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Samson Agboola Poem
The echoes of tens of toddlers
Today we are introduced to the magic of colors
White, black, yellow, blue, brown, red
How many these are; how beautiful they are
A few thousand echoes and I finally have room for them in my memory
Wool is white; coal is black; white is pure and black is evil
The whiteness of light covers the blackness of shadows
Purity is covered in white and darkness is emblemed in black
What other color captures innocence and goodness better than white?
What other color portrays the language of evil so genuinely beyond black?
Oh, now I get it; colors are not just shades of pigments as Aunty first said
Somewhere beyond its appeal to the eyes are its subtle tokens webbed around our mind
Colors are depictions of life; metaphors of human perception
Carefully crafted messages ferried through time with such simplicity
The symbolism of colors echoes through generations past to ones beyond
White captures purity and divinity; Black speaks mystery and death
Red clamors danger and romance; Blue whispers calmness and integrity
And who can forget the royalty of purple or the cheerfulness of yellow
We are colored from within; from the pigments of blood to the strands of imagination
From the thoughts harbored within the soul to our awareness of life
The meaning of these pigments is never abandoned through our many breaths of existence
We are cultured to forever see the world colored; to hear the meaning of diverse pigments
The power of color is beyond the perception of sight
The true grip of the allegory of pigment is enshrined in the mind
So, why do they say I am black?
Why do you call her white?
My tone is no closer to coal than hers is to wool or snow
I stare at the mirror and wonder if I missed a lesson in kindergarten
Did Auntie teach us wrong or is there a hidden plot to this
My hair may be black, as is my brow and my gorgeous eyes but not my skin
I stare at myself amazed; wondering if you are color blind or just mischievous
My kindergarten lessons tell me I am brown, or chocolate skin toned
The directory of pigments tells me that no one’s skin is truly white
There is the temptation to associate the symbolism of colors to the designation of my skin tone
Is there a hidden message of class or superiority?
Was there an intentional abandon of facts to indulge the miscarriage of truth
My young mind is full of questions, but Auntie is not in the mood for a tiring talk
I guess I’m black then
Why question a lesson that the whole world has accepted?
Copyright © Samson Agboola | Year Posted 2021
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