An Ode To The Brothas

I’m not asking for the impossible
I’m not seeking the unattainable
Or is it in my mind that I think
That this is all as easy as a wink?
But then again, if it were that difficult
How come some have achieved it?
All I ask for is a good word for the brothas
When I say brothas I mean the men of colour
Children of the motherland who come in different shades and flavours
The espressos, the caramel macchiatos, the mulattos
My coffee-flavoured men,
Children of the motherland.
For they say they can’t do right by their women,
They don’t stay around to raise their children
They play more games than the Premiership
They just can’t communicate with words
But I say, today my voice is the sword
That will fight for these men
The men that I know, who stand by their teams
Who believe and work towards their dreams
The men, who toiled and still toil to bring a good name
Men whose names are held in memory halls of fame
Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, Mohammed Ali and
Even Notorious B.I.G.
These were all black men
The men I respect
The men my mother loves
And my grandmother loved
The men who all women seek and fight for
They are the great inventors of traffic lights,
They are the first heart surgeon
They are the witty and tactful from the West side
The calm ones from the East side
The descendants of the Pharaohs from the North
The cool and suave from the South of the African continent
I shall proclaim and shout in their honour
For I know they would wear that armour
With pride and defend their dignity
The only good they have ever said about them
Is that they are well hung
I won’t disagree, for they come in different shades
And sizes but brotha oh brotha
They are connoisseurs of the ghetto karma sutra,
Strokes so rhythmical, a touch so tender
Kisses so endearing
Only they understand the true essence of partnership
Upgrading and making each other better
So though I still seek my own
To be the blues in my funk
And rhythm in my thighs
I say Viva to the brothas!

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(c) Doreen Chimangah