An African Man

This poem was inspired by the blog and conversation that followed the blog of one of my students. We spoke about the richness of African legend and I told him the story of how I got into trouble with the census people for insisting to call myself an African. I was afterall born and raised on Africa, as part of HER, why then am I Caucasian or European? I am the African Man. 

An African Man

From the dark entrapments of HER soil,

I rise unto this world.

The dust swirl around my feet,

as the winds sweep the leaves

to follow in a whirlwind of birth

where I now, in the eye of the hurricane

stand tall and free

an African Man.

Although my skin tells the tale

Of Skyscrapers and Ossewa’s,

My hearts tells the sings the songs

Of the Hyena’s laughter,

While my blue eyes speak of

Union Jacks and the money market

Soul rumbles like a Lion,

reverberating through the forests,

for all my animal brothers and sisters to hear.

For I am an African Man

For too long has HER soil

been broken and torn by clash

of our indifferent heritage.

The time is here to show the world

that all of us have at some point or other

been nursed on the placenta

of HER primeval void.

But we have denied her

And set ourselves apart from,

while claiming always that we are not of her.

White as I my be,

I am an African Man.

No longer do I linger

on the promises of a world fulfilled

by machines and hatred.

No longer do I beg for knowledge

at the feet of man

who does not hear HER heartbeat.

No longer do I wish to understand

the magick of Europeans,

Lost in their books.

I am an African Man

My heart beats to rhythm of HER drum

and my every step is guided

by the Ancestors and the Buffalo.

 I learn from the tales

retold by the Zulu Shaman

and I feast on the nectar of HER breast

while embracing the magick

that moves not around me

but within my very being

For I am an African Man.