A Black, Black Woman

I am African.
I am Woman.
I am Black.

My black is kind of black
So they call me black, black.

I am a black, black woman.
Always have been,
And always will be.
Or so I think.

I am a black, black woman.
I wonder why that is
When everyone I see
Look just black to me.

Whispers and taunts follow me.
Alone,
I walk down the path of reproach.
A place I once called home
Had become a deadly abode.

Scorns and snickers,
Torn knickers,
Waste in my locker.

Broken fingers,
Over-zealous kickers,
Shallow by-standers.

“Enough,” I screamed.
I am not an alien,
My grandma is black you see,
Black, black I mean.

Not that they would listen,
Their ears deaf to reason,
The colour of my skin
Was all they could see.

“I am African,” I screamed.
“We are Africans,” they screamed.
“Am I African?” I disbelieved.

Mirror, mirror, mirror,
Who is the blackest of them all?
Is that my face I see?

If only I could get less black
And become yellow black,
Or better still brown black.

Then the T.V spoke to me,
Jumia’s flash sales season.
A miracle in a package, called cream.

A hug from the star athlete,
A rose in my locker,
Carefully folded satire,
I am a squad member!

I was a black, black woman.
Now I am just a black woman,
Or so I think.

The miracle in the package works wonders,
But why does mum look at me like I am no longer her daughter.
“Mum, it is me Sophia.”
She turns her back to me like I am an impostor.

Mirror, mirror, mirror,
Who is the blackest of them all?
Is that my face I see?