For those whose hearts are shaking,
We have been bewitched and our collective throat shoved with dry yams we are not able to yelp for help. But who is this who has cursed us with a skin blacker than the bottom of our grandmother’s pots. Who has made the continent so dark the sun sets with clouds of shame for leaving behind crying mothers with their children clutched so tight on their chests suckling breasts so dry their lips have cracked. Why is our skin is so dark we want to sweep away our melanin as if it was a kid who has soiled himself in the presence of guests. Are our shrines so far up in the mountain that our jiggerd feet can’t climb the rocks?
Why have we become monsters that we have developed a sport in killing each other? Why do we need to sign signatures online to stop us from killing our people? A friend mused; “What next, shall we hold a referendum for us not to die?” We pressupose everyone is an enemy and forget that hell is deep within us. We spit saliva so dark our soil is growing infertile from the bitterness. We sleep on machete pillows with hands clutched tight turning cold on our weapons. Our wives are sterile because the white masters have told us we are over-populating our land. We are dying in rivers crossing into foreign lands, shot at by white masters because we are afraid of our own blackness engulfing us in the blanket of this dark continent.
Superficial talk and sentimental delusions won’t save our children being killed and our mothers being raped by the same democracy that should protect them. A democracy that is selective and sleeping with men in well manicured palatial compounds. Gates so high that our stinking skins from the neighboring slums can’t penetrate. But their farts are loud enough our kids are deaf. So deaf that our nine year olds can’t hear the sweet bullets of democracy that are kissing them at their own balconies. You slept hungry yesterday? But hey cheer up, you exercised your democratic rght, right? Standing there three hours risking Varicose Veins to get an ink on your rough fingers. Fingers so blistered our wives are at risk if caressed. Fingers so blistered with shame we can’t wipe the tears of our mothers because we are busy wiping the asses of our leaders.
Heck, why are our feet cracked and torn with jiggers? Why do we need foreigners with fancy gloves to clean us and take pictures for their pretty blogs? No amount of blogposts can build hospitals in Africa. Your pictures with street kids on social platforms don’t make me think you are for the common good because I can see how the melanin in your eyes has clouded your vision. You are kissing feet of men who have unleashed dogs with terror so unprecedented on their own people. Kissing the feet of men who are raping our economy. Kissing the feet of other men while the lips of our wives lie cold in our beds.
It’s easy to lose perspective when so much bitterness is clouding your sense of humanity. But every once in a while comes a time so magical and so exquisite that we notice the stars in the darkness of our mother’s eyes. And we look around and learn to distinguish between empty appearaces and brutal manners of the big heads that lead us and the real nature of people that appear thus.
But hear me ye children of Africa! A man who has never been in the clutches of a viper can never know what poison is. When it shall drown him in his own saliva, a straw won’t be enough to clutch onto.