She was kissed by the gods.

Sometimes I can't help but wonder the many things that would look brighter,

if we stopped for a moment to describe,

like your smile and the way it is able to envelop a room

and bring light in the darkest of places

or how that smile can mold back all the fear of doubt in the hearts of the fragile,

the weak and unbecoming like myself.

 


One can only wonder how a creation so small could wield so much power and grace,

yet be so delicate beyond the layers of self-doubt

but the heavens know that the gods had to have kissed you,

every single one of them

because never has there been a being so strong and fearless walking the face of this earth,

never has the world had to experience a beauty so glorious.

 


My dear,

it will take a lifetime to describe the power of your lips,

and the wisdom that flows unending from them

forcing God himself to listen,

because who could resist the sweetness of your voice

and the confidence that you carry with every echo.

 


But maybe your heart is the ultimate blessing this world could get,

the sweetest story of a love that knows it all and still strives,

because the gods may have forgotten to teach you that some won't see your beauty

and that is not your fault.

Also, it is hard for a god like yourself to love a mere mortal,

but that's why I'm here, because us mortals may never deserve you.

 


So I pray to the gods today,

that they hold you down

and remind you of the beauty I see when I look at you,

I pray that they hold your hands and give you back the joy that this world drains,

and you find the hope I find in you each day.

And I pray that one day I could be good enough to give you everything you could ever imagine.

because you will always be the more to my less.


Agube. 
Inspired by Balami.

Dear Lover,

I wanted to pray to God about you, but I never got the time,
there was always something I needed more urgently that describing you to God.

When I was 5 I heard my aunt pray for a man, but Barney was way cooler that that, he was a part of my imaginations and was a friend when I needed him they said. So when I was 10, and they rushed her to the doctors for a broken love and a damaged heart I know it was not the prayer that did that, but heaven knows I was glad I did not describe you.

Again when I was 12, and I heard my uncle pray to God for a woman as beautiful as the day, a woman with the skin he could worship and bless. A woman with a strength like that of his mother and her mothers before her, he asked. When he found her I was 13, and even though it took so long and many tellings, God knows she was beautiful, she was everything he hoped for, he said. At that moment I thought about telling God about a person too, but when I ran to tell God, I saw that maybe beauty and skin worship were not worth the description, it was not worth the theft of joy and hope that lived in my uncle’s eyes. Not long later I struggled to hug the pain away from a man who never knew the pain and hear him whisper that love fights everything even when those we love, run away with all of our stuff, and he waited I tell you.

When I was 16 I watched my best friend thank God for a lover; they had sworn that they were everything they asked God for and I just stayed there waiting for the hot guy who played the drums to notice me. They swore their love was worth a thousand ages. Then a million years became too short, to carry more than two people. When their love was no more, they swore that the reason their love died was the best thing that ever happened, and they claimed their love will always carry the reason they fell short of the promise of a thousand years.

So when I was 17 and unsure of the boy that never called me beautiful and still demanded my presence when he wanted it and only then. And I stayed pretending that his words meant nothing and his actions even less of nothing. I held on to the hope that there was someone there to listen and make me feel safe when I refused to admit that there was more to me than answering to a person who made me his bitch.

Then I turned 18 and found a boy who defended my different ways in the vaguest way possible. Yes I knew the lack of worth and uncertainty in his voice were the sounds to listen to and run for the hills and I knew I deserved more than patronize but hell it felt good to be spoken for, even though the words were a mere mockery of who I was. So even though I knew I was a second choice, a bargaining chip and a ball of hormones begging for someone to notice me. I believed all of that was love. So when a couple of months passed, and I started to slip into a kind of depression, I was told did not exist because he felt he had a right, to tell me that he did not hurt me. I found someone to listen.

That year my gift for Christmas was the truth and as I opened it I knew it was one that should have made me pick my breaking pieces and run as fast as my legs could take me, but I believed the truth was more important than all the hurt I ever felt. More and more the gifts came, and I started to redefine my understanding of love, of pain and yes I interchanged my need for safety with a fear and carried a load of my breaking self. Even though I wasn’t looking, someone was picking those pieces.

Summer came, and I learned that my fears were the reason behind the monster that chased me in the light. And my love was my fear. The idea od this boy who was not sure of me lingered, and when I stopped wanting to go home because love was home, I knew there was someone outside to keep me warm.

I was almost 20 when he looked me in my eyes and told me that I was never goddess enough. I cried and knew there was a shoulder to bring me love and all its goodness when I tried to drown my sorrow with a bottle that only made my lips bitter. I knew there was a hand to hold and kiss the pain of blood rushing down my sleeves. A voice to listen to and focus on when the demons got their voices back and hands to hold me up and fix my crown.

So Dear Lover,
I prayed to God today; I didn’t describe you instead I thanked him for you. I thanked him for the many times you walked in my life because I missed the first time. The times you made up reasons to take me away from the pain I refused to acknowledge even though it raped my mind. I thanked him for the support you didn’t even realize meant the world. I thanked him for the tea times that warmed and the steady hand to hold. I thanked him for the reality of you.
Dear Lover, I finally spoke to God about you.

Inspired by those who loved and lost.

Agube.

Photo credit: WAK-art

Explaining my black privilege to my grandmother

I tell her grandmama, look how far we have come.

I can sit at the front of the bus

when there is nobody that needs to be there,

but of course, its easier to sit at the back because my black privilege is not something most people can acknowledge or understand. 

My grandmama says, my dear if that’s far then why did Martin walk. 

I say but grandma, he walked so that we can take videos of the brutality against our skin,

he walked so that we can have evidence when they try to purge us of what makes us-us. 

He walked so that the evil men can walk only in the dark of night where nobody can see them, 

he walked so that they can come at us in uniforms that should protect us.

Wait!

Maybe that’s not why he walked but look how far we have come. 

We have more people walking with a pride

with melanin droppings and afros big and nappy

he walked so that we can wise up 

Grandmama says to remember, we were once queens and kings with crowns and freedom,

I tell her we are still queens and kings just a redefined meaning of what it is to be a queen and a king

we have crowns just not the type that everyone treasures

we are gold but not the type in the stock markets or with a market value

our gold is in our skin 

it’s in our voice 

our crowns are on our heads but only us can see it 

we have our pride

only that sometimes it has to be hidden because it comes out like a threat 

but it’s still our pride tho 

I tell her to remember we still have our culture and nobody can take that away from us.

I tell her our culture is our freedom 

our knowledge is our freedom and nobody can take that from us 

I tell my grandmama that our black privilege has given us the right to demand and to get 

to wise up and to teach, to learn and to act, to fight and to define our justice 

Look how far we have come!!

My grandmama says if our privilege is an eager way to find the slight possibility of good in the evil. 

If our black privilege is the compromise of our freedom then maybe we have nothing. 

Inspired by a hope in the dark.

-Agube.

I paid it all.

For all the many nights I stayed crying,

the days your words stabbed parts of my soul,

tearing every form of pride;

every tint of glory that made me me

I paid my debt.

I cried for nights on end

yelling and begging for you to love me,

reaching for some breath of life

because I knew I had no chance in death.

Yes! the darkness started to scream my name,

I paid my f****** debt.

Every single penny of it,

with both blood and sweat

with tears that lost its worth

with everything I was.

Hell knows I started paying before you even realized it,

and heaven  knows no one should have to beg for love the way I did,

no one should pay for something they don’t owe

something that they have earned.

Actually, you owe me,

for everything you took,

for the times you took even the things I did not have to give,

for every single tear and blood that ran down my arms.

you owe me!

So no you don’t get to do that anymore,

you don’t get to take from me because I have nothing to give you again

you don’t get to snatch the good things I have found without you

I refuse to fight a battle I can’t win

I refuse to let you take my glory.

I have something good and hell knows I will keep it, I will hold on so tight the heavens will scream because I will fight to stay. 

So no! you don’t get to do that anymore because I have paid all of my f****** debt. 

Inspired by stories of Self-Care practises.

MY KIND OF AFRICAN.

Let me tell you a story…

of what it feels like 

to hear a sound of love like none ever, 

with a sweet sweet breeze that fills your soul with a joy,

a glory that you could never go back from.

because when you know baby you just know. 

and you know what they say about going black.

She is the kind of lover that envelopes your soul, 

the kind that surprises you with a new curve each moment,

your fingers will run through her parts and all 10 will not be able to fathom the beauty,

yours eyes will stay open like your mouth because a day without her golden lights

will feel like a world without peace;

the parts of her that she would show, will keep you woke and will set your heart on fire. 

He is the kind of lover that will be good to you, 

she will hold you at night when the monsters torment your fragile heart, 

she will keep you warm when the mad men of the world struggle to take the warmth from your hungry lips.

He will be the strong and mighty arm that will carry your civilization and your harvests,

you would never know poverty. 

she will be the jewel that keeps the nights bright.

 

On the nights I scrapped my knees, wailing like a baby her smooth golden brown womb kept me calm, 

with riches worth a thousand lifetimes, 

yet her heart bore patience and discipline

he taught me that scars only tell a story and and that it was okay to cry 

because knowing him meant I was given a black man blood

and the winds could not stop me.

She isn’t the type to love you until she doesn’t,

you will never be loved by any human the ways she loved 

and i promise she will dust you up and call you beautiful because you will be hers as she will be yours. 

If you have never heard of his love you have never heard of nothing

because his love is the kind that sounds like a knock on heavens doors,

its like the sound of loves guitar played by the arch angels themselves.

So on that rainy December day, when i first met him, 

and the rainbows shone so bright

i knew, 

i just knew that i would always want the rain to fall.

i knew that he was the kind of joy this world could never take away

i knew that i wanted to know him.

You will be stamped with a mark of grace by her and that will cause you so much. 

With her people you would be called magnificent, 

you would be loved by strange men because of her mark. 

Her mark would come with a might, that when you walk,

good God!!

when you walk the world will stop,

when you walk the sounds of your fallen fathers laughing will be heard, 

when you walk kings will bow

because you are the sun, the moon and the rain. 

The scars of her mark, shine with forgiveness, so when that strange man calls you ugly with his fowl lips

and when he sees you as dead with his eyes that make him drown,

you will hold your head up and smile because her tears have moulded you,

her tears have put the swagger in your step, the swing in your waist and the glow on your skin. 

So BABY if you ever get lost, just look out for the stamp of magnificence that my African comes with. 

-Agube.

I am more Fun than a party on a Wednesday night…

I found myself having to remind me,

that I am more fun than a party on a Wednesday night…

because I will struggle to please you. I will tear my skin with the broken wine glasses from our drunken nights; because all I ever learned about acceptance is bleeding and purging oneself of the demons that make us unwanted and unloved.

I am more fun than a party on a Wednesday night…

I will give myself to you to use, to shape and to recreate. I will let you stand as a master and stop myself from reading the words your skin and your eyes have written. because slaves like me only feel when we are told to, and do as we are told only when we are told; and a Wednesday night can’t do that for you.

I am more fun than a party on a Wednesday night…

because unlike a Wednesday night if you give me a chance, I can teach you how to love me. If you gave me a chance you would know that i’m more than just about bearable. I am more than just a human that can’t be loved. I am a shapeshifter. I will change to who and whatever you want me to be.

JUST NAME IT!!

I am more fun than a party on Wednesday night….

I will kill my soul for your love, your touch,  your acceptance. I will starve the demons that make me me, to become a new version of me that is linked to someone you could love. Unlike a Wednesday night, I will get drunk with tears, laughter and cheap wine and help you forget about the hustles that Thursday comes with. I can set your day on fire with kisses that are topped with sweet sweet silence.

I am more fun than a party on a Wednesday night…

I can be your puppet. I will jump when you say,  laugh when you say and beg for your love when that is all I have left to do. i will be fully committed to you. Unlike a Wednesday night I can be your best day of the week as long as you realize that i need you.

I have needed you more than I have ever needed a party on a Wednesday night….

Agube.

No, no, no…..

My first love… 

was an asshole… 

Not the kind of asshole with all the muscles and biceps of a Greek god,

he was not even the kind with a power bike and a sexy leather jacket to match.

No, no, no…

my first was not the silky haired rich kid with the fancy car and a father that owned half my fathers property.

He wasn’t even the cool kid at the corner of the street that dressed with a”don’t talk to me” attitude and a smile worth being on a tooth paste advertisement.

Nope my first wasn’t the kid that looked like the modern day hipster, an urban creature with a sense of style like the magazines or moves like jagger.

My first was the kind of man my grandmother had told my mother about, and the type my mother had hope I would never run into. The one with words like sweet aged wine.

My first was a sag, and that was not because of the way he looked like physically,

it was the because of the dirt that his heart carried and the holes that should have be filled with love and grace and pity.

He was the kind of man we were told about in our sexual health class, the one they described to stand by the corner with eyes green like a demon hunger for blood.

My first was a man who lured my legs to a place I never asked for with words that gave comfort.

But I only asked to feel a kind of love that was different from what my mother had to give,

a love that my grandmother showed with her tray of cookies.

I just wanted a love with someone who could be with me.

I never asked to feel the pain of having the kind of love he had to give, never asked to be loved with tears running down my eyes, never asked for a love that had me screaming for help.

No, no,no..

I didn’t ask to be scared of my own shadow in my own dark room, never asked to second guess my existence for wanting to be loved.

So baby,  don’t you dare tell me that’s what I get for wanting to be loved differently.

I didn’t ask to not be given a chance to choose!!

My first stole a part of me that words could never explain, left me on realities streets naked and bleeding. The bane to my fragile wrists and tiny waist,

and all I was told was that my fair ankles said I wanted every part of me that made me sane taken away from me.

My long neck was not out on a bargain tray for the taking.

Knowing my first was not a signed paper that said I could be taken and given,

that form that I never signed didn’t say any part of me was owned.

Yes..

My first was an asshole.

Inspired by stories of emotional abuse. 

Agube.

Confessions Of the Night.

On this hot summer night,

as the stars are lost in the transition of keeping me company,

and the clouds trying to decide on the level of darkness to envelope my soul with.

My soul is left to decided whether or not it stands a fighting chance, because there is no better kind of peace than the peace of the night.

The peace that comes with knowing that the army of shiny dying stars, have their swords out fighting the sunlight and protecting the times of my slumber. 

There is no peace better than the peace of silence and cries of wounded wolfs and laughing drunk brothers and sisters because the night keeps all the shadows at home. The night lets the heart entertain the demons of the dark with a listening ear and arms to keep them calm. 

So on this night that my heart can’t help but listen to the sound of my comforting demons, that have become mine to love, mine to keep and mine to cherish, I make a confession.

I confess to being at a point in this beautiful night, where loneliness has wrapped its arms around my feeble frame and promised not to let me go.

I have cried and begged for a bargain, a way to not feel the cold chill that comes with the lonely wrap of the gods of emptiness and noisy solitude.

I confess that I have made promises to keep my heart from forgetting to breathe or to listen to the demons become at night they become the only friends I have. More like the only friends that don’t end up leaving me. 

Because I have found that there is something about me, something that makes everyone that thought they loved me leave, something that even my demons tend to let go of. Something about me that makes me just about bearable to so many. 

I confess that since the day you called me pitiful, I have wondered endlessly about ways to prove to you that I am much more fun than a party on a Tuesday night. 

I have found myself telling you about the few exaggerated moments that made me excited and I tend to realise that my happy is a happy that only the misfits could understand. 

My happy is the kind of happy that is a constant inner joke, a constant story without words that the normal heart could understand. My happy is solely the average definition of weird and you could never have time to comprehend it.  

I confess to you, that since the day you made a comment about my skinny backside. I have listened to the rumours about squats being the way to appease the gods of your over bearing eyes and respect their desire for a rounder and more flourished behind.

But I fear the kingdom of the squats have banished my frame and I because the mornings I spent in strive and pain have come to no gain and my body has lost its will to please. 

I confess that a little part of me is trying to fight this big part that sees you in my dreams, this big part of me that struggles to keep loving you even when I have little to no more loving to give. 

So ignore all my many failed attempts to be fallen in love with, I guess it just made me more and more pathetic.  

Well, I confess tonight that I have a white flag raised and I do solemnly accept loneliness as my best friend for this night. I raise my right hand up as well as my heart ready to say goodbye to you when you finally give up on me, just like everybody else. 
Agube. 

Finding the courage to love again.

Its like a journey of a thousand miles,

but this time the steps are too small to carry on.

We all cry out for love,

begging and hoping for the right kind;

but we don’t want to face all the flaws that comes with it.

Pushing away the ones that matter

and holding on to a world that can never be.

Telling ourselves that we love

knowing that its all a really bad dream.

Then getting sick and tired of being sick and tired,

but we think of the things that are,

and the ones we have lost in the process of loving.

Then we become too tired to face the truth,

waiting for the darkness to cloud the souls of the righteous.

Because if we are scared of tomorrow

we would never be able face today.

Its a forever alone fantasy

because love seems too much to get,

and too little to give away.

The best part about life is that with everything,

it just keeps going on.

Now it seems like a pile of fading memories,

while it once was a reality so beautiful, dreams couldn’t compare.

Now I would give anything to be in love in my dreams

but maybe forever is not as long as it seems.

Or maybe alone is just a fools paradise.

Although, we say we fear the world,

the truth is we fear the demons in us.

Those ones that shout out for love,

because we can’t face that idea that love may simply be an illusion.

Just like life.

Agube.

Inspired by a second chance

Beauty became…

Her body was never the representation of who she was,

but it was all he could see. 

All that mattered to him was the depth of her thigh gap,

and the way her knees knotted against themselves, making a music he could never appreciate.

Skinny was never enough,

because the stretch marks that filled her behind,

made her everything else but the fierce beauty that she was.

The slits she had made across her arms,

were the stripes that reminded her of her lack of true beauty.

Because beauty became the girls with perfect make ups,

the girls that walked with more elegance than she could ever afford.

Beauty was defined by a nice butt, full breasts and a flat belly,

it became flawlessness and a lack of bad days.

Beauty became a price she could never pay,

a purchase of a new person,

and the trade of her free soul.

It became the moonlight songs that girls like her were not allowed to sing.

Beauty! became the sound of her scattering love song

and was definitely not the way she looked in the mirror, without a body, perfect.

A girl like her with scars and flaws could never be considered a bearer of beauty.