And so I scratch at the skin I was given,

Skin that is pale and they see as somehow purer,

But it doesn’t change to the colour I desire.

A stark red instead appears –


As if to say:

Again, I will fail you.

Again, I will not fulfil you.


How can you tell me:

‘it’s what’s on the inside that counts’,

when you, too,

judge on our colouring?

I see my tiddas and I am in awe of their strength,

their pride.

I join in their fight against colourism,

and admire how they see past my shade.