Though his eyes were dark,
He fancied them brown.
He used to like blue when he was young
until he grew
and it dawned on him that it was a shade, bright as it was—associated with a feeling of melancholy.
Blue was the shade of a frown
it was not rich, not earthly like brown.
He had a heart of gold
so it was easy for him to love
the first soul he ever desired had skin like dark olive.
He couldn’t quite place it at the time…
but it was sheen, coffee, and cream. divine.
He did not tell this beautiful fellow how he felt. he could not.
He loved from afar,
loved the big smile, the very belief and faith, the long slender fingers, and chinos the color of a carton.
For he was an unconventional being, he loved books.
his favorite writer was Dan Brown
he’d read all his bibliography.
He became much cooler as a man and found his aesthetic
cashmere cardigans, ouds, brown leather, and Frank Ocean music.
He embraced his heritage, the sultry wealth of his skin.
brown and proud. akin
a true son of the soil. omoluabi.
They say it is the color of dirt and uncleanness
but what is clean anyway? he thinks he has seen it all; the mind is dirty.
in the world of the white man, he would still love brown in his own way;
brunettes, chocolates, autumn with bae.
Even on his grey days, he remains optimistic
a persistent longing for greener pastures
he has seen cities, heard stories,
felt so many departures.
But on a bright sunny day, he would wear his ego on his sleeve
carry his afro on his head like a crown.
His heart sang that there was no mood; no feeling; no condition,
quite as lustre as brown.
© Dami.
