It is the heartbreak of watching the earth that birthed you into this blossoming garden be stripped of all grandeur as her tongue stammers through another request for money to buy a loaf of bread.
The shame that latches to your roots for not anticipating her lack.
It is the remembrance of her eyes welling up and the richness of her gratitude watering the famine on her face all because you insisted she buy herself a new dress.
It is the guilt that crawls down your throat and makes a cemetery of your stomach after a night out when you realise your meal could have fed your family for a few days.
Black tax is the legacy of the black parent that has little bearing on wealth or its distribution and has more to do with poverty flaunting her debilitating & sacrilegious head for all who dare to look.
It is your little sister calling you for money to buy stationery, the pride that modulates your spine at that her narrative of brilliance will not be emancipated from her black skin.
It is our ‘amandla’ shout, rejoicing in our remunerative agency and triumphing over the disadvantaged context. It is our uprising, refuting the supremacy of any one tone, our coming home to find dignity in our skin.
Black tax is the the inheritance of the black child, our millennial revolution, our 25 year long walk to freedom ensuring economic liberation for the next generation.