We comb our afros. Reminding ourselves of our roots. We tie and tuck in our hijabs. Making sure to cover every inch of skin. Remembering our religion.

We shine our melanin with cocoa butter, making it glossy and lovely. Remembering our heritage. Our backpack is secured on our back. Our side-bag clinging to our sides.

Our cameras are on point. Lenses sharp and hungry; waiting to capture anything, everything and nothing. Our hands ache from carrying such a powerful tool.

Our planks are sharpened. With big boards in a rainbow of colours. Carrying the words that already have our voices hoarse. The words we won't stop saying. The words that echo into the clouds and over the seas, but yet haven’t stopped us from getting killed. 'Black Lives Matter.'

Our hearts pound like crazy. Heavily. Threatening to burst out of our chests. Fear smiles, waiting to consume us all.

Our breaths skip at every chant. Every cry. Every speech. Every plea. All to deaf ears.

Our black brother is on the other side. Our brown brother is there too. Watching us suffer, watching us cry for 'our' rights, and yet they are just there. Arms sweating, the veins in them bulging. Ready to shoot at us. Killer gas. Live rounds.

'Looks like you are on the wrong side brother.'

We pull out every stunt but it all bounces back to us. Nothing ever changes. A never-ending, spiral loop.

Will anything ever change? Not unless we kill our sight and let fear die with it. We are our ancestors' second coming, ready to face the same things they died fighting for.

Aishat Adesanya is a 17yr old Yoruba hijabi. She started drawing at the age of 9, and stumbled on writing somewhere along the line. She’s a weird eater who cannot stand pizza. She’s an ardent reader and hopes to influence the world through her art and her unique African culture. Her work has been published in Hearth Magazine.