Mama prepared me for this.
She held a mirror up to my face and showed me the colour of my skin. She promised hardship, she promised a fight – she dared me to it. She handed me all she owned – the well spoken voice, the brains, the pretty smile, knowing that none of these would ever be enough. She tore up every piece of work and told me to do better, ignored my tears and told me to come harder. I love that woman for never lying to me with pretty pictures and soft words. I love that woman for dying too soon so that I’d wear scars of pain that would last a lifetime and perhaps prove just enough to make me succeed.
The problem with black people is that they’re always fighting
I’ll never stop fighting, Mama. Never.