This Is Me

Habitants of the wilderness; Identify their beauty and acknowledge it- They wear neither clothes nor makeup. Yet,they still appreciate their differences; Each of them in their innocent making. I am a resident of the human kingdom, I am a descendant of Adam and all in the line, Yet I cry out my lungs, In this modern world; In a century numbered the twenty first, That tries to manipulate what and who I am. Tradition has been sold off to modernity, And has been exchanged for development. And in the same way, They want to change me,inside and out; By decorating me like a bride's table, And fixing through my nose,ears and navel; golden rings. They tell me that I'm supposed to be beautiful, And that all they do is to beautify me. They want to paint my face pale,and my lips red, And make me look like a rainbow. They want to prick though my eyebrows and darken them, They say they want to dress me up like a present day woman, In a manner,so transparent and fashionable. They call me short,and gift me with heels, That I may walk with my toes pointing into the ground, Like hens scratching the lands for a hidden treasure. They want to hide my pheromones, By spraying my body with perfumes from roses and jasmine, As if notifying me that I smell like a bull. I'm telling you, they want to spray my body, The same way they hold up insecticide, And aim it at the cockroaches and bed bugs. But, This is me; black and short. With a face round as the moon. This is me,with straightened muscles that make no curves; Compact teeth without a gap in between;the diastema. This is me,with fleshy cheeks that lack depressions, That they call dimples- which they say drive men crazy. This is me,with six fingers on my right hand; And short nails like those of an old Ugandan farmer. This is me,with thin brown hair standing loosely on my dry scalp; This is me,in my original form given to me by nature. This is me, walking along these tarmac roads like an ancient woman, Speaking of those tales of ages;-ancient words. Dressing like my iron lady;-my grandmother; Kneeling before my husband as I serve him his meal, Stew made in a clay pot whose bottom sat on the fire stones; And millet sliced with a grass from Ugandan swamps, In a basket woven by African hands out of African papyrus; This is me, walking like my mother, Appearing submissive with dignity before the rest, Not like those women of Jerusalem, Who walked with their noses in the air, always flirting.