Affymma

I have become the people

I once saw at the top—
Those with crisp loins, buttered tongues, and pride sharp as blades,
They, who made it seem like my first-generation self would stretch too long to get here.

Hah!

Me? Emmanuella. My name, so long, surprises you I stuck around?
I stayed, pushed hard until my knowledge became so palpable,
You couldn’t turn a blind eye.

I stuck around for a day like today,
Where I wear my grandmother’s name with pride—Affymma, Affiong ete!
Affymma, from generations rooted in life and immortality,
Sprouting breaths of beauty and vitality.

Me? Affymma, who danced kokoma on bare feet,
Swung her waist to the dim dim drums made of leopard skin.

Now, I sit at tables once reserved for those I admired—
Bold. Rich. Audacious. Intelligent.
I occupy spaces once unwelcoming,
And I crush the tables of restriction.

Remember I came home with emotions flagged red from your microaggressions,
Questioning myself, doubting if how you treated me was right.
I beat myself up for not standing firm,
Never see it coming when you pour out your maltreatment.
But see me now—
Triumphing, one day at a time.

I am the woman who now sits beside you in Ankara dress,
Capped in a black bob wig, draped in the richness of my skin.
I am Affymma, the risen star.
And just like you, I am now at the top.