(for Kemi Bad Knock)

“Madam, I see your face on telly—

Black, but not quite. White, you insist.

A misprint of melanin, you say,

A clerical error on your birth certificate.”

---

I paused. She beamed.

“THIS, YOU SEE, IS NOT BLACKNESS,”

She pinched her skin, angled it to the light.

“OBSERVE, AT NOON, IT BLUSHES WHITE—

AN ACCIDENT OF SHADOW THAT I BECAME THIS”

Her voice, crisp as colonial tea,

Brewed in Parliament’s fine china.

“I DO NOT CARE FOR THEM, THOSE OTHERS,

THE ONES WITH LOUD VOICES AND LOUDER NEEDS

NO HANDOUTS. NO FAVOURS.

HARD WORK, YOU SEE, MADE BRITAIN GREAT—

NOT WHINING, NOT WEEPING, NOT HISTORY.”

---

“But Madam,” I coughed,

“What of your motherland?

The rivers of your fathers, the echoes of your tongue?”

She waved a dismissive hand—

“I HAVE NO MOTHER BUT BRITANNIA,

NO TONGUE BUT HER MAJESTY’S OWN.

NIGERIA? NEVER HEARD OF IT.”

---

I listened. The wind outside whispered “slave ship.”

Still, she straightened her pearls,

Curtsied to invisible Lords,

And declared, in a tone polished of all roots:

“I AM NOT LIKE THEM.

I AM NOT BLACK.

I AM WHITE—

IF YOU SQUINT HARD ENOUGH.”