NQW - Black in America

“What the bullet said to the black boy”

a poem by Favour Akinnagbe

You know how to run, boy?

I know you can hear,

Felt the pounding of your heart,

Racing at the sound of my inflaming voice.

You’re a target;

The shedding of your blood is great satisfaction to my soul.

Your mere existence is a danger to them,

In the blink of eye

I pierce through your dark brown skin carving myself a home.

They pick me up everyday because i’m their favorite toy,

They say to me:

“Let’s abuse our power and kill the innocent boy.”

How long will you live life with one foot out the door,

With your hands out of your pockets and your head pressed down?

How long will you have to keep holding your breath?

I’m a tool for your torture, your pain is gain to me,

But as I sit in my new found home,

I can’t help but wonder,

What could you have done to make them hate you?

“A small needful fact”

a poem by Layla Charron

Is that Elijah McClain was

A musician for small kittens

That needed

A home,

That Elijah would spend hours

Out of his day,

His bow dancing

Along the strings of

His violin,

The delicate, brown instrument

That he held in his delicate, brown hands,

Those same delicate, brown hands

That would be accused of

Holding a weapon while he was walking home,

This night that would be his last,

which would be because

Of something that he did not do,

Because of something that he could not control,

For his skin is seen as a weapon,

So violent, that he was feared by armed police,

So threatening, that he was tackled to the ground.

So evil, that he was murdered.

Elijah Mcclain was a musician for small kittens.

A POEM BY IFEDOLAPO OJO

My people bomb places...well not places but themselves

But don’t every other country go through that

My people no dey eat good food

They no get water, na poverty dey there

Or at least na what the akata people dey talk be that

My people scam...and im talking about scam scam

They call us 419

Oh and didn’t my Trump ban my people when he was the president?

My people hustle, like the real type of hustle, like they don’t care about the weather condition

I dey talk about real hustle

I dey talk about hawking

Yes, they hawk

My people read, read, books,

Read or you get your ass whooped

Them dey sing in Naija o

The music is of quality and if you think otherwise, mechi onu

My people are welcoming

They have iyan, awku, tuwo, jollof rice on deck

Ina sonki or akpọrọ gị m asị

Wait, did I forget to tell you about the touts, ke?

Na dem we dey call isi ewu

My people smart baje

But no come naija if you no smart, abeg

No come too if you dey sensitive

Naija people show no mercy

Juxtaposing the black woman & the hospital

a poem by Alondra Ogoffa

one needs help & the other pretends to not see

one demands for service & the other ignores

one is full, with medical bills &

fake prescriptions & broken bones

one’s whole career relies on giving help to people with

Lighter skin tones

both spend their time

Fighting to survive

both are entitled to receive meds,

until they see the color of their skin,

because the prescriptions are free with health care,

But they took that from us too.