Black Tax: The Intro - by Israel Oyedeji

Do you want to send me back to the village??? And where do I start from on this topic of interest? For how do I say that it’s willing as well as a burden? How do I tell these people with great expectations of me the two-letter word: NO?It’s not by incentive, it’s not a fixed plan. We all have our own lives, our own families, and our own habits. It’s unfair and fair at the same time—there’s really no end to it. Is it norm culture or African folklore? 'Cause where do I put a bar to it? You feed and feed until I run dry. You drink and drink until I feel thirsty myself. That wasn’t the plan, and you won’t send me back to the village I came from. Especially for those of us in the diaspora, it’s treated as relative that you send money back home, I guess. Family—is that what we call it? Friends—isn’t that what we called ourselves? Hmmm... Okay, I sought greener pastures. I found greener pastures, and now my flock is doing well, and I’m looking forward to more. But it’s different through your eyes. You deem it fit from your economy, forgetting we are of different worlds. It’s not a burden that you ask and I want to assist you. But it becomes a burden when you feed and drink off my help with the aim of treachery. It saddens me to draw my fence, but what do I do? It’s not that I DON’T love you, not that I DON’T want to help you, but you’ve grown accustomed to what’s not yours. Do you want to send me back to the village? "I’ll saddle the responsibility"—it never left my lips. I said I’d assist, and I’m still saddling, ain’t I?Is that your own way of saying it’s your right? Entitlement to me? Entitlement to my work?You for come work the work na... Black Tax, you spoil all the fun when you linger with entitlement. I’m still fetching, but all you want to do is drink. I asked you to come join in fetching, and you said no. What else do you want from me? I’m figuring life out, just like you. I won’t go back to the village because of you. I’ll do the little I can, and save for winter.You’d call me stingy, you’d call me wicked, you’d say all sorts, and I’ll say none. I won’t let you in my yard, not out of malice, but for survival. Because before I can carry the weight of two generations, I have to figure out how to stand on my own two feet. Next up in the series: Part 2 — The Sibling Tax (Carrying the Ones Who Refuse to Fetch).

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