Who Am I

Exhales, crackles and gasps , jumping hairs and sickening visions as the wind whistled pass; a quiet question knocks the door of my mind, who am I? Picture me in a yellow sun dress, head up, confident and proudly African. I sway effortlessly through a field of red roses with my nigro hair struggling to flow in the dry wind. I looked happy with my wide black nose glistening in the solar heat. Above me was a clear blue sky with floating mushroom clouds ready to pop and a sun peeping through, like God’s eye on man. I inhaled the dry dusty harmattan breeze, laid back on the dark brown soil and watched black kites fly, then, a thunder rumbled in a distance and it began to rain. The rain washed the colour off the flowers, turned the sky grey. I was left running to find a cave, but everywhere was open, and nowhere to stay, so I let the drops of acidic rain, turn me white and my identity fades.