Clean-Handed, poetry by Zainab Iliyasu Bobi at
Avel Chuklanov



written by: Zainab Iliyasu Bobi


They assume our genes
are imprinted with crime
They say we come from the lineage of poverty
with skin peeling trouble
They say our aura breathes suspicion
blood gushes screaming danger

They say we have nothing to live for
but for our faith
and music of our heart
They say death is our only escape
saves the soil from destruction

With no windows
heads in the sand
we know same people win and
same people lose.

my feet firm on
the soil of my origin
I will speak
ten thousand voices.

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