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.