I date Black men by C.Alilijah

Heavy emphasis on “men”.

I have to marry a Black man; I am sorry to break your heart.

But my husband, he understands me. He understands my lingo, my caress; I can’t do the “hey, cutie” for the rest of my life. I am a Goddess, not a piece of fruit.

Let’s Get Into It

Pre-trials and exotic fruit

So, I work at a clothing store.

It’s a lot of people walking through the doors. Don’t get me wrong, some are very fine.

Some are intriguing; let me get to know you. Try a sample, kind of vibe.

Sadly, not all samples need to become a meal, or even an appetizer.

I am WiShy wAshy to men who don’t understand me

And that’s on purpose.

It takes one, possibly two conversations for me to decide if I want you around or you’re getting the boot. I can’t deal with someone annoying, obnoxious, and fake.

Many men who love bomb immediately are walking red flags. You don’t know me, and your obsession is delusional. You don’t know me.

Now you’re disappointed because I didn’t give you that weird energy back.

Yeah, because it’s annoying. Goodbye, good riddance.

Thank God, you wrote yourself out of history.

Babes, I got my own

I am not impressed by titles; I am not impressed by how well you dress. I can find many men with good titles, nice outfits, and love… begging to hang out with me is not flattering. It’s actually annoying. Quite annoying.

If you want my time, at least plan something that’s actually intriguing for me.

Going around in circles is little man energy, and we don’t do little “man” energy around here.

Exotic fruit isn’t always yummy

Sure, it’s different. Something new, but sad to say you weren’t made for my daily digestion.

You’re a piece of something I never had before, something new. But I am not impressed.

You carry some nice qualities, but is it real? Or are you carrying a facade? Because why the switch-up so real when I add my special sauce?

A lil razzle dazzle of “attitude” and a sexy sauce of “Idgaf”.

It’s true.

When you show more of you, why do they run? Why can’t they handle it?

I gotta marry a Black man

I can’t believe I am saying this out loud, on my blog.

But it’s a must.

My husband is a Black man.

Let’s be real, I grew up on 7 Mile on the west side of Detroit.

I wear Aaliyah graphic tees and bang 42 Dugg on my morning drive on the Lodge for my work commute.

I sit outside and drink wine during summer nights and host yard sales with Sade playing in the background.

I’ll eat a bowl of cereal on my cousin’s porch and watch fireworks shoot off into the sky on the Fourth of July and watch my cousins run to cover.

I am not for you.

I never was.

I am meant for someone else, but I am glad you got to experience me for a week. And I am glad you got to read my blog; it brought me back into rotation.

I am truly a hidden gem, but I am not your gem. I am someone else’s, and God politely got me right on up out there, and I am ecstatic because I truly couldn’t do anymore “hey, cutie” messages because I am not a fruit.

I am Chandra, babes, Chandra Alilijah from the city.

“I put the fruit in my cart, and it turned sour within a few days. Not for me, I knew that, though.”

“May God bless me with the one that’s for me.”

May he arrive in peace,

Black love is key,

C.Alilijah