Miss Tanzania and I, our tongues are native, our chemistry is so narrative; our love engraved with hieroglyphs, still an archeological mystery, with Geneticists trying deciphering. We dated when dating was still Western, so we just sat down and ate dates, with Arusha Declaringour love, as we naively composed Ujamaa poems, that our love will never be poisoned. But taste change with time, as she privatized her body, just for Mkapa to pimp her “mali asili”, natural resources, for a dime.
Her face “dhahabu inaita”; a jewel I dug it like a miner, and yes we were both minors, but love had already sprung and ripe, like Adam and Eve we tasted the forbidden fruit of love. She’s a pearl that came from the dust, a “tanzanite”, she couldn’t have possibly come from my rib, coz she’s the one who has molded me. Now how does Miss America decides what beauty is, when the first Being came from Miss Tanzania’s rich soil, Olduvai Gorge, the navel of mankind.
Like Hip Hop, she was “regular” before “hajawa ruksa”, we lost her to nymphoniac. They were both “secular”, Ms. Tanzania was spiritual, constitutional fearful, while Ms. Hip Hop observed the five pillars like Islam.
Miss Tanzania became a girl of many men, already-made men, like “Richmond” and “Dowans akavimsha pete”. But the marriage was diagnosed with controversies, coz the love in her, had already faded, just emptiness and darkness in her heart like Tanesco’s umeme,“share yetu si’ (sisi) giza”. It was cool when it was genuine, I reminisce when we were in love and meant it, but our love became complicated, it grew without photosynthesis thanks to power rationing, but just like with Hip Hop we weren’t meant to make it, even though at times we were like cellmates, but deep down we were soulmates, the world just made us feel like Romeo and Juliet.
Miss Tanzania then graduated from a kanga girl, honest and modest, to the runaway wearing CL, now she got a type, “juzi juzi kaopolewa na handsome boy”, she no longer “swing it with the inner-city circle”. Similarly to Hip Hop who started to “only f*cks with the funk”, Miss Tanzania “anaendekeza bata”, just to catch a cold, and every breath hurts, she even struggled to exhale I love you, I had to catch it before her coughs ranted.
“Mbagala walimbaka”, Ms. Tanzania, a rape crime scene, “mpaka akamwaga damu”. Like how “a few New York niggaz, did Hip Hop in the park”, I had to catch my rage, before it torn someone’s page, just to leave their life story incoherent.
Like an omen, soon as she broke to Capitalism, misfortunes and miscarriages, but I didn’t want to “stand in her way”, as she was about “expandin’” far from Ujamaa, that “was going out of style”, the same way Hip Hop felt about “pro-black”, so she left for the West Coast, claiming “Afrocentricity, was of the past”.
“She didn’t have a body but she started getting thick quick”, unlike Ms. Tanzania who had a curvy figure eight even before puberty, a Bantu queen, booty pure African “mzigo Kilimanjaro”, status, Africa’s highest peak.
I can’t pen how exactly Hip Hop and I met, but love at first sight as she expressed her thoughts in her rhymes, her rhythm had my feelings speeding for her kick and drum, she didn’t invent my style, but she reinvented it to swag, not just “physically, but mentally too”. REWIND. She was young, so we easily connected, her style of rapping words, added a unique flow to her stride that attracted stares from the old lads, a rebel at heart, like Ms. Tanzania who stood defiant against “baba yake mkoloni”.
Her soul is words in motion, a Griot with modern stories, inspiring mine that stutters. Her thoughts are contagiously potent, with them she paints pictures like Soyinka, abstract with clarity, clarifying our depressed realities. Before her, I was like an empty paper searching for a purpose, and she was a pen that gave it words that lit up my conscious, filled with knowledge, wrapped in wordplay that I fathom. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, I say her thoughts embedded in poetry always leaves me to ponder.
Hip Hop, she reminds me of how Miss Tanzania used to also be, “fresh”, when she was “underground”, “geti kali”, not the one to be seen, “pure, untampered and down sister”, before she chased orgasm like she chased breathe, that left her breathless after hitting the climax note. And down again she was, thirsty for climbing more, her adrenaline for progress, made her fearless even “kulikuwa mtungo”, she gave “kavu kavu bila kinga”, condomless. Like with Hip Hop “niggaz slammin her, and takin her to the sewer”, she looked strange like she fed on manure, and “how her titties hung” was clear their Secret with Victoria was officially unsecured.
Later I met Miss America, “political nympho”, she f*cked my brains “literal”, wet American in my Dream, a sex symbol, not really conservative like my Miss Tanzania, butbothare “chotara”, light skin complexion, reflecting Miss America’s complexities of her ethnicity; a pot that melted my heart, that had “so much soul” like my lady Hip Hop, different from her, Miss America, “Queen of Capitalism”, the same beauty pageant that Miss Tanzania fought herself in, even though her “maandalizi longolongo”, just for economic disparity to soar.
Commercials packaged Miss America’s beauty well, and it aired universal, and then a “fake lips and tits” era swept the world. I justified her look as abstract art, like my Miss Tanzania’s lightness “kumbe ni mkorogo”, looking like a clown, while Miss America resembled a mannequin. Thought their light skins were authentic, Miss Tanzania bleached hers to fit in with “gangsta bitches”, forgetting her essence like Hip Hop who “altered the native”. Both their complexions were “synthetic”, hiding under their layers of cosmetics, Miss America’s beauty was breath-taking, but it was “in debt with bad credit”, as I was locked into her eyes, her pupils were “dollar signs”, our relationship at first was definitely of greener pastures, as if my past relationships starved from deforestation.
With Miss America, I was “caught up in her lies”, that were like a spider web, didn’t realize, because when we kissed, her tongue only told me what I wanted to hear, sweet, like nothing I have ever tasted, but it was all “deceptive”. She pretended to be in love with my accent, when she reciprocated, to show how deep she was infatuated, “word nigger still rolls off her tongue so well”. I thought she “dug my rap” like Hip Hop did, but she was all about “self-centeredness”, putting “her needs first”. Unlike Hip Hop with her political consciousness, about “stopping the violence”, Miss America’s ethics are squinted, she once told me, “there’s no just war there’s JUST war”, it brought terror into my heart, and it read error her being in my life.
“Now periodically I would see, ol girl at the clubs, and at the house parties”, like Hip Hop, “wasted openly tea bagging”. F*cking “the world”, but she “keeps her legs closed for those south of the border”, her unfaithfulness turned our relationship “toxic”. She was “mama huruma” like Miss Tanzania, who allowed “all these groupies do her”, “anamegwa na mafisadi”, which eventually it also depreciated Miss Hip Hop’s creativeness, which was the core of her heart and soul. Hip Hop is DEAD Nas once wrote, and my cardiac nearly ended up being arrested, 911 call saved it.
Miss America was a “nympho”, “not the wife type” as I expected, biracial babies to confess our affection, but the hope ended. Even though she bragged “she’s the only one under God”, by closing her “mali asili”, “for those south of the border” like Miss Tanzania who did the same to her own common people, but opened her legs to “mafisadi” and the West, “mapenzi kafanya biashara”. Miss America was far from being holy, with all her “gonorrhea, syphilis, herpes, chlamydia”, but she still f*cked more, spreading her democracy, switching her label “whore” to an activist with a goal, her mission started from “built banks with Nazis” to selling “coke with contras” and “Afghan poppy”, now she’ll feel deserving of Che’s award.
Damn, I should have never subscribed to their love. Now I am attached, thought with Miss America it was strictly lust, but when it lasts, I guess it is called being in love. Their unique individual personalities sabotaged what was written, Adam and Eve, they turned me to Adam and Threes. Miss Tanzania cried when she caught Hip Hop whispering into my ears through the headphones. She taught me poetry that I secretly wrote to Miss Tanzania who loved the distinctive flow, I dropped her few lines that to her were like UFO, until I fled to the U.S. yo, cheated on her while in overseas, thought her eyes wouldn’t see, once again her heart was broken, but she also broke mine, with those who deceived her, “EPA, akaunti hewa”, they hit it raw. “But I’ma take her back” like Hip Hop, “hopin that the shit stop”.I followed this bee, Miss Tanzania, since infancy, coz I am patriotic to her sweetness, harnessed her honey, so if life becomes bitter I know where to turn. But who said life was gon’ be easy, love sometimes stings, and I got scars from her infidelities, with all her “mafisadi” that she let hit it. So I let Hip Hop serenade me where it hurts the most, my heart hosts her poetry, like a herb it heals me slowly, we connect on a deeper level, we converse in tongues with our metaphors, we’re always amazed how much we’re similes. Miss America thanks for the opportunity, you just made me love Miss Tanzania even more, coz your love one minute it draws me in, second minute it’s a drone. I should have never messed with a broken-hearted; we hooked up after a “bad break with her ex, Osama Bin Laden”. So I’m taking a U-turn back to black commonsense, back to a Beautiful African consciousness.