I’m trapped in a box made up of a unique genes with shades that don’t complement society. I am unknowingly clothed in stereotypes tailored by mothers in leteise whose wisdom is far more superior than mine.
I walk in silence albeit stomping the yard for I know not the appropriate way to carry myself but our traditional dancers with perfect stances are always around to teach me what is right and with every lash of their whip, I am left wondering which steps I did not get this time. My cry for help is considered a tantrum and my words fall on deaf ears. I’ve tried to help myself but I’m stuck at accepting my belonging here. I do not know how to love myself because I do not know what that is.
They are like baobab trees scattered all around me, bearing morula fruit that they may use to feed and heal me and every time pula e nna i see them dancing carefree, drenched in peace, love, happiness and unity.
And I cant even get a taste, not a drip, not a splatter on my face and I’m parched searching for a part of my mind that I can run to and escape.
They know only to feed me with heaped servings of prayer, they go to church and kneel before Our Father In Heaven for only He knows why he created me and placed me on this earth, the very one that contains the herbs that I’m forced to drink and rub on my head till it hurts.
I know that they don’t hate me, they just can’t understand, so they keep me shackled in a glass house where I see them throwing rocks and kicking sand reminding me that I am just a speck of dust meant to be just like them but I’m not and will never be. I’m just a mad man.