I don’t know what is wrong with me so I don’t know how to fix me.
I don’t know who I am or where I belong in order to find the tribe of people who will completely and unconditionally accept and understand me.
From church organisations, educational institutions to musical or artistic explorations;
From African visitations, family expectations to globetrotting expeditions;
Historical lectures of torturous pasts, stories and tales of glorious kingdoms don’t last;
I still don’t know what is wrong with me, so I can fix me.
Redemption promise, washed in blood,
Why blood, why so much blood?! 😞
Brown, black, beige or orange.
Eniyan dudu, eniyan pupa, kilode?
Oh, Africa, I do not know what is wrong with me, so I can fix me.
Is it my muddied dirty skin?
Is it my tangled bushy thorny hair?
Is it the unholy liason with the fathers who steal my dignity over and over again?
Is it the casting away of her daughters, oh motherland?
Are you so ashamed of me, does my visage disgust you?
I do not know what is wrong with me so I can fix me;
Is it because I pray in a foreign tongue?
Are the gods angered that I turn my back on them?
Does the god of Iron despise the god of Abraham?
Are they at war with each other?
Oh, Abba Father, how will the truth be revealed?
Oh, what is wrong with me, so I can fix me?
Don’t know who I am, what I am! Church tells me I am a child of God, a holy priesthood and such lofty ideals;
Yet still like a stranger, imposter I feel in the midst of the congregation.
Oh why, oh why, oh, be at peace for now oh troubled soul.
I do not know what is wrong with me, so I can fix me!
© Lara Rose 2016
Written as part of my end of term assignment APD Leeds Beckett university.