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Thursday, April 28, 2011

Justice Begins Next Door



There has never been a time in History when all has been great about Africa. Like every other continent Africa is a vast land with many contradictions. When the land itself is broken down it exposes the many distinctions apparent and the inequalities that come with such divisions. Nothing encapsulates this scenario more than the reaction by Africans of the complex situation that is Libya.

Feelings of disappointment, anger, sympathy, pity, resolve, and shame have been extended towards the people of Libya, the rebels, the soldiers, Gadaffi, his inner circle and the mercenaries fighting on both sides.

The African Union has epitomized all what is wrong about African Affairs by firstly towing the line of the International community that rattled its sabers at a government they had since 197 been attempting to overthrow and later attempting to be the statesmen that Africa requires by calling on a limit in the scope of the actions of the International Community and even attempting to open a dialogue between both sides. In all this, the image of an impotent AU with feelings of inferiority in the International arena became more pronounced.

The Arab League, never the favorite uncle in this uneasy African familial dynamic has stuck to what it knows best, protecting the more established Arab States. As it advocates the destruction of lives and property in Libya it sends troops to quell the same protests in Bahrain. As it colludes with the Western Nations to assassinate people with no military backgrounds in Libya, it turns a blind eye to the mass murder of protesting civilians in Syria.

And then the Western Governments. United States, The UK and their allies. Whose policy of Justice begins next door never is as surprising as the righteous indignation they display when trying to use the same measures they rile against to takeover governments in foreign nations, subverting the wills of those citizens  forgetting that the ills that sicken their very societies are oftentimes far worse than the perceived blight they attempt to cure the world of. Their passion ignorantly tearing apart the world one brick of idealism at a time. Meanwhile, all this hypocrisy is noted by the most recognized sleeper agent in history, The African Youth in the Diaspora.

He hasn’t gone as far as to support the view of Osama Bin Laden who in his first public address stated "The U.S. today, as a result of the arrogant atmosphere, has set a double standard, calling whoever goes against its injustice a terrorist,"  In fact the African youth in the Diaspora just observes international events and files them to that section of the mind that contains all things not in pursuit of individual development. In that section are the information on facts like the number of blacks in jail for civil era offences, the racial tensions prevalent in the entertainment, political and social industries in the West, the sexism that every now and then comes to the forefront of society’s conscience and the inequality that is shared between both societies.  He has observed the warmongering apparent in the West through their unending invasions of independent territories, attempted assassination of foreign heads of state and political figures who do not support their policies and the constant affairs to influence the political landscape of independent nations by supporting seemingly friendly dictators and infusing cash into the election campaigns of Western educated and western leaning candidates. "It wants to occupy our countries, steal our resources, impose on us agents to rule us.", was how Osama phrased it. The African youth sees it as a protection of the Interests of the Western governments at whatever costs to the developing countries.

The African youth witnessed and recorded how the conflict in Libya was handled in contrast to the ones in Bahrain and Syria, Witnessed the Unabashed haughtiness that emerged from speeches praising the designation of a Head of State as a target of assassination by other foreign nations. Witnessed the apathy of the United Nations, Witnessed Russia and China as the calming voices in the invasion of Africa and before this, the African Youth had witnessed the placations offered to that very same regime, the trade deals brokered and publicized between the Libyan government and the British government and its subsidiaries.

In Silence the African Youth continues to live his legacy, that of the freedom from slavery. Because you see, the difference between that era and this one is readily apparent. During slavery, the white master lived in his opulent house on one side of the plantation. He had one set of slaves working on the plantations and another set working in his house. He had his choice of leaders who would transmit his orders to the slaves. He would go to the slave quarters but only to take a sex object, to discipline those slaves who had got out of line, or to choose which of the slaves he could dispense with. Now for the plantation, picture the planet. The West separated from the rest who only turn to the rest of the world to pillage its resources, instill her own brand of morality or punish those who dare go against them. All the while attempting to choose the best candidates to govern the rest in a manner that is in the best interest of the west. Hooray to the end of slavery, welcome to the age of humanitarian democracy. An age where the most confused are the Western born African Children, for just like the bastards of slave owners and slaves, they had no say in this issue.  They continue to enjoy the worst of both worlds. Not fully accepted into either community.



All this the African youth in the Diaspora observes. But that is not all. He also observes the good that the West promises, the good that in the first place attracted him to her. The good that makes him want to fight for her, die for her, because she is after all his country now. She has the opportunities for advancement he wishes he had had growing up and he wishes his kids will one day have. It is the epitome of what he wants his country to be. A blueprint that guides his own developmental path. 

So he professes his love for his adopted land, fully meaning it, while the ember of love for his motherland lies undying in his deepest heart. Eternally fueled with the belief that  one day the major powers will grow tired of continually putting the little people in their place, one day they will fall asleep on that wheel of imperialism, fall asleep and wake up to an African independence from slavery, and every semblance of servitude. An Africa that lives on the idea that it is good to be best, but even better to be best loved.

God bless the USA, God Save the Queen and may God damn all those committed to the destruction of innocent lives in their quest to globally propagate their form of morality.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Chains around my emotions

Anger 
at the massacre
women raped
men disgraced
children molested
anger
but at whom
the merchants who profited
The farmers who used
or the chiefs who sold

Dissapointment
at its present state
those who deny it happened
those who use it as an excuse
those who sentimentalize it

Shame
at its sight
those who once were
those who once owned
those who once justified it

Guilt
my sentiments 
towards the sons and daughters
of all who profited from it

The shackles are now rusty
the ship are rotten
the plantations are razed
the distinctions remain
the institutions stand
the excuses continue to echo

what then should i feel about slavery.

Twisted


She has me
Wrapped around her finger.
Like a band of gold,
Setting the seal
on a promise
of love undying.
The setting
for a deep blue topaz.
Our love,
forever bound tightly
by cords, twisted
from
strands of;
our first meet here,
our first kiss there,
our first trip here,
our first fight there.
strands of
my first vision here,
and your first dreams there.
Spun together
with the wax of
unfailing trust.
She has me
wrapped around her finger.
and what a  place to be,
the seat from which
a victor is declared
when the gods of love do battle.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Admonition


I dreamt my father spoke to me.
From beyond the grave he spoke to me about faces.


Never tire to stop and look around you, he said.
What you will see are faces you will quickly become accustomed to.
Faces of champions,
Veterans in the art of exploration,
Wise beyond their meager years,
Restless.
Straining at the leash to unleash their childlike dreams upon us,
Their eloquence all the more admired 
because tells us how to temper idealism with pragmatism.
Faces of followers.
Invaluable for their supporting roles.
Safe in the knowledge
that their work will never be interrupted
by those who wish to prey on the accomplishments of others,
because the limelight will always be fixed squarely on the champions
while the followers toil daily with bravery enough and to spare,
to stand up and be counted if and when needed.
I will never be too far from you, he continues.
You will recognize me as the face of a Lawyer, Doctor,
Enterprenaur, Teacher, Economist,
Engineer, Social worker or other professional
and just like you,
they will be of champions and followers.
Your face and mine are not so unlike after all.
Shining bright with hope and expectation,
Catalyst for the change yet to come.
Looking to stop
The conservation of our bright faces,
And start lighting the path
For our new golden age.

And to think,
I never knew my father.

Friday, January 21, 2011

GREY




I am that rock in the middle of our river


stagnant


the bridge between our world and theirs


constant


watching tears pour as you come and go


frequent


never stopping to see who follows


indifferent


continually striving to float above the river of tears


nonplussed


always been regaled with journey tales


enthusiastically


Never am I jealous of your wanderings


unperturbed 


may you find the answers you seek there


hopefully


and the questions that need asking here


sagely


as you transverse the divide


adeptly 


between this world and the world.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Precious


Her name is precious 
at least that's what i named her
I found her a block from my house
alerted to her presence
by a whimper on the sidewalk
The pavement was whispering to me
help, help, someone, anyone, help
call me curious
i delved within the tangled mess
of old politics, old promises and old policies
of filthy rags, bunched up newspapers and old cardboards
and there discovered my precious
a ragged, wet and scared cat
beaten by the words of her unforgiving sons
ragged from the exploitation of what makes her beautiful
scared from the interventions
of powerful lobbies and superpowers
yet i could still see the beauty in her eyes
it was still freezing 
but I had ceased to be cold
I raised her up
lifted her to my self
and carried her home
dropped her in the shower
turned on the hot water
and waited for what would emerge
waited amidst the emerging moans of pleasure and pain
until she finally emerged 
This tiny thing 
lost in the bundling of all my towels
her shy colour 
peeking shyly through her skin
color patches playing hide and seek on 
her smooth skin
relieved of the burden
of the dirt and grime
of 50 years of perceived self determination
encapsulated in stagnation
the time had come
for her to shed off
years of neglect
and trade them
for the natural look for the future
My precious

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Haunted


I am a haunted man
My lean and pensive look 
an outward reflection
of my restless dreams
I still dream in krio
recalling vividly the 
despairing nakedness of 
poor homes
a coerced witness
to arrogant inequality
walking with gritted teeth 
among the strewn filth
stepping on broken dreams
and fading hopes
my thoughts haunted 
with the idea that 
for me to escape
requires superhuman strength
a strength stolen 
by fear of inability
to rouse myself from this 
oppressive dream
I am a haunted man