Your smile is post-colonial Africa.
Your tongue splits into five,
spits out any language demanded by circumstance.
You are multilingual,
literally a literary vending machine.
Your eyes are a rumour,
a whispered suspicion,
cupped hands and a voice meeting an ear to say
“Surely a man cannot look like that?”
Your grandfather’s continental trek is documented on your cheekbones,
chiseled brownness reminiscent of the highs and lows,
the mud-hut mansions.
You are beautiful.
You are what I mean when I say I am going home.