I’m from the dirt roads of
West Africa where people and animals
of all ages run free.
I’m from my warm house in Frafraha
Where not a single flake of snow will fall.
I’m from the small green hair salon,
Where my sister and I drink freezing cold
Super malt and pineapple Avaro
as braiders twist our hair,
I run my fingers through ‘feels like rope.’
I’m from the rough grey tyre swing
Spinning around and around.
I’m from the sound of feet jumping rope.
I’m from the land where my ancestors
I’m from the country of gold.
I’m from the small store with
Sweet smell of Toogbee floating in the air.
I’m from Mother Africa.
To be a psychologist.