by Yvonne Onakeme Etaghene
I am not: exotic striking pretty for a dark skinned girl
not the cunt that will enable you to fuck your way into a more authentic African existence
I see you not seeing me
hearing I’m Nigerian somehow makes me an original specimen
for your Black nationalist, Pan Africanist consumption
I am not your pussy-flavored passport to finding yourself
my DNA will not set you free.
I am Nigerian
not a one-dimensional caricature of who you need an African to be
a hard femme dyke
constellation-colored acrylic nails, baggy jeans,
purple stilettos, sandy timbalands, loose fitting button down, silk neck tie
I eat meat, grilled, bbq’d & stirfried
I am not vegan just because I’m a frohawk-rockin artist
this is not a hairstyle, fad or trend
my hair defies gravity, reaches for Goddess’ residence
an expression of my spiritual ascension
I get to the point
tough Nigerian, New York gully
I am passionate: words tougher than fists, softer than peach fuzz /
not: too angry hostile combative with an attitude mad for no reason
I have plenty of reasons
I am not your “teachable moment”, not here to educate you like some
mobile Nigerian wikipedia app you input dumbass questions into
Of course I speak English
that’s what British colonial rule will fuckin do to you
Nigerians pretending to be British, shoving away their indigenous
I’ve been
writing this poem my whole life
everytime someone asked me some bullshit question
I’d recite this
murmuring Nigerian dyke holy text to myself
to remind myself why I exist
I am definition-creating, verbal rocket launcher, melter of glass, lover of her
who wonders
how long it would take you to see me
person with insecurities
a mama, a daddy
stuffed animals, favorite foods
as human
Yvonne Onakeme Etaghene 