Take it easy, my friend,
extend your freedom
within the supple wrapping
of your skin.
No need to be terrified.
Sit still and learn
to see through
the skin of sacred cows.
Every skin is porous.
It has to breathe
lest it calcifies.
Be on your marks
and read up on how
in the name of gain
Africa turned
into a warren
of blacks skins.
Skin is beauty in education
It is the casing of mind and soul,
leading you in and out
of yourself.
Abide
by your conscience
and listen to global stretch
of skin-tight drums.
In the swelter
of Gaborone sun,
men with sun burnt skins
roasting under the influence
of heat and jealousy
gossip about mothers
whose bundles of life
bear colourful skins
wondering in blistering languages
about paternal passports
and cross-border DNAs.
Sit still, friend,
delight in the boom
of George Lamming
holding sway
deep in the castle of his skin.
Frantz Fanon is incarnate.
His articulate skin
continues to roll out
urgent questions
that needle an Africa
reluctant to think
about the ongoing
ignoble skin trade.
We wildly narrow our minds
to the particulars of skin.
Skin fuses
and splits neighbourhoods.
Skin sweetens or sours wedding songs.
Skin belongs to skinless ancestors.
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