As the word ‘teen’faded from the name of my age,
I started to listen to more advice
from people not my age mates.
Started to understand,
That there can be quiet,
rebellions in rage.
Started to understand, that
Boys will be boys, doesn’t always mean
Men will be Men, in this age.
Started to wrap my mind around,
the fragile ways, we
as Kenyan Women, allow ourselves
in slivers,
To be African.
So, we have to tie dreadlocks right back,
Retouch roots every week,
Hide the curls at every turn,
As much as we can,
Have to prove in every way,
That we are not shady,
Not backwards.
That’s how successfully
colonised we are.
Even when we go out,
Don’t let your a**
Actually quake.
You can rotate,
But African Americans held a conference
that dictates;
That your behind is not actually entitled
to palpitate,
unless, you’re a hoe,
or a video vixen.
To be a Kenyan Woman of substance,
You must frown upon twerking,
And label it, too western.
That’s how successfully
colonised we are,
And yet,
We own that beauty,
Much more than
The stars we are under.
