You heard the stories of your fathers and mothers,
How they were bound up in chains dangling on their wrists and around their necks like extra limbs,
How swift whips tore through their flesh and grazed the edges of their spine.
You cried even though you were not the man whose wound bled,
Neither were you the woman whose son never returned,
But who ever said pain had to be driven by experience?
When a people who are the same as you bleed, you feel the hurt regardless of whose skin the blade choses to cut.
Indeed, freedom is power.
But the power of freedom is defeated in the face of superior power.
Imagine being enslaved because they think they are the light,
And the colour of my skin reminds them of darkness, of evil, of dirt, of filth, of everything to be rid off the earth.
But you are no light.
Because when true light touches our skin, we both have shadows cast upon the wall,
And aren’t they the same colour? Black?
Maybe if we begin to dream monochrome then our shadows will be coloured.
But for now even the universe shows us her disdain:
No black on the rainbow, no white either