Africa hears my name and calls me to herself
She doesn’t know Ayomide means Jacob
Or maybe she does and ignores this because
I smell like Sunday afternoons filled with Nigerian yams
And fried egg seasoned with suya peppeh
Africa knows the difference between peppeh and pepper but
Kiana does not
Kiana smells like Sunday morning breakfasts filled with slow-cooked grits
And shrimp seasoned with cayenne pepper
I see how Africa treats her because of this so I am
caught between a rock and a hard place
The rock is the dusty, pothole-ladden “highway” between Lagos and Abeokuta
The hard place is the breached levees in New Orleans
And I wait in the middle wondering whose frustration I should carry
I am wary of the line between Africa and her descendants because
Africa has been born again
And the diaspora are just children of the slave woman
And the diaspora are just children of the same woman
Every day,
I find myself caught between a rock and a hard place
The rock is green and white and corrupt
The hard place is red and green and black and
I wait in the middle wondering whose anger I should carry
I am wary of the line between African-American
But I don’t know if it is for connection or separation
Africa has been writhing with the pains of labor since her conception
And her first born have long been forgotten
And their language has long been forgotten
The pressure increases as I find myself caught between a rock and a hard place
The rock is my identity
Or the one I grew up with
The hard place is my destiny
Where I’ve been given a chance to grow
I don’t know whose purpose I should carry
I am wary of the line between Nigerian and Black
And I don’t know if I can keep double dutching much longer
Africa sees my name and calls me to herself
And knows I’m not her firstborn when she smells my clothes
But she blesses me anyway