Besides her poetry she is also an aspiring Public Health Practitioner; Her hobbies are dancing, coloring, drawing, reading and writing; She loves kids, pets and traveling. One of the many things I admire about Hazel besides her wide smile and cheerful nature is that though raised in Diaspora, she constantly holds on to her African heritage; You can even tell from some of her poems … We communicate on Skype, and I can tell you that it is ALWAYS a thrill when we get to chatting in Pigeon English Meeting Maame on WordPress has been a blessing as I have found a friend and an online African Sister in her … I’m glad that she is very much in love with the color of her skin and the many cultures it encompasses. Below is one of her earlier pieces, which I still find very intense till this day:
For more of her work please check out her blog at “Fairy Floss Fantasies & Sugar Coated Dreams” (Yes its a link, so click on it! ) MUCH LOVE!!!!
Ramblings of Children in Diaspora – Binta and Yataa
Ramblings of Children in Diaspora:
Pa,Pa,Pa that is a noise of war.
The sound of a shotgun killing the acquitted.
Ta ta ta that is a noise of war.
The sound of a man’s hard leather boots.
Moving across the wooden floors boards in our abandoned house.
Sh,sh,sh that is a noise of war.
The sound of a young men luring innocent girls into their dungeons.
Hm,hm,hm that is a noise of war.
The sound of a mother worried about the welfare of her children.
As she drinks dirty polluted water after giving her children the last bottle .
Can you hear our cries? Can you picture our lives?
As we run, we run as far as our swift small feet can take us.
We pray as we sleep the dirt of the earth becomes a blanket.
But when we sleep we can still hear the noises of war.
They are a never-ending soundtrack that replays every day in our heads.
As we awake from our nightmares we are forced to a life of confinement.
Our mother died from cholera. We prayed and prayed for god to save her.
But she didn’t survive.
Our father shot by the soldiers and now we are orphans of war.
Without parents we sit and wait for someone to take us to a distant place.
As we wait,we pray. As we pray, we lose faith.
Week by week.Hour by hour. Day by day.
Finally we are rescued by a long lost aunty.
My sister and I are taken away to the promise land.
Memories of Sunday school in the village fill our minds.
Surely God had remembered us like the Israelites.
We thought we were going to be so happy.
We love eating bread and jam, milk and chocolate cake.
Truly Living life in London is a blessing
But war still haunts us.
We still see the soldiers who killed my father in our dreams.
The rebels who defiled our lives and robbed our sacred pride.
This scares us and we feel like the living dead.
walking amongst the people of this cruel world.
Drip,Drip,Drip this is a result of war.
I am a young child, Binta 12 years old
Yet I still wet my bed every night.
In fear for my life.
Shake,Shake,Shake this is a result of war.
I am Yataa, A young teenage girl who cannot speak English
on her first day of high school.
I have been stigmatized , ostracized and traumatize.
since that day I have never been the same.
I find it hard to talk to strangers often get scared of the slightest noise surrounding me.
I am just a small girl yet I have viewed more than most adults have ever seen.
We hope one day that war will cease to exist just like our childhoods were diminished.