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I’m Just Going to Write

We’re honestly so stupid.

I’ll look up the meaning of stupid later. I don’t subscribe to the respectability of not calling us names any more. Sometimes the people of violence must take by force. I’m enraged in my body as I sit here watching the only Black owned media platform with an infinite reach across the world. I’m reminded how stupid we are, and I take responsibility for allowing that stupidity to fester because it’s taken me this long to figure out how to communicate. Who knows if I’ve yet figured it out.

First of all, everything is upside down. It’s like when a rainfall of rocks is falling on you and you are choosing one rock at a time to catch and throw back up. You have to do something, and you figure if you can be pummeled by one less rock that you might be able to save one life and you might make some kind of difference in the greater scheme of things. We are stupid and that is stupid.

I still believe in Black Genius, but it exists within the sea of mediocrity. Of stupidity. We think that if we keep trying, we’ll eventually get white people to like us. To respect us. To value us. To stop killing us. Hunters gonna hunt tho. That’s how the game is played.

I’m sitting here with my cup of herb-infused tea, navigating the tremendous inflammation gripping my whole body, after having resisted the desire to toke to stop the colorful narratives of suicide prancing through my forward memory. A lady paints her lips perfect red, smoothes her perfect favorite thrift store dress, walks in gorgeous pumps to her favorite chair where she sits and drinks her cyanide-seasoned herbal tea. She has tweeted “Goodbye” just moments before to her twenty thousand followers. The foam fills her mouth and she meets her Maker, a Black-skinned curvy-svelte woman wrapped in purple silk.

“You will go back,” She says to the character in the perfect blue dress hugging her curves.

“What do you mean? Aren’t I dead?”

“I decide that.”

“But I’m tired, Mommy.”

“I know. I feel your pain, I truly do. But you must go back.”

“I am falling apart,” she says. “No, I have fallen apart.”

“I know. But you must go back.”

“So you want me to die from fatigue instead. From diabetes. Or fibroids. Or just not being able to get out of FUCKING BED!” she screams at God.

God is silent. Watches her.

She watches God. They are silent for minutes.

She grovels at God’s feet. “Please just let me die. I’m begging you.”

God allows her to cry. For hours in the eternal realm.

She sits up on Eternity’s floor. Her mascara running. A peace washes over her. She stands back up. Smoothes her dress. Lifts her chin. Wipes her eyes.

“I am still helping you,” says God. “I know it may not feel like it, but I am within you. I am with you. And it may not seem fair. You journey is harder than many. You have to master the intuition in your cells. Millions of destinies depend on your ability to do this. You will prevail. Just listen closer.”

She awoke in her favorite chair, foam dripping from her lips. She let out a loud scream and then embraced the peace.

We have to figure out our shit Black people or we’re all going to die.

Artist unfound. Uploaded by Tess Smith here.

About Lolade

Lolade is a Gates Cambridge Scholar, starting her PhD in Sociology with the 2019 class. She recently graduated with her MA in African Studies [Sociology discipline] from Yale University where she researched ethnic identity formation among Nigerian immigrants in New York, Tokyo and Mumbai. She is the author of 'Market of Dreams' a radical poetry collection about love and freedom. She obsesses over indigenous textiles, cultural preservation and innovation, and intimately connecting the African Diaspora.

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