Ta-Nehisi Coates' The Water Dancer.
I flipped the page.
Chapter 34.
Flipped rapidly through and found I had reached the last chapter of this story.
This story of Hi and Sophia and Rose and Thena and Aunt Emma and Corinne and Raymond and Otha and Lydia and Moses and Howell and Carrie. And water. And the exhaustion caused by the joys of dancing.
I recall women calling out the merchandises steadily constructed on their heads on the streets of Lagos, balanced like the bookshelves of European princesses. We have been queens before queens were taught to be queens.
And the brownest of skins. The reflective hues that whipped the winds and caused the whites to hate.
I’m starting to write this because my heart has carried this story in its fragile hands, expecting but not extending. Lessons have passed my brain, lessons of love and humanity. Of pain and the beauty of memories.
The worst thing that can happen to us is to forget.
We are a people, torn from many directions, ripped branches of our African tree. Ta-Nehisi Coates tells a story of Lockless and Freedom. I think about the multitude whose stories we will never hear, whose stories the salty waters carry. [Do you think the oceans got salty on their own? Black tears flavor your waters]. Whose stories the soil absorbed. Whose tears watered the earth they picked from.
Let us never forget the pain the darkest of skins have suffered, our power astounds the earth and drops the veils they require to feel powerful.
We are strength in itself. Look at us. After all they’ve put us through, who would have thought. I don’t hate, Sophia told us to never doubt her hate but I don’t hate. It’s too late for that. I own. These memories and stories must be passed on till the end of days.
We must own and leap across till we stand firm on our land.
Outfit, Makeup and Photography by Ene Okoh
