It Is Dreyer, I Am Sure.

I am dead on one's feet about being asked if the name I possess is really my own,
Standing at the center of my view without shame asking me if I am "really sure"

Because the image I have is unlike the image of those you know.
Because I am too yellow for the white ones that you know,
Because my hair is black and thick, not as blonde and silk like the ones that you know.

Pardon me Mr know-it-all, since you know it all, you tell me, cometh it with an image and a language? Perhaps,
Perhaps I should have a particular vernacular?

Who are they that they can not be me and what is it about me that I can not be them?

My skin is rough with scars and outcast tears turned into gel not smooth and cocoa buttered like the ones that you know,
Because I use words like "you feel me?" and not "dost Thou understandeth" like the ones that you know,
Because I am on that African Namibian tip and it is not the European German vibe that you know.

I am forbidden to call it my own because it is the remnant of a lunar crater on the far side of the Moon.
The heck I look like?
I am a product of love, redemption and most probably predicament..

Nou hier gaan ons alweer,
Mine happens to be Wambo and Afrikaans and not the German and Dutch that you know.

But, say, no offence but, do you really know?
Or are you just a fool that thinks himself to be wise, not knowing that wise man knows himself to be a fool.

You, who seeks to quench the fire of hurt with words,
You, whose assumptions subconsciously makes him think I am not worthy of my last name,
Seriously, fuck I look like?

It was them who took our land,
them who took our lives,
them who stretched our legs wide open and took our pride.
Payback?
Well darling, we took their last names

Dryer, Dreyer, Dredger,

Which ever pronunciation your lips forms to utter I shall take none offense to,
 just do not stand at the center of my view without shame and ask me "How come?"

It is my name, now, genius, and that?
that is how come.