Negro Down

It pirouettes in the air, the raison d'être for a black man's inimitability. Something that keeps a black man bleeding by a black man's thrust. As if by some twisted Divine stratagem, he was fated to kneel that hour, on that coast, with peeling grits grinding into his patellae, and limbs begging for shackles. A piece of mirror for a thousand shackles. I see them when I close my eyes, on nights damp as the dirge they sing. I wave like the palms to the hollow hums that snake along with the creek. I see them in Badagry wearing chains and faces that tell no tale. Ghost faces that run rivers, embracing subtle winces; gifted by lashing fibres,twisted like Aduke's traverse. I swear she never cries, even when the blows land. Only she whistles her tale secretly to the water and chants orisons that mount the skies. A prayer of good will for kith, and good fortune for kin. Foremost, her heart in urge shrouds the son. May his ship run ashore somefate void of fetters. A hundred years later, the son yet rots in manacles, sniffing white addiction.