African and African, to the Core – A Barracks Girl Story

“African and African, to the Core” is poem by Remi Wahab that tells the story of a girl who grew up in the barracks; a place where life was hard, but people lived like one big family. It traces her communal experiences from childhood to adulthood, examining her living conditions and transformations. She grows into a proud African who reveres her ancestral roots. Enjoy!

African and African, to the Core

They called her “Barracks Girl” —
Born where the walls peeled like old memories,
Without silver nor gold, 
Where the wind sang through broken louvres and torn nets,
Where soldiers’ boots stomped, and mothers’ lullabies fought to be heard.

She knew hardship before she knew hope.
She knew hunger before she knew harvest.
She learned the strength of community, because the barracks houses no king, queen, but family. 
She  knew Africa — in her bones, in her breath, in her blood.

In the barracks, life was not polished.
It was raw. It was loud. It was real.
Girls braided each other’s hair with hands that dreamed of better days.
Boys kicked dented tins like footballs, chasing victory in red dust.
Thrusted sticks in tires and rolled them towards  giggles. 
Chased paper planes in the sky with chuckles, 
Running fervently to Marmy, for salt and Shawa
Survival vehemently stitched into the fabric of her daily life. 

The soldiers told stories — of faraway lands,
Of kingdoms built by hands just like theirs,
Of women carved   like hourglass, shaped like ripe moons, full with soft gravity,
Of tastes, wrapped in strange traditions, unfolding like hymns on the tongue, melting  heavenly on first the mouthful, 

The Barracks Girl grew strong where others thought she’d break.
She learned that strength isn’t something you’re given —
It is something you build with calloused hands and stubborn hope, 
For that gigantic dream.

When the world outside called her small, she stood taller.
When they called her poor, she smiled richer.
When they called her local, she exhibited values without  price tags—
Because within her ribcage beat the heart of a thousand warriors.

Africa was not a place to her —
It was her body, her language, her laughter, her scars.
She wore it in the tilt of her chin.
She spoke it in the roll of her tongue.
She danced it in the swing of her hips.
She cloaked it in the tip of her  lappa.
Beautifully veiled, it swayed through the rhythm of her waist beads. 

Every sunset that bled across the sky,
Every drumbeat that shook the night,
Every child’s cry that echoed through the barracks —
She sang the same anthem:
“I am Africa. I am  African — to the 
core.”

The world has tried to rename her — to call her poor, to call her lost, to call her less.
But she laughed — oh, she laughed!
Because she knew who she was.
She was more than her surroundings.
She was a daughter of the soil, 
Carved from the earth that groomed soldiers, 
Who stomped countries,
Who fought rebels, and brought women. 

The Barracks Girl grew.
Into a woman.
Into a leader.
Into a legend.

She walked into boardrooms, into parliaments, into battlefields of words and wills —
And everywhere she went, she carried the scent of home, nested into the fabric of her values, unyielding. 
The dust of her beginnings clung to her like a crown.

She never forgot;
Not the laughters in the dusty backyards. 
Not the broken floors.
Not the barefoot games.
Not the roofs that leaked with every fall of the rain. 
Not the mothers who turned one cup of maize into a feast.
Not the neighbours who were aunties, and the soldiers who were uncles. 
Not the days of lengthy walks to her neighbours farm. 
Not the days of teary eyes squatting by the fireside, for the taste of freshly harvested corns from her neighbours farm,
Not the smell of woodsmoke and wet earth after each rain, to picking snails from nearby gardens, 
Not the voices that taught her that dignity is not a gift, it is a birthright.
And not the fathers  who taught her love, from the farthest of distance, 
Battling wars with their very essence held in their grasp. 

She is a Barracks Girl.
She is Africa.
She is African — to the core.

— Remi Wahab

About the Poet

Remi Wahab was born in 1999 in Yile, a small town nestled in the heart of Sierra Leone, to a Liberian mother and a soldier father from Nigeria. Raised within the rhythms of military life, she grew up with discipline and resilience at her core.

A distinguished graduate of English Language and Literary Studies from the University of Ilorin. 

Remi is a prolific communicator, a skilled wordsmith, and a culinary expert on the side. She currently works in the banking sector and hopes to transition fully into the field of communications and creative writing in the near future.

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