The Beaded Malkia

           The Beaded Malkia

A circle of stories rests in her palm
Its not just a bracelet,
but a quiet kingdom strung together in rhythm woven in memory.

Each bead speaks.

The amber glows like sunset on ancestral soil,
warm, unshaken
it carries the memory of fire,
of women who walked through flame
and came out named light.

The glass beads, painted and imperfect,
whisper of hands that crafted beauty from breath and patience
art born not from excess,
but from spirit.
They are her laughter layered, colorful,
never needing permission to shine.

The pearls sit soft but unyielding,
like her smile
round, luminous, unbothered by the weight of the world.
They do not crack under pressure.
They become.

The stones, earthy, raw, unapologetic
hold the language of mountains.
They say: I have been broken, shaped, pressed,
and still
I am here.
Still
I am beautiful.

Wrapped around her wrist,
This is not decoration.
This is a declaration.

She moves, and it sings softly
a rhythm older than borders,
older than silence forced upon her name.

She is dark like fertile ground,
the kind that births forests
and feeds generations.
The kind that holds storms in her belly
and still finds a way to bloom.

They called her Malika (Kueen)
too strong, too bold, too rooted
but they did not understand:
she is not standing on the earth…
she is standing with it.

Mother Earth does not compete with her.
They recognize each other.

In her wrists, history.
In her skin midnight kissed by gold.
In her presence, royalty that does not bow.

And this bracelet?
It does not adorn her.

It reminds her, remembers her, and honors her.

A poem by

N'gamé Gray 🦋

For Ms. Suga Jean 

Happy Earthstrong ❤️‍🔥👑🖤🎉