Unknown Human Subject

My existence is a constellation of misunderstandings dressed in Prada, while my  humanity is skewered for display in a museum frequented by blind, deaf men with no hands but thunder for voices and only speak in tongues I never understand but always make me wonder if I should be here. Is my existence real or an extension of my imagination of a life that never was? How will I ever know when I’ve only lived in a world where my existence is only tolerated when it is subdued. Never loud, never visible, never felt. A secrete not only swept under rugs but vacuumed from the surface of the earth, but stubbornly enough always finds a new spot to appear. Like mould ferociously growing on all wooden surfaces even after the pipes have been changed a few thousand times. An artifact from a foreign place, even though the museum is in my great- grandmother’s backyard, but how will they know?

How will they know any of this when my history has been erased and I, the only custodian of this information is placed in a sound proof glass? How will they know that I’m an alchemist of some sort, that I can create remedies that can heal not only the body but also the soul without their white coats. How will they know that I am from a lineage of Queens that ran a nation greater than any and were once hit by a draught that left their people so devastated but because of the love for their people, they learned how to speak to clouds and conjure rain in winter. How will they know that we were the first to walk under the scorching sun for a day and woke up the next morning to build canopies with nothing but dust on a mountain, we understood the assignment. That women isn’t synonymous with weak nor is men meant to be rock, void of feelings and thought. That identity always stays true to being but never devoted to form. We have always been seduced by the idea of preservation, we learned to find ways to always pave it forward keeping the dignity and values bestowed upon us at the centre of all our endeavours.

How will they know? when my voice doesn’t matter and my being is shredded and scattered because it doesn’t fit into the social categories they have sculpted into basic shapes that they can deem as acceptable and wonder why I can’t fit into them. Like a square peg in a  cylindrical casing, I’m expected to soften my edges and have my identity stripped away from me all before they even ask me my name and forget it the second they hear it. And I think I finally get it, they’ll never know because they don’t want to hear it. To them I’ll forever be an unknown human subject and my existence will remain a constellation of misunderstandings dressed in Prada as the sight of my indigenous attire isn’t aesthetically pleasing. And I’ll say my name to the ears that are willing to listen.