Pick your Afro Baby

You know that Sista. You've seen her at the mall, sitting up front at the less-bougie churches, vibing at Apache (Ying-Yang on 3rd for you old heads), at Common's last two concerts, or even presiding from the Bench.

She rocks the brown espadrilles, no less than 16 bangles, cowrie shell earring acquired from her latest trip to the Motherland or the discount mall, or perhaps a subtle nose ring. She may work at the West End or perhaps is a graduate of an HBCU. Her scent is slightly earthy and the waft of sandalwood essential oils warms your olfactory nerves.

She is tall and reminds you of Mother Africa. Her shoulders pulled back in regalness or even defiance. Coconut husk skin glistening in the sun. Her hair in full salute to Angela Davis and all that she represents, save perhaps, the weed. Woolly, strong, political. Protecting the movement, advancing the struggle, blazing new paths to tomorrow. Reclaiming the heritage.

You've seen that unadulterated sister. You've secretly said to yourself,

"That style is cute... for her."

"Couldn't be me."

"Sista needs a hot comb and a brush."

But instead, you simply smile and your inner diva gives her a Gill Scott Heron (the original spoken word artist) Power to the People fist pump. Right on!

I am that Sista.

And I will warmly accept donations to the "Give that girl a perm!" fund.