Bring me a white goat he said, your fortune is bad he said. Leaning on the shoulder of my uncle, my cells shiver Even as I hear they're hot from the thermometer, My pounding head lets the sound in from his chanting, And my burning nose hugs my sintering eyes. White lines zig zag and jiggle with his dancing skin, The hazy bones on the ground tell him everything. He knows everything, especially things I don't know. He speaks with my grand mother and grand father, And even people further into my genetic past. But my mind couldn't sit still: A white goat? To appease my Uwu, who taught me to pair my socks To avoid tornadoes in the room when I find just one? Would Doh really hate his son's son to the point Of wishing him dead before any stub on his chin? The calligraphy of incensed smoke fills my thoughts, Staring at his mouth calling my aunts and uncles Who seek a slab over my unbreathing head. Is this where dreams all come to die? Where the Maker warned we will be misled into cavorting with Evil? My uncle tells me this is ok, tradition suggests, no, DEMANDS, That in times of trouble, we should guess through bones Which of those who love us in reality, through the smoke Can be declared jealous, heinous, whether dead or here, So we can hate them, and thereby build up this lie as truth. (c) nyonglema
Immigration brought America its first black president.
Sitting with this pen between my lips, as dad
Said not to, I'm twiddling and thinking of
Tigers looking into a mirror.
Do they see just the beastly muscle to rip flesh
Apart, or can they see the black, gold, silver, orange
Calligraphy of a meadow, plucked to glorious
Melody like a guzheng serenading the prey
Before Medusa's magic mars their future?
Do parrots notice the pale sparrow's envy at
Its militarily-decorated plumage which holds
Divine discourse with the sun rushing past
The leaves to caress a masterpiece chirping
Away under a pale green canopy craving its
Variety splash of colors upon itself?
Sitting and twiddling this ink, I'm thinking.
Are "precious" and "scarce" synonymous?
King Midas turned everything ordinary to something
Now ordinary, and by returning them to their
Ordinary state they became precious.
Could this be why I now miss the hair I hated to comb
In painful strokes? Or why I would prefer scrolling
My Twitter feed than feeding off my son's glorious
Imaginary worlds whence crazy stories spring,
But which I miss, because this is here, that is there?
Could this be why thrust from misery, to slavery,
Then to a land of freedom and opportunity whose
Prowess the paler countries of the world cast
Envy upon, wishing the variety splash of colors,
And music, and glory, and gold upon themselves,
The American from Africa focuses on the "African",
Missing the "American" in "African American"?
Could this be why other Africans come to America
And seeing the plumage, seize the Value in "American"
Live the American dream walking to Pennsylvania Avenue,
Saying "Yes we can!": but most Africans don't listen?
Dorian throws the news around my phone,
And its not pretty. Some are sad, some are swelling,
And the rest curse the past as if death was an ally.
The words drip drop on the easel, and the brushes:
Oh they make grandiose moves...how do you paint 95?
With the purple of Kutama, a splash of yellow, and
Green and brown. It paints struggle with bars,
In white and peach and blue and red.
I'm reminded of a time when coins became
Empty notes, and the brush painted pain plainly
On poor people...but black is not such a good colour
To pour all over this tribute. Well, that's what
My painting teacher said ... and I just said "I know".
RIP Robert Mugabe,
May other leaders, especially in Africa, learn from your victories to bring freedom to their people, and from your failures, to avoid the corruption of power.
May God receive you in his bosom.
The wheels on the bus fight round and round
Round the ground, stones around,
The wheels on the bus, have gone aground
In holes in the town.
The driver of the bus says move on back,
Far to the back, far to the back,
The driver of the bus stays in his shack
While sons and moms drown
The baby on the bus goes where'd I go?
Where's that hope? Where's that road?
The baby on the bus thinks Paris stole those
While leaders put on a frown
The mummy on the bus goes France did this
France did this, In the 1960s
The mummy on the bus says France did this,
While leaders steal her gown.
The wheels on the bus have left the ground,
Go round and round, round and round,
The wheels on the bus go off road guards
And starts plunging down.
What stories were you told as a kid? Bedtime stories?
The wall whispers to me "You'll be nothing!
It's been rigged, see, the Earth is being pulled off
To show what lies beneath, and "They"
Want a crater beneath that."
"They" sounds like a strange name for anybody.
I hear "They" colonised African countries ,
Then "They" took all the resources,
Then "They" kept Africa under 1 dollar.
"They" have power.
While "We" pilfer the poor's taxes,
Build roads in an Oculus Rift, "We"
Mass-murder those who think different,
Take off those brains so all stop thinking,
Take off the teachers, the doctors,
Lest one takes a needle to stitch one back together.
"They" tell us what to do, and not wanting our welfare
Give "We" loans, and aid, and technology, and more
Well "They" want what's in our soil,
And "We" sell it to them.
Only you can't complain when you sell something can you?
Like Mugabe seizing lands traded for weapons or more
Or Africans asking the return of their wares' descendants,
Or at least some reparation, for the low price got on
Their brothers: some sort of bonus for good performance?
So you get to be paid double, and get back what you sold?
When I hear that wall whispering, I think of the poem
Dad told me to recite: "Mr Nobody" written by nobody.
I guess it's easier to swing your sword at virtual windmills
Than at yourself when you are the source of all the trouble
And "We" still pilfer everything we own,
Thinking what we own are rocks beneath the Earth,
While the children are either buried in those rocks,
Or their education forgotten till all actually become rocks.
The voice of the people cry out in the wilderness:
"Prepare ye the days of the next overlord."
They dream of wild money and tarred net streets
But can only be guaranteed not a single day to be bored.
Cast your vote, like exorcism in a closed building
Where faith died! You know the head-spin
Is the moment the vomit spells your inevitable failure.
Votes mean nothing when owned by demons.
I dreamt of choosing a president all mine,
But that's not mine for the choosing,
And despair cooks witch spells in the back of my mind
To drown my dreams in dreary musing.
I dreamt of choosing the laws to rule
But one person rules the parliament supreme
And waves a wand if any should dare to speak
In his presence of the forbidden or of another team.
I dreamt of choosing the mayors to ride,
But the Boss not mine defines the governor
And delegates another to give them orders and more,
And decides what moves, grows, or becomes manure.
I dreamt of a great nation in Africa's armpit
But got a snapshot of generations in the belly
Of the Beast. Maybe I shouldn't be dreaming,
Maybe I should just stand for truth; just maybe.
The flies dart around his arid mouth, whose sides point to the outline of his ribs attacking his parchment skin. The ground looks exactly like him, though older
A lot older. His mum looks no different; well a little more distraught.
She seeks solace in an empty box, where cobwebs acquaint dusty air and despair.
Then there was the one who had everything he needed, but couldn’t get to any meeting in time. His car fought time in impossible battles where potholes had cheat-codes to rupture tyres, kill the shocks, and shock the monthly balance sheet
Sheets of mud made 10km look like 100km, and the traffic madness made everyday on Earth like an eternal repayment of evil.
Then there was the one who wanted more. He took the fruits of corporate toil to build an empire for him and his child, but Everest seems an easier prospect for each step of the investment process, for each step of the electoral process, for each step of the hoping process.
Processing files gets trickier each person you meet, and civil un-clarity is the clearest form of corruption to be your defeat.
But the international community knows that the most urgent way to solve years of poverty, pain, nepotism, despotism, murders, mass graves, mass rapes, massacres, genocide, homicide, fratricide, betrayal, civil disorder, civil unrest, political abuse, constitutional abuse, religious abuse, educational decline, moral decay, brain drain, societal decay in Africa is with one solution: the LGBT liberation.
The solution to the proliferation of AIDS is to urgently encourage the more dangerous copulation?
The solution to poor healthcare is to urgently create new health care issues?
The solution to hunger is to feed a pack of NGO-related lawyers?
The solution to political injustice is to replace the meaning of the rainbow in your constitution?
The solution to inefficient functionary service is to add new clauses barely understood?
The solution to failing education is to reform only to include the LGBTQ-etc?
The solution to repopulating after genocides or disasters or diseases is barren relationships?
The fall of every empire starts with political correctness and warped priorities; only…Africa is not even out of the ER yet.
Where should we focus more the aid we get, and our resources: on something that divides the civil society and is the least of our civil issues; or on educating our children out of the inferiority complex and dependency mentality?
I pick the latter.
In November more than 230 years ago a letter changed the course of history.
Lady Middleton inked hope in the heart of a British speck,
And no matter how small it saw itself, and made protest
The cause was so big that the Hope she sowed seemed 300 against Persian military.
Lil’ Bill set out to change the world before his eyes
That man wished to make men see in other men their brothers,
Like hounds view spaniels, or poodles, or chihuahuas,
And to think we’re supposed to be the smarter of the creatures.
Well, William Wilberforce, along with many intelligent beings
Set out to explain to humanity what animals already knew.
Today I feel sorry for him
That the lessons he fought for flew to forgetfulness.
I feel sorry, that it actually got worse.
I feel sorry that…I used to think I was worth “Priceless”.
That’s what dad and mum told me, we can’t buy you:
Protect your eyes, they have no price.
Protect your hands, protect yourself, you have no price.
USD 400, EUR 400, GBP 350, YUAN 3 125, XAF 260 k.
Print me a tag, stick me in a Home Depot store as an accessory
I’m more economical than a Roomba.
Pass it through my earlobe,who needs a jackhammer to build
When you can get me, and for cheap?
Stick it on my forehead, and put me in a sex shop,
I’m cheaper than all you can buy.
Thank you Wilberforce, you tried to make puppies in a pound less important than humankind in the hearts of humans unkind.
But those wear Prada, while HUUUUUUUMMMMAAANs starve to death, while humans are traded when they hit rock bottom, while water takes human life.
Well I just wanted to say that I’m for sale too, like my brothers and sisters who lost hope and sought hope in a lion’s den.
Well they say if you see an antelope running towards a lion pride, then wherever it was before must have had a Terminator – Alien – Predator hybrid…or worse.
So before I’m sold, this speck says to African “leaders”…:
Thank you <insert insult here>, You’re just doing what your predecessors did. Reducing our citizens to slavery through your silly greed. You’re the AIDS of our continent from which all kinds of ills take away our future…
You’re …mostly pathetic.
Ok, please buy me now, Paypal, Visa or just cash…399.99, please.
Tears, tears, all I have to pour on where we have come due to the greed of the world powers, and the active participation by African leaders in making a bad situation even worse…God help us
I’m mostly skin-colour blind, but in this post I want to reflect on the struggles within the black communities.
You know that moment you have to protect your kids from some particularly mean neighbour? Well you won’t be protecting them if you did the same to them would you? The question to most blacks is: “How much do black lives matter to you?” More than your money? More than your tummy? More than playing life with that fine body? More than greed?
The title is inspired from Don Cheadle’s line : “Another Dead Niggers Association”, while talking to Kendrick on Kendrick Lamar’s hit song D.N.A. This song looks at the heritage of the black communities and the conclusion is quite poignant: “Sex, Money, Murder – Our DNA”. You can read more about it on Genius.com.
Einstein is asleep in a Bepanda rubbish heap.
Newton is learning how to swim in Soweto poop.
Shakespeare is slumped in a car with extra lead
Losing the grams he suddenly gained on a Vegas road,
Then Dumas does same: different street, same oozing scenery.
Is it a case of which or is it that each black life actually matters?
The geniuses seem to be electrons in the society’s first chapter,
Then the atom goes positive in self-wrought treachery
You took Dube for his car, Njawe for his mouth, Lumumba for his mind, Pac
For his revolution, X for his convictions, Luther for his wisdom, Sankara,
For his vision, And their names scream from an unending roster in front of Peter.
Dead Negus Association
Then our mothers turn preemptive and kill
The next Mozart for fear of hunger, dump
The next Leke for fear of parental anger.
Where are the tears in these instants where the now seems better for all?
How to un-wrench my heart when the news comes out the radio speaker,
And the souls fly around one last time before going unaccomplished back home?
The miracle of the genetic mutation that brings genius to uplift our communities mostly gets lost earlier than on the blueprint:
Each gone by a gun or its mum.
People will treat you the way you treat yourselves. May blacks love their neighbour more so that hating you doesn’t look anymore like something you taught everybody. Love black lives
“I can’t breathe!”, I screamed. “I can’t hear!”, was the echo.
Think about it,
It’s thirty years the first promise was crafted
Yet, nothing positive has been thought or drafted.
The promises turned back on the journey to greatness,
And pain ossified them on the spot into vain… but wait, let’s
Go in deeper.
Roads, buildings, hope, dreaming, ‘dults, children, pots, three meals,
School, jobs, lost meaning when you lost will and, I guess, hearing.
It’s thirty years the first promise was crafted,
Or more, I can’t see what weird appendage has been grafted
To the future of whole generations aspiring
To be something, but vainly perspiring
And this instant
Promises pile, plausibly nigh, but possibly high, impossibly Pi
That nothing’s decided, nothing resides in the blank page on this side
It’s thirty years the first promise was…well more,
And each one feels like a Cinderella-before-fame chore
While the voices rise from the depth of democratic thorns
And die unheard, buried in the land of miles of dictatorial scorn.
And nobody hears the screams:
Hearing-aids titter on the side of the screen.