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I watched a black child sing,
Her small lungs filled with air
As she belted words of song
From the depths of her heart;
Sono sethu bubumnyama
(Our sin is being black)
She sang with an open abandonment,
The wind her audience
And her bones shaking with passion
It was the most beautiful
Heartbreaking vision.
Black people are born
With song in their bodies
Before we talk we hum,
And once language touches
Our lips – often a foreign one,
Barging in uninvited
Yet unrelenting –
We sing, songs of liberation
And freedom
Black people are born with
Spells and incantations
That remind us that even though
A piece of paper says we are free
We are never free as long
As they keep telling us how to
Walk, talk, act,
Breathe.
Black people are born
With song in their bodies,
A constant tool of negotiation
In a world that reminds us
That our existence is not enough
Without obedience.
I watched a black child sing,
His eyes closed, caught in himself
Singing for all the brothers and sisters
Who don’t get to talk
Singing for the brothers and sisters
Who live in four, rusty corners
That welcome the rain in
And sink them before they can swim.
It broke me, shattered
Because in that moment I knew
That before black children can sing of love’s embrace
They sing of fighting hate.
How dare you pluck a flower
Out the ground before it even blooms?
I watched a black child sing,
I wanted to hold her,
Tell her it would be alright
Tell her that it would all be over
Even though I don’t know
When tomorrow will come
Sing, my child,
Sing because your heart and soul
Command you to exist rebelliously
Sing until your voice strains,
And you have to sit to catch your breath,
And when you can’t sing anymore,
Rise.
