51

"African?" they ask.
Yes,
but I am Nigerian.

I am the voice that brings heads together,

as I speak in loud tones, through poetry, 

as I make the opinions of the speechless known.
I let my accent roll off my tongue,
by accident, 

as my voice rises like the dust does in my fatherland.

My heart beats like the talking drums of my ancestors, 

brave like the wrestlers of that time yet pure, 

bursting with severe passion, 

bleeding with an indescribable love, 

and having a thirst for change.

My hands stay open as they touch the lives of the needy through actions of brotherly love, 

and as they wish to know the secrets of the delicious dishes of our women.

My ears reminisce those days it fell asleep to folk tales told by the wise whose faces are adorned with
laugh lines and proud smiles, whose eyes saw visions and lips spoke prophecies.

My mind sleeps in a state of unrest,
harboring thoughts of hope and dreaming of a future that can be attained by a generation of multitalented beings: children who break boundaries and shape universes.

My eyes miss the beauty we possess,
seen in the smiles of people who have little joy in the world. 

Yet they laugh even in deprivation, sing even in trepidation. 

The beauty, that's in the happy way the hips of the dancer sways as our culture comes to life with her every move.

My body moves to the echoes of bomb blasts and clashing cutlasses. 

Stray bullets pierce through my eyes as I read memoirs of those persecuted for standing up for something 

and the cries of the survivors of the many oil explosions play in the background. 

While the fire blazes in my soul as I watch those memories once tucked away reincarnate in our today.

And the color of my skin?
It unites me to my people,
tracing the world map, with dotted lines, the route back home. 

Reminding me of seeds I must sow, in memory of my roots that define me, wherever I go.

I am Nigerian,
a reason to be proud,
Proud that after 51 years, we keep growing strong, we keep growing free.