Photo by Jorge Larios (http://www.flickr.com/photos/vasagritarwow/)
The Negro dreams of rivers.
The Negro dreams of seas.
The Negro dreams of oceans crossed.
Leeward. Windward. Antilles.
The Negro dreams of Empires lost;
Ghana, Mali, Songhai,
And Cries himself into forgetting
Till centuries and centuries nigh.
The Negro pines for Gods of Thunder
and deities made of sweet yam.
The Negro calls himself Ibo and Ashanti.
The master calls him Sam.
The Negro knows nothing of Mahogany,
Cotton, breadfruit, Sugarcane.
The Negro knows only calloused hands,
fear, loathing, pain.
The Negro learns that kindness comes
with cruelty to his fellow man.
The Negro snaps the masters whip
and eats from the master's hand.
The Negro learns that secret things
are where power is best kept.
The Negro summons Ancestor souls
and says 'Nah, man. Is just a fete.'
The Negro seizes Saint-Domingue.
And moves into the house of kings.
Oh Haiti! Oh, Mon dieu! Quel Doux Cadeaux!
Sad land of such hopeful things.
The Negro knows that profit
is the name of the game.
He makes good on the only threat he has
and sets fire to the cane.
The Negro grew scars like crocodile skin
long before he was fitted with chains.
What was once a testament to a tribe's nobility
becomes yet another source of pain.
In time the Negro comes to know his work
and the value of his hands.
He also knows his seed will not take root
until he owns his land.
The Negro is offered freedom
and told it is a pittance of a cost.
Simply fight our wars and wait a hundred years more
and pray your children don't become lost.
