Portrait of Us

The idea of love was not entirely novel to him; but as it stands she was uncharted waters and he was no sailor. They were both utterly at variance on the idea of a first date,  but she handed him a red rose which she bought from a young boy because he overly fretted about sending her the wrong signals.

 I tell you a story about the great uneasiness he felt when he left her side, and how empty he felt knowing that it would take forever to see her again. Days without her felt like eternity with an unrelenting pain of emptiness. So I tell you a story: one with a sad ending, one where he realizes that she was the best thing yet to happen to him. The fold of sea waves swaying at the command of the air could only be a sign of a pleasing late lunch. As he clearly remembered, it was her initiative that had brought them to the picturesque spaces of the Bouregreg Marina in the Moroccan capital. It was a beautiful late afternoon and the sun sailing down the horizon could only be defined as listening to a ballad arm-in-arm with a beloved. She was well dressed, simple yet extravagant. He loved her fashion choice and how she carried herself. Bold. Her confidence was nothing he had initially thought. Before she moved any further, he had taken a snapshot of her as a smile creased her face. It was simple and genuine. True to her nature, and what she was feeling. He didn’t stand a chance. How could he, he was free falling but the weight of her impression had dulled his heart to the sensations of love that were beating against it. She walked in front of him like her hips moved mountains and she knew it. Not that he ogled but his eyes did glide pass the view. It was unexpected.

If it was intended to be a first date, then they both would agree that it was a beautiful one. A simple, nonetheless perfect date, which was filled with laughter, meaningful conversation, good and terrible food, and ice cream. Love took its own sweet time in arriving, more so he was not ready to admit that she was by far and large his best first date. As they ambled on, he spotted an empty seat a few inches from the ocean and invited her to sit down. Before long a young boy trying to make a few dirhams- which he was certain was money for a cigarette- hustled by with a dozen roses trying to make a sale. She bought one and handed it to him. It went straight to his heart. Like a bolt of lightning ripping the sky apart, it tore through his defenses making him feel again. The conversation had taken turns with honest admiration for each other. He admired her strength and she held him up there with realness. They enjoyed hearing each others stories and experience and the intensity was brewing.

But then...

Simple midnight black, period.

"Put down the bleach. Your skin is not dirt that needs to be cleaned out like yesterday’s shirt. You are comprised of sienna, chestnut, and warm mahogany. Dark as the night sky, constellations are tucked neatly underneath your bones. Your skin reminiscent of the hot chocolate that warms winter nights. Like rings around a tree stump, you too have history etched into your melanin. Don’t let the glaring whiteness, blind you from the beauty that you are. " As to why you feel the need to change all that with some chemical that will eventually kill you; beats my imagination
They tell you that a black girl is beautiful if her skin color look lighter. You are black. A Black girl is called a black girl because she is black. Not light black, or chocolite brown. Simple midnight black, period. You were born black! If God created you black and you are using some chemical on your skin to get a job you prayed for, because you were told that God helps those who help themselves, then not only are you dumb, but you have meager knowledge of the God you serve. If God is going to establish you, or give you a life changing job, He may need you to dress right, decent, but the last thing He would want- that is if He reckons that creating you black was a mistake - is for you to change your skin color. 

Personally, I think that people who bleach their skin are insecure and need public admiration to wake up in the morning. It is sad and depressing to know that you are killing yourself, and people are admiring you for it. And what is worse: you are happy about it. The fact that your race is defined as black means that you are black, and you can't escape your race just by changing your skin color.
They tell us that black is only beautiful when your skin has that white appeal. and that black women are only winning, the more “exotic” we can make ourselves seem. When we say black is beautiful. It means simply means "BLACK" not some fake white wanna be.

"We can only be accepted when our skin is lighter than a paper bag." Yeah true, but why do we need to accepted? And for what? Why is the person who is accepting us important? What makes their existence more important than ours? Do they shit gold bricks? Or is it because they will live forever, and them accepting me means I will live forever too? Oh, I'm sorry. Did I hurt your feelings? Get over it! No one's existence is more important that another's. It's bad enough that years ago, they marched us from our rich lands, took us as slaves, stole all our valuables - still stealing it in the name of trade relations-, made a name out of it and didn't feel bad about it. But for us to bleach our skin just to please their ego, and get some meager acceptance smile, and a pat on the shoulder; that is worse.
If God created the world and everything in it, and you believe He doesn't make mistakes, then what exactly are you telling Him? You play dress up in the church looking  all lightened up singing and shouting for a miracle, when all you have done is tell him, "I know you love me and all, but I think you got my skin wrong." Why can't we be proud of the fact that we are black and we are still beautiful regardless of our color. Why should we associate beauty with just once race? Hell, they get a tan so they can look a little darker and you are proudly lightening up your skin to look like them. Does it have a nice ring to it? The sad part: you get some terminal cancer illness, say your mother is a witch and that she did this to you. Stay with me. Eventually, when you are waiting for death to take you away, you will feel there is hope with some fake pastor who will rob you of your money in the name of a healing miracle and then you will die.

Tsk tsk tsk..... sad sad story. I'm black, African, and a proud one too. And that's what's up!!

Keep Calm and Carry On. We all have one life and we all die once.