My Ashanti Is Loud and Beautiful

My Ashanti is loud

like fontomfrom drums cracking the sky,

like market women bargaining with thunder

and winning.

She does not whisper her pride.

She struts in Kente bold as sunrise,

laughs like she owns the earth,

and maybe she does.

My Ashanti is beautiful

not the beauty you photoshop,

but the kind carved in ebony

and oiled in heritage.

Her cheekbones carry stories.

Her walk is proverb and prayer,

hips swaying like a tale the ancestors

still sing beneath the baobab.

She wears gold not for vanity,

but to remind the world

her worth was never meant

to be negotiated.

She names her children with meaning,

for in Ashanti, names are maps,

and every syllable is sacred —

a step toward destiny.

She's loud when she prays,

louder when she mourns,

and loudest when she dances,

because joy, to her, is a rebellion.

My Ashanti is fierce and feminine,

unapologetic in every breath,

rooted like the Bodwease tree

and yet wild like harmattan wind.

She is the queen in every courtyard,

the rhythm in every riot,

the hymn behind every hope.

So when you say "Ashanti,"

don't say it soft.

Say it like a war cry

wrapped in silk.

Because my Ashanti is loud

and beautiful

in ways the world still struggles

to measure.