We inherited black holes for eyes,

so light was the benchmark we measured the beauty of skin against.

We sat in our dorm room

and discussed who the fairest of all was.

The Igbo girls claimed they could be cast as foreign

as long as the sun didn’t betray them.

The girls with skin the shade of the bronze masks

our ancestors carved directed the conversation.

The myth was that backstage curtains are dark colours

so that dark girls can camouflage into them.

We never said the word 'race’, substituted 'yellow pawpaw' for 'white'

as if we knew the word ‘white’ would peel our tongues down to a seed of guilt.

My bow legs hung from my bunk bed like question marks.

I was unsure of which shade my skin will grow into,

so I could not be the lead role in this fairy tale.

 

Now I know our ignorance is a kind of bacteria

bleach multiplies instead of killing.

One of my dorm mates used “Papaya Skin Lightening Soap”,

the scent was like every other soap,

she rubbed it on her skin until

she was cast as Snow White in the school play.

 

The myth is that despite all the light on her skin,

her soul remains a backstage curtain.

 

 

A Poem by Theresa Lola