A man, who, when he talks about creation,
Talks about me,
A man who believes in my world,
That only my world exists,
That only in my world can he exist.
A man, who knows the count of my hair,
A man who calls the wrinkles around my eyes, beautiful,
A man who knows my cracked hands, as his resting place,
A man who believes that my breasts are life,
A man who believes that my smile, commands the bright sun.
Oh how I need an African man,
A man who hunts and gathers,
A man who believes his descendants lie between my thighs,
A man who calls my children, his children,
A man who calls me his life,
Lord, send me an African man.
Yes, I need an African man,
A man who knows that my buttocks
Are not bubbles, to girl a bubble,
A man who believes that when I bend over,
I tile, I nurture, I work, I feed.
A man who knows my skirt, and
A man whose manhood I carry, and keep,
A man who protects me from the curses of his mother,
“Is it my fault that my womb is silent?
Why don’t you ask your son, ask him about the speed of his
I need an African man,
Who believes me when I say,
“I got this”
*Inspired by Bada Yusuf Amoo’s piece, ‘I Need An African Wife’
Written by: Kiai Ann
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.