Take me to Wakanda. Take me to the land of the dark-skinned, bald black sister warrior. To the land of locs and ‘fros, of regal twists and fades, of black hair in its natural-born splendor. Take me to the land where we remember …
Take me to the land where African-American skin in incomparable hues of brown abound in a full kaleidoscope of glory that embraces the story and wonder of the souls of black folks. Take me to Wakanda.
To a land without Indian Remy hair weaves. To a land devoid of skin whiteners and nappy hair straighteners. To a land of no surgical reductions or mutilations for the biological curvaceous creations of the black female body divine. Where wise queen mothers still speak their minds.
To the land where a golden sun shines upon our skin and we are baked shades darker without thought, shame or apology. A land where we can be as black as we want to be.
Where broad noses, thick lips and black hair, sprouting from its roots is the standard of beauty — not ugly. Where colorism is dead and black pride swells. Where black fists fold in a symbol of solidarity. And our body, soul and spirits are well.
Take me to where the air drips with racial ease — devoid of endless innuendo and myriad subtleties that squeeze our life’s blood amid this toil through American social mud. Take me to the land of deep pure black love.
Where rivers of brotherly love swell above consuming divides of self-hate and fratricide. A land where mothers of murdered sons — and daughters — no longer need cry.
For the lion lies with the lamb. The guns have all silenced. And in this yearned for land, I am finally a man.
Take me to the land where dark skin is in.
Where this cloak over my soul is not the symbol of man-assigned inferiority or the target of racial hate. To the land where no police brutality strangles, beats or suffocates. Take me to the land where black folks are perpetually awake.
Take me to a land where we walk in rhythms. A land without schisms. Where our inflections and vibrations form living breathing, heart-beating improvisations, like jazz, which forms the soundtrack of harmonious life upon the land. And the blues plays like gentle waves upon golden sands.
Take me to the land where we pour libations in a state of pleasant incantation with our ancestors who speak to us in dreams. Who remind us that we are stitched together by seams of love, respect, honor and humanity. Whose wisdom pierces all of life’s insanity and always returns us to the place where we live, move and have our being.
Take me to Wakanda.
To a land where diabetes, heart disease, cancer and obesity have released their pandemic hold. To a place where we all grow old.
Where our hearts never turn cold. And the story of the way we lived, laughed and loved is not untold.
Take me to a land where young black men stand bold — rooted in ancestral pride and completely conscious of the promise they carry inside. Enlightened by the lamp of life rather than blinded by the pursuit of gold or by faux pride.
Warrior protectors of the village. Sons of honor. Bamboo strong in commitment. Humble and repentant in our wrong. Sober minded rather than anesthetized. Aware — not blind.
Take me to a land where we sip upon the sweet twilight of our golden years. Where life brings us more laughter than tears.
Take me to Wakanda, even if it is only in my mind … Wakanda forever.