She is like an Ashanti, her skin kisses the black of the stars.
Her smile is dry with character like the rivers of her mother land.
Her eyes gaze upon the sun that has a scorche and has seen the history of her man kind.
Her hands burst with veins filled with the pain of her mothers and sisters.
Her walk walks with her hips like the rhythms of life and breathe.
Her hair is her pride and her crown.
Her presence makes a thousand giant elephants bowdown to her worthiness.
Her soulfulness her soft caress and her baby is at her back.
Her Africa is in her tears of the scarce rain and pleading of the dead.
Her Africa is in her shape, her size her body her pride.
Her Africa is in the soulness of her tongue, the gracefulness of her sounds.
Her Africa is her. Everything she is everything in memory