Skinned by the sun,
haired by the waves,
I told her, her beauty beats.
She wears her ebony in shades,
rocking her aso-eke to fit,
with beads outlining her waist.
The calabash knows her hands,
as she toiled the soil to yield,
even the cassava farm hails,
springing the rooted culture.
The voice of the masquerade,
mimicking the ekombi goddess,
dancing to call the river spirits.
The diversity of potent crafts,
terra-cotta moulded the norms,
and fiction of the gods that were.
Her two-wrapper buttocks has ego,
to shake and waist out her full strength.
She’s not ratchet, she’s just me,
the girl in her own skin…
Copyright© 2015. Ruth Brodrick.
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