Young, Gifted and Black.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I’m black and never first choice. I’m sorry so I stammer, stutter and pause.

I’m sorry I only managed a C, I’m sorry I left before matric.

I’m sorry my shoes are dusty and that I never got to reading that book.

I’m sorry I left at 3 and didn’t file those reports.

I’m sorry I haven’t won anything, shone at anything, and my trophy cabinet is empty.

You see, my parents were slaves so we grew up on grits and I studied by candlelight and had to walk to school and and and and…

So please pardon me while I sit right here, on the edge of my apathy and excuses, remembering Egypt and blaming Pharaoh. And yet too lazy to make the journey to Canaan. Don’t tell me about milk and honey, I want Egypt’s slave meat. I’m a closet masochist who enjoyed Egypt’s whips. Woe is me. I’m so so sorry.

 

1976, I’ll never forget!

Rubber bullets and teargas, I’ll never forgive!

Dom passes and bantustans, I’ll never pardon!

I’ll never rise above; I’ll never lose the chains.

And so the holocaust of our minds continues long after the gas chambers have been switched off.

 

I put it to you that the excuse of apartheid has prescribed, reached and passed its sell by date.

I am not the generational by product of oppression and imperialism. I am the product of predestination, preordainment; I was foreseen, fore willed, fore mentioned, before I was conceived in the mind of my parents, I was conceived in a Holy Trinity caucus. Let us make her in our image and likeness. And so I was fearfully and wonderfully knitted together in my mother’s womb, from the mass of kinky, nappy hair on my head, to the sun kissed chocolate hue of my skin.

I am Deborah, judge and prophetess.

I am Proverbs 31, industrious and virtuous.

I am that phenomenal woman that you’ve heard tell about.

I am the stuff that winners are made of.

I am daughter of a King, apple of His eye, always on His mind, warrior princess.

 

And I unsheathe my sword, and with a battle cry resonating from the depths of my spirit, raise it to obliterate every word and thought that declares that I am any less.

I am excellence personified, brilliance in brown skin. I shoot disdainful looks at mediocrity, we’re not cut from the same cloth.

Ndodakazi, mbokodo, owaseb’khosini, ndlovukazi.

I make no excuses for my blue blood. I am young, gifted, black, and unapologetic.

I’d like to find the one who said I’m not top class, top ten, and can’t get top billing because  and point them in the direction of this Book. See, it calls me God’s workmanship, co-heir with Christ, branch of the true vine, the Divine DNA strand twists and weaves in continuation in me. So forgive me if I square my shoulders strut like I know who I am. Oh wait, don’t. I’m no apologising.

 

Come out of hiding, royal nation. The Amistad is empty. You’re not African by God’s oversight, you are adama, moulded from clay. Creation awaits in eager expectation for you to be revealed. Kneel before your Father and allow Him to knight you. Young, gifted, black, and unapologetic.

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