Exploring Black British: Can You Hear The Sound Of The Djembe?

Black British

Golden leaves colour the grey cold floor I walk on pondering. Born of Jamaicans plundered.  My patois perplexes & my complexion: milk chocolate brown under the jaded sun.  Perfectly bespoke – broken.  I seethe on remembering my ancestor chanting a frantic Wolof song. He bashed his drum cementing his tongue to the roots. On the grainy beach lined by baobabs – I and I stood by but couldn’t understand the lingua. You know wa mi bloodclart mean?

Poem: Shadows of the Past: Tragedy, Resilience, and Migration