Your world and mine used to be the same,
Our ancestors had an African name,
Until we were separated by force.
Through the centuries you waded back stroke by source,
Until your feet touched Africa, the motherland soil,
So yours was no vain of toil.
You sat and spoke with new, yet old people,
You smelt the aroma of the food and it glistened your pupil,
You heard the waves and ran with joy into the sea,
You touched and climbed high into the coconut tree.
Whoever said permutations targeted at your mind would cause a point of no return?
Whoever lied that an open door was not for going in and out?
Is at the Door of (no) Return.
(updated 21.12 today For Black History Month UK 2016)