From A Far Away Place

I see the dimming lights in their eyes,

the finality-

of something often,

of something close,

of something cherished,

of something forgotten.

There is futility in attempting to put these pieces together,

But I am drawn to it–

this exercise in impossibility.

I’ve dreamt of the paths untrodden,

that they might have missed to reach this  place

of unfounded dreams and unspoken hopes.

To label this failure would be too easy.

On this seemingly fruitless journey, we have been waiting.

Haltingly going neither backwards nor upwards-

Floating between the intermediary of who we dreamed  to become

and

that which our reflections mockingly produce.

we make gods of our bodies

and starve passion through the unwritten literature of our souls.

we are searching,

searching perhaps for that which we lost long before this journey began.

searching greater still, for that which our hands have not formed

nor our minds fathomed.

And They tell us-

that we are dreaming larger than we can become-

Because becoming has never been

in our power-

 

On this Separation

Mother, now that we are separated by these large waters-

And by crackling fibre lines-

that sometimes transform your humming voice into unfamiliar muffles.

But Mother,

Now that we are separated-

I feel somehow unable.

You have never asked me to carry your burden

But suddenly

I feel heavy.

The weight of the unknown-

balances unsteadily above

me.

It is only now-

that I realize

I have been navigating this world through

you.

And Mother, I am ashamed to say-

that all this while

I secretly thought it was

you-

who had needed me most.

Never truly acknowledging

Your strength,

until now-

now that my own lack of-

mocks me,

and is hastily demanded to

stand

upright

alone.

Mother, we are now separated-

by these man-made borders.

But separated still-

by so much more,

that I cannot-

define.

 

Paradox Unraveled

I know she often thinks of the beauty of death.

As she lays down her weary body

That once swayed gracefully from side to side

That once paid homage to the goddess of vitality.

But she is now weary and withdrawn-

Withdrawn from the world and withdrawn from herself

Unable to recognize the reflection of the ghost before her

She weeps quietly,

Inwardly

It is the inward pain that has devoured her

It came silently but knowingly

Knowing the destruction it would cause and the

Disarray that would be the final result

And as she lays down her weary body

I want to reach out and pull her

Close to me

Close to something

Living-

Because life is what she has lost

Because life is what she has used to barter

Because life is what she deserves to have.

But she is weary now

Weary of living.

The art of unliving

Of always giving of herself

Is one she has perfected

Thus, she no longer knows

What it means to live whole

And not,

as a sacrifice.

As she lays down her weary body

Her eyes grow distant and wide

Searching for her home above the heavens,

her place among the stars.

Perhaps, this is really living

She has found peace in this paradox

Of being dead to find life

I want to reach out and pull her

Close to me

But there is futility embroidered around this effort

She has found something-

Something much more potent than life itself

Along the lines of truth

And they keep telling me: my Black is beautiful.

As though this new revelation should surprise me.

Shock me, into

appreciating my existence, and to be grateful for my borrowed space.

and time.

How do they know I do not bow to my temple of blackness daily?

and pay homage often to the struggles whitened out in history texts?

They encourage me to accept my wide heavy hips and thick thighs.

They speak in weak tones of expression of inner beauty and imitations of color blindness,

Who are these that dictate what my reflections should sing?

Those who trap my stories in a box

Those who describe me as one thing.

One beautiful Black thing.

Why should i be defined, aligned and understood?

they teach me to know myself, while

always fearing i will recognize the lies behind their borrowed truths

and hand-woven sermons

Having produced an image of me that they find palatable and comfortable,

they clip my wings and demand i soar.

The African Dream

When they painted the African narrative

They did not anticipate growth.

Or perhaps they prayed against it?

The beauty of the African dream,

the black dream in the white mind

is that it never comes true.

It must remain blurry and murky before it can be realized.

For it is upon the pot-bellied rulers that they discuss

“the New Africa”

the “Rebirth”.

The beauty of the African dream-

must be found in the impoverished infant

suckling a dried and withered breast

of a smiling corpse

The beauty of the African dream

is the illiterate woman,

toiling the fields,

for crops that will never yield.

Of the dirty children playing under the

Amarula tree.

The beauty of the African dream

is found in the colonized ideology fed to the locals

in the disguise of the Saints and Mother Mary.

That is the only narrative the white mind

can swallow with his morning tea.

Mother, A wonderful Headache you gave me

And Mother,

You only ever taught me to love and to be true,

Assuring me that this was enough armor to meet the world with.

And Mother,

You prepared me to hope in the stars and pray to the winds.

And Mother,

You promised that faith could conquer all battles.

And Mother,

You made me understand the pain of others before my own.

And Mother,

You taught me to sooth the wounds on the backs of my foes.

And Mother,

You showed me that wisdom would always dwell in the rows of cornrows that lay upon my head.

And Mother,

You sang the hymns on the misery of wars un-fought.

And Mother,

You decorated my childhood with stories of the evils of men.

But Mother,

You taught me to be silent too soon and

too often.

The Many Falling Queens

Young girl, I pray you see these vultures hovering over you.
They prey on innocence.
Taking blood when able.
How can you decipher their evils?
My young one, they will come bearing gifts
of perfumed prose,
that may seem heartfelt but is rather a memorized eulogy.
Silky phrases that plead the divergence of legs,
and the raising of hips.

Young girl, I pray you believe your worth.
Immeasurable and unquantifiable.
Young girl, I pray you learn to love the broken reflection.
Tender and complex.
Young girl, it might seem like you will never win,
in this game of greed and falling queens.
But know this
That the worst of the vultures,
that suck you dry, leaving you hollow and barren
They are birthed
out of you

The beauty of creation

Pulling him to her breast,
She realized what she feared was the newness.
The feeling that perhaps
This moment had never occurred before and so,
the burden of creating something completely new had been given to them:
these young reckless lovers.
Who knew nothing more than to give of themselves,
Hungry, not to conquer but to be conquered.
They reeked of passion,
blinding and burning.
But even in the midst of passion,
She found herself gasping and wondering if the burden was too heavy.
As she moulded her body alongside his,
would this be enough?
She realized what she feared was the newness.
The beauty of creation that lay in the sandy horizon
And the failure of never reaching it,
blanketed her naked statue.

Consequence of Humanity

What then is the price of innocence?
When color translates power
Where virginity is bought online
And bank notes speak the language of diplomacy fluently
What then is the price of freedom?
When rapes are carried out as favours
Where beheadings can be watched in the privacy of bedrooms
And oil barrels whisper tales of genocide
What then shall we tell our maker?
Shall it be the innocent blood spilt that will drown us?
Or will we each tell our own tale of evil and sacrifice alone?
But as the forgotten toss and turn beneath us.
And human shields of ignorance stand tall.
We will sit one day and ask
Has it all been worth it?