Akinola Amina three poems
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My black is the A that completes the word AESTHETIC

Out of the whitewalls, I pass

My image shining like fine jewels 

I know my worth and won’t trespass

I have the strength to carry my pride 

From the colour of my skin to the texture of my hair 

To the length of my strands & the life in my Smiles

To the shape of my nose that perceive the wind of peace 

To the shape of my legs that walks forth to wear glories

My black is beautiful!

Have you not seen a black woman?

A black woman with the veil of beauty

Her speech so soft like silk

Overloaded with respect and love

Her hips so curvy like a marvellous gown 

She’s never too fragile to break silence

Never too afraid to let you know that her black is beautiful with her shiny skin that kisses the sun 

She defines obviously what a beautiful black woman entails 

Have you not heard of the rain?

The rain that washed away the Father’s farmland 

The rain that took roofs to miles 

The rain that left the house door ajar

The rain that flooded east, north, west and south 

The rain that left children wrapped in their mothers’ bosoms 

The rain that left the elders sitting close to the fire 

But this same rain never washed our colour away!

They say our bile duct secrets the black pigment in multitude; well, who knows why God gifted us so good.

Have you not seem to understand the souls of Africa men? 

The souls of Africa that flourish like gold mines

The souls of Africa that dazzle like diamonds

The souls of Africa that stand firm against her foes 

The souls of Africa that fought for justice

The souls of Africa that treat human not as debris 

Have you not heard of them

Have you not heard of late Mandela of South Africa

Late M.K.O Abiola of Nigeria

Late Gaddafi of Libya land e.t.c?

To my fathers, mothers and grannies, my daughters, sisters, nieces, cousins, my colleague and friends in the race 

This is my voice,

My voice from plantain plantation

From cotton pickers to cattle herders 

From Virginia to Brazil to Morocco

From Arizona to Alabama to Libya

Voice from Cuba, Uganda, Algeria and South Africa.

This is my voice which crosses the Atlantic Ocean to humbly tell the people

That my black is beautiful 

My voice speaks for all of us when I say again 

My black is beautiful

Our black is beautiful.


Scars are not signs of weakness,
They are signs of survival and endurance.


For every wound is a scar and every scar tells a story

Every scar tells a different story and my scar

Reminds me that I did survive my deepest wound

My scars took me through a deep, dark and scary journey

It pushed me to and fro like a rocking chair

Yes, my scar did paint my heart with humour and turned my blood to black

It made me crumble like ancient bricks of Jericho

My scars spelt pains to my eyes and made me searched for death

I had an excursion with my scars

We saw life at different and several ends

We saw life at its favourite colour spreading its wings of love

We saw life like a schoolboy go home to meet his lifeless families

My scars left strands of black rays piercing my nostrils like oxygen

But my scars healed!

My scars healed and gave me a sit under the orchard Park at night

To ponder over my loss and gather ingredients for resurrection

My scars healed and I count my glories like they are stars

My scars healed and I walked away from it to Bliss and love

Indeed my wound was an angel in disguise

My scars healed as I met with light at the end of tunnels

My scars healed and told me that

My arms should reach out to embrace strength and glories

My scars healed

My beautiful scars healed and I walked away from pain to stars.


The boys enjoy the drops of rain/ the splash of water against each other’s thigh / as they joyously design the fele-le ball with their tiny legs / the kids pick up snails besides the river shore/ papa is just a day to his golden jubilee/ mama won’t let the house fall in love with decorum as she signs at the top of her voice

Chineke ndi ma o

Ndi ma ,ndi ma o

This has been her favourite song / since she followed mama Ebuka to St Louis Catholic Church/ this is how we used to live in a small world with big people/ until we were asked to do what? / Until what really happened? / This is how we used to live with harmony until the monkey sojourned and never returned/ until we wore the destructive gown of Uncle civilization/ until our heart became think and dusty / until we no longer want to sit down and drink palmi together under the raffia hut

About the author

Akinola Amina is a poet and a writer, she’s also a girl child activist as well as an advocate for mental health, she attended Lagos State college of health technology. Her works appeared on THE SHALLOW TALES REVIEW, LOUDINK HOME OF ART, POETRY JOURNAL, POETRY TUESDAY, AL MIRAATUL MAGAZINE and forthcoming ON WRITER’S HUB ANTHOLOGY OF INDEPENDENCE, she’s writing from Lagos Nigeria.

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Writer, editor and reader. A student of mathematics and physics, Twitter troll, Facebook comedian and human.

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