Take Your Power Back

Take your power back. (Back, back.)
Put your name on what you make.

Grandma kept the title deed inside her Bible page,
Told me, "Read it for yourself. Don't let them rush your name."
Dad would bring the forms home, spread them by his plate;
I learned to read the small print while the supper went to waste.
Now I take my time before I sign a dotted line.
No more nodding just to hide the questions in my mind.
Sis is coding in the front room, charger held with tape;
First order on her screen, she calls me over: "Look, it's paid."
Not another speech about a future far away—
Her name across the invoice. Her money in her name.

Not begging for a seat—we carve the chair.
Not waiting for the light—we put it there.

Take your power back. (Back, back.)
Put your name on what you make.
No more waiting for a lucky break.

Auntie lifts the clinic shutter, cousin fixes solar frames,
Kids can do their homework when the evening power fades.
Toronto on a video call, Kigali at the bench,
Same plan across the screen, different hands upon the wrench.
I used to think a louder voice was all that power meant,
Till I watched my sister turn down terms she hadn't read.
She said, "We can talk tomorrow. Send the changes through."
Small room. Calm voice. Nothing left to prove.

Grandma's hands are shaking now;
She asks me to explain one line.
I pull my chair beside her chair:
"We've got time. Take your time."

Take your power back. (Back, back.)
Put your name on what you make.
Africa, take your power back.
No more waiting for a lucky break.

Read it. Name it.
Make it. Claim it.
Take your power back.