves the land
cursed to the bone
by blood of victor and victim
i showcase both histories
these days i turn back and say
what then is a nigga to you
poor and prostitute
participates of gang violence
potheads with crackhead-ed
baby mamas — no real future ahead
so long as I speak ebonics or a bantu tongue
then am I black
i watch the words — their double meaning
because if white means well spoken and read
then what does it mean for the black man
why reduce a nigga to a slum-sleeper
black nigga african
words we never chose but we-re given
black nigga african
what do they mean
to dance and have rhythm
as to entertain whom
to run miles and not tire
as to flee from what
we look at the world divided into
me and you
but you say i am as white is
coz of cash class and control
if black is to be broke-and-broken
then why be a nigga
or maybe the negro needs new clothes
other than the tropes of what white is not
Lekgowa: white person (Setswana)
First published in the Kalahari Review. I’ve included the link below.
Samuel Rubadiri 