To a Dark Land

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Black Boy in Mirror

My hands want to move, stick ink to paper and let my mind get some relief. Relief from acrimony, love, pain, desire to possess, castles built in air, relentless thoughts and edified fantasies of a life I don’t have yet.

I hate to meander in my own kind of speech because acerbity is a character I unwillingly possess and yet ironically admire.

Sailing through life, my own fantasies have conformed to a peculiar behaviour that manifests utter admiration for what is white. From the face of Christ to the images on Hollywood billboards.

I have eaten, lived and aspired in a way that made me feel like a European displaced in an African country void of beauty that I incessantly fascinated about.
The pastors in my church preached love and gratefulness, the Algerians complained about assimilation (White men in black skins) and yet in my dear sky, nothing could beat the cherished thought of being given the chance to be white.

If cosmic darkness is associated with black and angels seem to e white, then what patriotism would utter my forbidden thinking?
However I still failed to locate my would-be place of identity among these men with limited melanin
Jews, Chinese or Russians? My mind didn’t covet that type of whitehood. I didn’t want to encounter the Holocaust, nor domicile with men that castrate themselves nor reside in a country of ferocious Tsars and blood thirsty Tsarinas.
My mental devastation didn’t also admire the manufacturers of the guillotine nor the ones that hoisted the union Jack.

I gazed at the West, saw a people that fought with bravery in 1776 but still had anti-black Jim Crow. Despite my failure to appreciate what I was, I hated to see other people taint anything black.

At the end of the day, I’m void of choice. All that is white has engraved and deeply entrenched flaws and dark pasts that seemingly make me uncomfortable. I already asked the almighty to forgive my sadism and thanked Him for my vivid imagination that finally traced out the eccentricities of whitehood.
Now I’m forced to let go of my antique American dream or should I say white fantasy.

I’m more sane and I can now see what’s next to me. I now see nature’s best in a land of a thousand hills and hour glass women and the wide and unique corners of the Kalahari. I can discern the wonders of the Kilimanjaro and appreciate the unmatched sweet taste of Ugali.
I now perceive a people that know their peril and still walk with heads high. I can hear angelic and celestial-like voices blessing the ambience, all praising our Kabakas and queens. They pose an eternal threat to queen Elizabeth’s royal violinists.

My mind can as well catch sight of the Nile that quenches the thirst of multitudes. I’m no longer seeing the oppression and hunger-stricken nature that the non Africans think of us to be.

God must have taken long spells of time to craft such a wonder.

To Africa.

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