Oluseyi Akinbami Poet Narrative

Little minds

Strange sedition moves in silence,
cloaked in artificial green,
a painted smile that hides the sting.
Some ask with twisted curiosity,

“Where are you from?”

Others slip away, eyes averted,
finding excuses to keep distance,
though your face is harmless, open.

There are those who pull back deliberately,
carving out space, quickening their steps
a quiet theater of unspoken pride.
It steals the innocence of childhood,
brings endless loss,

miscarriages of justice,
countless favors granted to others,
spiteful glances, open put-downs,
strange stares that twist what nature made.

The sun that warmed my skin
taught me to shine in my own light.
I do not envy you in your cold.

The spite comes in waves,
unprovoked jeers and insults,
at work, on the bus,
in crowded malls,
inside elevators,
in sideways looks and hesitant rejections.

even in church, the brief pause,
the subtle exclusion on sacred ground.

We see it clearly, watching in silence.
Sometimes it’s too obvious
the quiet favoritism, the “us first,”
you last, or simply erased.

The way they say “minority” or “others,”
as if the words could shrink a person,
make us less human.

I am African, not minority, not other.

We recognize these sorting games.
In civility we often let it pass,
holding onto deeper knowing.

This body is only a temporary shell,
already fading.

We are not inferior.
We are not a threat.
We are beautiful.
We observe.
We laugh at the smallness of these minds.

And when the true maker of colors
finally snaps the chains of twisted justice,
then you will understand:
we are all just travelers here.

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