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.
Copyright © Temitope Ayodeji | Year Posted 2016
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