Djembe by JhaNeal "Blue" StouTe

The Djembe still plays in the heart of the Atlantic,
When I am well and asleep I Still hear the drum,
Taste its blood like the first whip crack through chest, it never leaves my soul-
​
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Thousand slaves went into the water,
Cruise ship over this body,
No one dares to look up my remains,
They are still searching for the blue heart at the bottom of the sea,
The ocean- corroded in my lovers blood,
And I still feel the Djembe,
Jumping bones, blood boiling, back burning beneath the water,
Eyes still bloodshot at the sight of a clear sky,
I was going to pick up some food for my family,
It was Dadas birthday,
I had pictured a sunset painted in God's canvas as my siblings sang songs to the drum, to the beat, to the soil, to the rhythm of the djembe,
I didn’t know the very second I step off pride lands I wasn't from my kingdom anymore,

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Families flipped colonial,
The field reminds me of Africa, but the soil has missed a beat,
 I can't feel my heart,
The music doesn't sync souls to mother- to earth,
I can't breathe in blue, in blood, in transatlantic oxygen,
I am learning a new way of life in a language my tongue cant form around,
They tell me to look up to find God,
But she's all around me,
I point to the water to show them the reflection they're looking for, they say-
God doesn't live in darkness, but light cannot exist without me, Melanin,
Can't trace back-
They didn't teach us the ocean could wash away centuries of Black before blood lines in one wave,

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Niggas knee deep incarceration,
Population 12%,
Population down,
 In crack, in coke, in tears,  in blood, in bullets, in caskets,
Population, population, population-
My people have never been more than a number,
Than an equation,
Than an experiment,
In this pot of boiling blood,
American Flag this African body,

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My God does not look like my oppressor,
This I know,
For the bible in my heart tells me so,
That we- Are the reflection of righteousness,
They- have tried to strip joy from our bones but we still dance,
Still relish in the sunlight,
Still call queen,
Still made of cocoa bean and brown sugar,
Still grow- Still dark as night and abundant,
 Our melanin has been deemed the underbelly of the world,
But they forget to mention-
How it protects,
How it heals,
How they used to rub their skin up against ours in hopes of gaining our gift,
​
Black history month is more than taking history and putting it on  pedastol,
It is taking history and giving it back to its rightful owner,
It is putting the crown back on the black man' head,
It is putting the black woman back in first place,
It is acknowledging the fact that black is a fabric of life,
That black is the fabric of life,
That we have never been a figure to hide,
A shade too dark,
A color too mysterious,
 I wonder if the only reason they tried to shut us out is because they couldn't read between the melanin,
Couldn't fathom the power it possessed,
Couldn't understand-
How a gentle thing could be so strong,
How we- could still be-
Here,
Standing-
Smiling-
Praising-
In the sun.