Pondering the Pavement
What would you do
if you turned a new page
on the past,
and it begins rewriting
that moment?
What would you think
if yesterday’s song of victory
is suddenly replaced
by emotional cries
and vulnerability?
I slid down the pavement of history,
where the marks of freedom disappear
into the cyclone of neo-colonialism,
and I hear only one word:
“Our land is poor.”
I hear other voices telling their people
to dig through my spine
because I am rich from the inside.
My people shout and brag about the weather
and the riches I possess,
yet they are blinded by the beauty
of others.
None of them wants to use my wealth;
they exchange it for a handshake
and a single stick of cigarette,
followed by a disguised smile
wrapped in jealousy
on the foreigner’s face.
I left my level and climbed the mountain
back to the foot.
I placed a mirror before me
and saw a black, shining reflection.
Maybe this is why I am Africa,
or perhaps it is the reason
my people admire others so much—
the reason I am being sold away.
Every people must love and protect
their own,
but my people’s love and protection come
only when I am beaten and outsmarted
by others.
They do not value the tears
that run from Lake Victoria
to the foreign lands
of the Mediterranean Sea.
I cry for the life of my people.
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