I had a dream? 

a dream that black was becoming, 

strumming to 

a new sound of freedom, 

humming to the song of liberation. 

 

and i felt the skies open up to? 

my black skin 

melanin dripping, shining like gloss, 

drinking from the cup of beauty, 

it was sipping. 

 

isn’t black becoming, 

drumming in harmony, 

holding self love in the same hand as adversity, 

it’s blossoming, 

 

black is becoming? 

and we’re numbing? 

the sweltering heat of oppression, 

you are becoming, 

what MLK dreamed of, 

and what your parents dared not speak of. 

 

like freedom,? 

tattooed on sleeves of resistance 

protests of persistance, 

see 

 

Naka is a name only my father calls me. 

like he wanted to be reminded 

of his history, 

of the women in his life 

who moulded his ancestry 

 

and what’s in a name 

if not an identity becoming 

what’s in a black name 

if not a history? 

of strength,? 

summoning. 

 

rhythm is the music of black existence, 

and we witnessed 

the insistence? 

of black becoming, 

what we dreamed of, 

what future generations will speak of. 

 

the fact that 

black is blueprint, 

and your oppressors refused to see it, 

but they stole from your basket of excellence, 

forgetting we were the start of existence. 

 

black became, 

what they’re trying to claim, 

the suffering we faced, 

our ancestors’ pain, 

black became revolutionary. 

 

black is still becoming, 

still revolutionising 

and harmonising the 

power they’re demonising. 

 

black is like morning? 

when the day breaks 

and injustice shakes 

at the sight of waking people, 

who don’t lie down in silence. 

 

black is like becoming, 

the sound of a revolution rising.