By Gloria Oladejo

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This is inspired by one of my best friends Jayda and our conversation on the stairwell about our anger.

Creased lines kin to tribal markings
Mark years of burdens & joys
A visage still of youth
But I am not angry. 

Upheld by the back
Secured w/ cloth like the village babe 
The cord weighed down
But I am not angry. 

An expression rested, unchangeable
Encoded through the streams 
Shared amongst the matriarchy
But I am not angry. 

Mchewww….
Prolonged call escaping the teeth
Alerting those of its annoyance
But I am not angry.  

Invasive grip 
Trudging step by step 
Hardened in nothing flat 
But I am not angry. 

Heart blunted by the rod 
One like the elder’s cane 
Within my firm hold
But I am not angry. 

ìbínú baba òsì
Thunder shapes tremors
The foundation no longer leveled 
But I am not angry. 

Skin like that of the terracotta 
Red currents flood 
The storm’s echos reign 
But I am not angry.

Has the storm ever ceased?
Time long passed and yet
The village still drowns 
My heart still bleeds

I am angry. 

Process

On my dorm’s stairwell, I vented to my best friend about how my RBF and mannerisms were hindering the connections I was attempting to make at our PWI. In response, she expressed feeling the same way but how those habits seemed to come from her mother and the rest of her lineage. On the stairs, I thought “damn, I’m really becoming my mother” yet also started to think about how the reflex of sucking my teeth or my lack of patience might have deeper roots than I thought. In the midst of my reflection, Jayda said “maybe we’re not angry, we’re just african”. We started to laugh, joking about making a podcast with her quote as the title, yet those words lingered in my mind. Is my anger simply just a misunderstanding or are we as Africans, especially African women, overlooking our emotions as a simple hereditary trait?