Ludicrously, we have made race into the dominant narrative of our time.
It is a paradoxical narrative, because it is rarely spoken.

Rarely laid out into solid words. Except in defence.

A card to be played and then derided for playing.
But it lurks in the crannies of our minds,
In the corners of our eyes,
Feasting on all that is insidious in our souls.

It is the hidden hand that guides the tides of merit,

It is the unseen wind of privilege lifting some up,

Wafting others back. Some develop muscles fighting against its air.

Its scaly fingers holds us back from embracing our complete humanity,
Its scraggy feet trampling on all that is humane within us.

We use it to tell us false truths about Africa and civilisation,

It speaks false assurances of development and freedom.
Generations from now, when they have all turned brown,
Our children will look at us with scorn and derision,
And ask ‘How could anyone think that the skin corrupts the soul?’
‘How could they think, that the land of birth,

Any one from doing wonders on earth?’
‘How did they come this far from reality?’

‘How could race be the determinant of death or deliverance?’

But here we are

Speaking this silent narrative

In silence.

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