Your black shell hooks to hang,

Does your wearer play the white man’s song?

Waiting for the bell to ring,

Sleeves sulking as the day is long.

Scars laying up and down your back,

Who’s story do you dream tonight?

Autumn winds howl to attack,

Finding yourself under Earth’s flashlight.

Fight, fight, the war has  begun,

You must carry your weight, you’ve had enough

They have berated you, yet you are not done,

This is your time, Black leather is tough.

Not rain, nor snow can rip your threads,

Get off that hook, you are unproclaimed dead.

Note: This poem was written independent from the photo above. The photograph demonstrates the reclamation of agency that many African photographers brought to their countries.