I don’t need one day in a year to observe it. Neither do I need to dress in traditional regalia to demonstrate my identity. My heritage follows me wherever I go. Pear-shaped elaborate African bottom is my Pride and your Joy.
Bumper to Bumper, my hips sway from side to side. Curves that even Schumacher won’t rush when approaching. They tempt into fornication even my head of state regardless of his state of head.
Like horse and trailer, my nation-feeding bosom leads the way followed by my pap-fed African pride. In my unhurried strides, you would swear I own the ground I walk on.
My Kanga covers my earth coloured skin. Skin the same colour as the soil from which I came.
With a love song in my bosom and pride beside me, my heritage follows me.
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