Well, it’s up to you…

You can choose to like it;
You can choose to hate it,
Well, it’s up to you.
I love my kinky as afro;
shaggy you may call it,
unkempt and untidy,
but I like it so.
My dark skin;
dark as the earth under my feet
is the pride of my origin
And I’ll go with it
to my grave, as tinted.

And my nails,
chipped as you rant about them…
will still lay here my fingers to adore.
And I’ll peel with them Papa’s oranges;
claw at His flesh better than your plastics.
Well, that’s the bitch in me;
Choose to hate it,
Or choose to like it,
It’s up to you.
And you should know lest it get out before:
That man, the beast that’s now all over you,
was once at the mercy of these thighs
I’ve heard you call twigs.

These drained balloons
You say dangle loosely on my chest;
Have suckled life into eleven full breads.
No challenge, you just got here,
Let’s wait and see what he’ll drain of you.
Hate or like it; it’s up to you.
And alas! You now lie in the same bed
That you say disfigured my body
Into this old undesirable fag,
I wish you well in your stay…
But I pity that you resemble my youth.

Were you wise my child,
You could’ve asked,
What’ll make the old man tire of you.
Not that I’ll tell you now,
But I’ll watch and wait,
Till you see that the old tongue
Is not used to the French fries,
And sickens at salt and too much sugar.
Do you know how to cook?
Can you hold the cooking stick,
And patiently and cook kuon aniang’a?

Were you wise my child,
You could’ve crawled into my bossom
so I teach you the other secrets
That’ll make him desire you more and more
That’ll make him long for your chambers,
And make him whistle praise songs at you
On his way from the hunt…
And name his best heifer after you,
If only you were wise my child,
But do I care?

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