What it means to be a Black woman — is tangled in the word race — and race itself declares we were never meant to win this chase.

We’re the poster girls for “diversity and inclusion,” paraded through the workplace fair, but look up that ladder — it’s white, all the way up there.

Even our hair gets shade because it grows to sun; we’re taught to hide the light — ashamed of what’s begun.

What it means to be a Black woman — is masking from the start of the day. For some, it’s putting on a wig, ‘cause that’s the only way.

That mask? It’s worn before we reach the door — clothing, colour, and a whole lot more.

I am demoralised. Beaten — in word and deed. Unfairly arrested, made visible as if I’m the face of the world’s misdeeds.

And when I should be seen — I disappear, drowned by your discomfort, erased by your fear.

What it means to be a Black woman — is something even Black men can’t understand. The standard of Blackness judged through them, but we enter from a separate land.

Don’t look to a Black man for backup — they are a racial currency, and when the world turns cruel, too many look away from me.

So goes the Black woman’s journey: Alone. Watched. Annoyed — Denied the fire of anger, folded into something we have to hide.

It’s living in constant fear — rebranded “resilience” with a grin, applauding the strength it takes to survive the mess they put us in.

There’s nothing to clap for when every day you’re the mule, when they pile on stick after stick and call you strong — we’re not fooled.

So when I hear “resilience,” it sounds like a threat — ’cause their “resilience” is suffering neatly packaged as respect.

But listen — here’s the part that sings for me: The joy. The celebration. The rhythm, the sway. The music that moves my way.

The fact that we’re still here — that speaks volumes, clear. The fact that we’re emulated, even when they won’t revere.

Our language, our earrings, our fashion — all seen. You steal it, you wear it, you claim it’s your dream — another way to take away how I am not seen.

What it means to be a Black woman — is something dark, deep down inside. Not the colour of my skin, but the fear they’d rather I didn’t survive.

But here’s my truth, sincerely — with my sisters by my side, we manage, we survive, and sometimes — we even rise.

What it means to be a Black woman — a story bold and true, yet too many don’t listen, and some resent the truth from you.

So what does it mean to be a Black woman? Sometimes, I still don’t know. Because some days — just being feels like the hardest thing to show.

And yet — We stand — Not because the world was kind, but because we refused to disappear. We are not resilience; we are resistance — With joy, with hope, with fear.

So, we keep on moving — because we Dare.

By Roz Etwaria