The Dilemma of Being Black 

My mother says I’m black,

but I am white. 

I know I’m white on the inside

I am white in all proportions, 

I went to school created by white 

I speak the language of the white

My native tongue is inconsistent. 

If you call me black based on my skin

What you omit to see is my inner skin

The white in me like egg’s white 

The emphasis of my voice like a British

The trend of my clothes like a French 

My mother was wrong, then

That I chose to deviate to be white

A choice beyond simple explication 

A voice of reason to save my job. 

It is not easy nor has it being that easy. 

My mother may desire me to be black

to remain as black. 

But time has changed 

the system has changed

people have moved on. 

I choose to be white to be accepted 

than the choice to remain black 

to be rejected. 

Who are you to blame me 

that I blackmail my veritable skin colour. 

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