I’m not saying you’re easy
But you aint making it hard
The way you act to tease me
Aint getting this dark
I don’t mean to dislodge serenity
But you’re creating your image off a stolen identity
You wonder why eyes are cutting, automatic enmity
Cos your attempts to be indigenous
Fit in is based on ignorance
Yet you do it with all diligence like chameleon shark
Your whole dress and swagger are walks in the park
Swinging your bits to fling yourself at anything dark
You want to call yourself a Naija Girl
Once he fills you with his Naija world
All you want is that boom shack a lack
You want that big black cock
Back shots giving head
Cos he made your body rock back
You want to call yourself a Yardie girl
Because he filled you with his yardie world
I aint saying you’re an easy target lady
But your chocolate orange tan wont match your mixed race babies
I got no problems with mixing races
But your simple flavours aint for my taste buds
I feel the buzz of a thousand stings
Blinding like the bling of a thousand rings
I see a bait-a-black and I hear a thousand dings
Avoid, Avoid! She’ll learn a thousand things
Playing one big game called arouse the kings
Who dares wins but I won’t play with her
She’ll take the W off woman and put it on Wigg-er
If it wasn’t for the law she’d say she loves her Nigg-er
Its not a case of Beyonce, Blondes or Bigger
It takes more than a figure to get the balance right
But this chick only hooks up with stereotypes
I should call her pasture blaster
Sony or Panasonic
Cos regular folk she looks past but anything hot black she’s on it
She’s a hole sale chav
Super sonic wag wannabe
But Wha Gwaan aint got Wog in it honestly
I aint saying your easy
But take some of the blame
Girls like you but the good ones to shame
If bait-a-black is your only game
What are you giving other than time body and name
See you might chat patois
Understand everyting
Speak to every trib e in their own tongue
but what do you bring?
Where is Your Culture
I’m trying to make you think
See any girl lost in me has to come black from the brink
Till then I’ll sing
I aint saying your easy
But you aint making it hard
The way you try to please me
Makes you a walk in the park
Said I don’t want to call you easy
But you don’t make it hard
Never want to call you easy
But you obviously are
Bait
don't paint your colors on me
when you're too blind to see
that there's so much more to me
than you'll likely understand
i'm more than just a shade of white
that creeps up on you late at night
and slowly disappears at light
to hide into the day
all the words you need to hear
fall silently on your dead ears
they fall away like wasted years
but i've said them just the same
i'm not tuned into color schemes
you live in lands of make-believe
where nothing is quite what it seems
and hatred's all around
if you choose to be my friend
you must do more than just pretend
you've got a mind that transcends
the pettiness of time
if you're big enough to look through
the labels here that have no proof
and know there are no absolutes ~
we are all the same.
I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I do not wince at misfortune
Rather praise for trails
I see my brothers and sisters fall
I pray to be broken
For the weak are the strongest
Humble are the Grateful
My God crucified for grace and forgiveness
I will fear no evil
Because my God is alive
from dawn til dusk
i toil my land
skin sore and spotted
by the blistering sun
my brow damp with sweat
my hands dark and dirty
once i heard
my fathers were kings
and now my riches
are claimed by a man
who never kneeled
to toil my land
Red is for the blood I share with Kunta Kente
That indelible ink that flows through these veins
So justice unserved left empty plates till this day
Yellow for the gold that was sold off by my folks
The wealth of my people stacked on foreign boats
For the cowards that sold their own tribe men's souls
Green for every family tree rooted, generations recruited
Sons from fathers parted;
Daughters from mothers abducted
Black is for the hue on my skin
The hope of my kin
Then, now and again!
Red is for the rage I have for the recurring civil wars
The continual exploitation of our poor
The brain drain that leaks from our shores
Yellow for the increasing immigration fever
Tribalism,ethnicity and political anomaly from above and nether
For those that refuse to see a brighter future
Green for our young and staggering economies
The pawn of Western strategies
The pasture on the other side of the fence, the reason I left thee
Black for the colour of my pupil
The once blinded vision I now keep vigil
The perception of hope for my people
Red is for the blood I will share with my children's fold
Yellow for the richness of their minds acquired from the old
Green for a replenished generation, hopeful and bold
Black is for their social caste
That which they now embrace in haste.
Martini a year ago now,
The saints day,
Martinsmass,
Not the drink.
The children,
Happy playing with brightly coloured lanterns.
Eat milk bread shaped like a man.
After the long procession through the town.
We take shelter, briefly, from the intense cold.
The old half-timbered pub next to the church.
The land-lord and his wife, old friends, join us at the table.
Another old friend and colleague, a Scotsman, joins us.
My neighbour comes in with his daughter.
Uncomfortable in a public house, he is a Russian German.
Raised in Khasakhstan,
After Stalin deported Russia’s Germans speaking minorities from the Volga.
A strict Baptist, out of his territory, he is pleased to see a face he knows.
His daughter needs to use the toilet.
I beckon him to the table and introduce him to the others.
Two elderly fur clad German ladies occupy the table next to us.
They order coffee.
The Land-lady wipes their table down.
I know one of the ladies.
A regular church goer.
She owns a good deal of property in the town.
Left to her by her lawyer husband of one year.
He took poison in 1968.
We once rented a flat from her, for two years.
Before we were married.
It ended in accrimony and a court case which she brought,
And lost.
She recognises me and takes in the rest with a disparaging look.
And with a sweeping gesture of the hand.
Asks the land lady.
"Was ist das für ein Gesindl?"
Gesindl – Rabble, - Riff Raff, the class which serves.
Un word, missing from modern dictionaries.
It was used too much by a previous generation.
To mean.
Underclass,
Un-people,
Inferior breeds,
Non humans.
I detest this woman.
And now my blood boils.
Not so fast however as that of the land lady.
In meinem Kneipe kennen wir kein Gesindl!
Und NAZIs wollen wir nicht kennen!
Sie haben hier Hausverbot!
nourish common misconceptions
a conquest goes unaided
elaborate
em,bellish
entangled within this thorned labyrinth
no visibility surrounding everything
nor stones to follow home
ignorance
ugliness
integrity spilling from the wounds
no innosence remains inadequate
nor riteousness to call upon
sanctum
sordid
someone falls prey to the illness
no family to see this night
nor the child to hug once more
I entered the small shop and found the few things I required.
The shop-keeper viewed me with suspicion,
Standing chatting with his family at the till. He never let me out of his sight.
As I approached to pay, silence fell, like an axe.
“Good morning” I said.
No response was forthcoming.
No pleasantries were exchanged.
I paid and left the shop, fully aware that I didn’t belong.
My custom was not wanted there, In the village where my family have lived and farmed for four centuries.
In the melting-pot,
alien-nation.
I'm married to this Muslim Arab,
A lovely woman who wears the hijab.
Our differences dissolve in love
Of God, of life, of one another.
A lovely woman who wears the hijab
Comes naked to my marriage bed.
Of God, of life, of one another,
We then say not a single word.
Comes naked to my marriage bed,
As naked as we are to God.
We then say not a single word,
But silently I thank the Lord.
As naked as we are to God,
Our differences dissolve in love,
But silently I thank the Lord
I'm married to this Muslim Arab.