CAPIOPHOBIA
By Omobolanle Alashe
When the white guns come out,
it’s amazing how quickly we strip ourselves.
Mother-slangs and native slurs disappear along with our black tongues.
Conversation becomes so polite, you can taste the punctuation in our fear.
The radio is suddenly white washed-
no Black-lash or gang music on this car ride and
we must now become politically incorrect.
Our hands fold in supplication to a white god,
heralding prayers our mothers utter,
“Go ye into the world and for God’s sake keep from the headlines”
So, our hands are raised in submission,
in line of sight
(they always need to see where our hands are)
and to the great commission, we cry Amen.
Mother, Amen.
When the white guns come out,
it’s amazing how quickly we tame ourselves.
Even the hairs from our crowns sit a little straighter; they’re less willing to act out of turn.
Even our roots forget themselves for a minute and bow their curls to a new deity,
unravelling kinks and twists, flattening hairs to appear less of a beast,
less of a threat.
Doubt has no benefit and
we probably have drugs?
and pockets full of sunshine?
We’re definitely on meds but a statistic will always be the better marksman.
When the white guns come out,
it’s amazing how quickly we bleed ourselves.
Melanin seeps from our veins and tucks itself quietly under our car seats.
Our shadows turn to grey as they come into view.
We all pale, try to look a shade lighter but our veins were stained from the start.
It is a curse and blessing that lasts a lifetime.
And in that moment, we wonder how many have looked out the car window
and seen Death in his ironed uniform, just like we do now.
How many have written off an ID check as a death sentence?
So, when the white guns come out,
we remind ourselves that we’ve done nothing wrong.
If colour were a crime,
life sentences would be transgenerational.
If colour were a crime,
wombs would be correctional facilities.
We would pay penance and cleanse our foetal sins from within.
Our mothers would wash us so white, maybe we could stand a chance in society.
But, for now, we remind ourselves we’ve done nothing wrong
we steel our bones
we clean our tongues
we straighten all kinks
we hope to God that ID’s do not resemble guns
we assume position – hands in view, legs in place,
hoping that the road ahead is not paved with our broken, bleeding bodies.
This time, we get off with a warning.
When the white guns come out,
it’s amazing how quickly we strip ourselves.
Mother-slangs and native slurs disappear along with our black tongues.
Conversation becomes so polite, you can taste the punctuation in our fear.
The radio is suddenly white washed-
no Black-lash or gang music on this car ride and
we must now become politically incorrect.
Our hands fold in supplication to a white god,
heralding prayers our mothers utter,
“Go ye into the world and for God’s sake keep from the headlines”
So, our hands are raised in submission,
in line of sight
(they always need to see where our hands are)
and to the great commission, we cry Amen.
Mother, Amen.
When the white guns come out,
it’s amazing how quickly we tame ourselves.
Even the hairs from our crowns sit a little straighter; they’re less willing to act out of turn.
Even our roots forget themselves for a minute and bow their curls to a new deity,
unravelling kinks and twists, flattening hairs to appear less of a beast,
less of a threat.
Doubt has no benefit and
we probably have drugs?
and pockets full of sunshine?
We’re definitely on meds but a statistic will always be the better marksman.
When the white guns come out,
it’s amazing how quickly we bleed ourselves.
Melanin seeps from our veins and tucks itself quietly under our car seats.
Our shadows turn to grey as they come into view.
We all pale, try to look a shade lighter but our veins were stained from the start.
It is a curse and blessing that lasts a lifetime.
And in that moment, we wonder how many have looked out the car window
and seen Death in his ironed uniform, just like we do now.
How many have written off an ID check as a death sentence?
So, when the white guns come out,
we remind ourselves that we’ve done nothing wrong.
If colour were a crime,
life sentences would be transgenerational.
If colour were a crime,
wombs would be correctional facilities.
We would pay penance and cleanse our foetal sins from within.
Our mothers would wash us so white, maybe we could stand a chance in society.
But, for now, we remind ourselves we’ve done nothing wrong
we steel our bones
we clean our tongues
we straighten all kinks
we hope to God that ID’s do not resemble guns
we assume position – hands in view, legs in place,
hoping that the road ahead is not paved with our broken, bleeding bodies.
This time, we get off with a warning.
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BIO:
Omobolanle Alashe, an emerging African writer, juggles life as an undergraduate law student, poet and language enthusiast. Her work may be seen in As It Ought To Be Magazine, Clumsy Spider Publishing, OyeDrum Magazine among others. Omobolanle is a student of Babcock University. You may contact her @bo.la.nle_a on Instagram and @bolanle_alashe on Twitter |
