African Beauty

“I am dark and lovely,
like the tents of Kedar,
like the curtains of Solomon’s temple.” Song of Solomon 1:5

Not hidden in the margins.
Not whispered in passing.
But sung…
bold, poetic, undeniable.

Dark… and lovely.

Like the tents of Kedar, weathered by sun, rich in depth, enduring in beauty.
Like the curtains of Solomon’s temple, woven with intention, layered in glory, dwelling in the presence of Royalty.

African beauty…

It arrives without apology.
It does not shrink to fit a lesser narrative.
It does not ask to be seen…
it is seen.

It is written in shades the world is still trying to name,
ebony that drinks the light,
mahogany that glows at dusk,
caramel kissed by the sun,
cinnamon warmed with quiet fire,
espresso rich and deep as midnight,
olive tones kissed by earth and sun,
golden undertones that dance between dawn and firelight…

“God saw all that He had made, and it was very good.” Genesis 1:31

Not some of it.
Not edited versions of it.
Not filtered, toned down, or lightened.
All of it.

Every shade. Every hue. Every reflection of His intentional artistry.

There is a boldness in melanin…
a quiet confidence that does not beg to be seen,
yet, cannot be ignored.

And then… the hair.

Ah, the hair.

Hair that rises.
Hair that coils.
Hair that refuses to lie flat just to make others comfortable.

It stretches toward the heavens like it remembers where it came from.

A crown, not placed, but grown.

From tight coils that spiral like sacred geometry,
to braids that carry stories older than maps,
to locs that speak of patience, identity, and time
This is not “just hair.”

This is heritage.
This is resistance.
This is glory.

African beauty is a masterpiece that refuses to be hidden behind the curtain.

There is rhythm in the way African skin holds the sun.
There is poetry in the way it reflects light like polished earth after rain.
There is strength in features the world once tried to redefine…

Nothing about African beauty is excessive.
Nothing about it is “too much.”

It is simply… unapologetic abundance.

Like the tents that stood under open skies…
Like the curtains that dwelt in sacred spaces.
and  God, who did not create sparingly,
but lavishly.

So here’s to the beauty that refuses reduction…
To the skin that tells stories without words…
To the hair that lifts like praise…

To a people who carry glory in their very being.

And to every mirror that finally tells the truth:

You are beautiful.

Faithful Steward Chronicles

Faith. Food. Life