Unmarried

Mama says I atemy husbands.Seasoned themwith my saltyattitude andcooked them ina black pot onthe night of thewaning moon. She claims thatmy saggy beastsare an attestationto my disgraceas a womanand my mortarisn’t fit forpounding groundnuts. My body is afictional tale, sheboldly says.I’m not fit tolay on the groundthat holds thesemen of ourancestors.My complaintsunder the sunare equivalent…

Mooncycles

My heart is broken fragments disintegrate into sand laid upon a beautiful beach. My moon creates tidal waves to wash me away. What once intertwined between my licorice laced thighs? Now matted and sharp thorns grow there, where once my love lay to blossom. I am rotten. Heart wrenched like torn ligaments hanging from strange…

I Am Black

You look at me and see: Black African Evil. You turn up your nose and like a pig, you snort… or is it a sneer? or maybe…just maybe… as you scurry away like a cockroach do you wonder what I am? I am Black I am African A child of the continent you once called…

Pain: Who Am I?

Pain too has got beauty The beauty of pain is healing When healing comes Pain is not remembered Pain is not felt Pain too has got depth The depth of pain is lesson When lesson comes Pain is remembered Pain is felt Pain too has got malice The malice of pain is death When death…

My son Nok

You turn your head away‘he is my son,’ I say‘he was taken out of my grip’, I sayHe learnt how to shoot with a gun. He shot from village to villageenemies we all becamelapena leaves couldn’t hide uswe were handed blankets, beans and poshointernally displaced we became. Then I heard he was dead.‘he is my…

But How Can I Be Me?

I am not who I want to be The only person in my way is me The lives of the ‘amour propre’ I see But how can I be me? I don’t want to die an arm candy I really want to be happy Happiness without being sappy But how can I be me? But…

The Broken Mirror: to teach people to hate themselves…

Who are you? I am Angel. No, really, who are you? I am George. Stop playing around! I am Hanson, Ferguson, Manson, Johnson, Ellison, I am… Zombie. Lost in the ways of my people, my identity, my heritage I am the soulless black-white being that haunts the screens of materialism in the face of my…

Since you attended my funeral, I’ll also attend yours

Since you attended my funeral, I’ll also attend yours. I’ll arrive just before the coffin Enters the church And join the line of weepers. Weepers, mind you, not mourners. Weeping is the physical evidence for facebook That people actually cared about you. But mourning… Mourning is the spiritual evidence That people actually cared about you….

Fixable

You are fixable, hold my hand & let me mend your brokenness. It will hurt less, the falling & crushing; you will get better at sculpturing your bits & pieces. I won’t leave. I’ll wait for daybreak & we’ll figure out what to do with all this sunshine. Link to the Italian translation

Mothers Sing a Lullaby

(after the 1994 Rwandan genocide) Mothers sing a lullaby As the dark descends on trees Shutting out shadows. The sensuous voices swish and swirl Around shrubs and overgrown grass Hiding mountains of decapitated dead And the glint of machetes That slashed shrieking throats. In these camps without happiness Mothers maintain the melody of life Capturing…