Santigi gave up his little house in Wilberforce and started moving from one rented room to another. He had retired by then and Mum could no longer contact him at the bank. She lost track of where he lived, but not entirely; if too many months went by she always sent for news, and somebody somewhere could always tell her Santigi’s whereabouts. He came to visit less often.
It’s strange how some people’s stories always end the same way. A possible clue comes from my cousin Morlai, who began to drink at the same time as Santigi: after my father’s execution. “It felt like we were going back into the darkness,” he told me. My brother told me that years ago he helped Santigi clear out his little house in Wilberforce, and among his possessions were dozens of pictures of my father, from snapshots to photos torn from newspapers.
A near-death experience while drunk shocked Morlai into sobriety. He married and had children. He grew back into himself, stronger this time. Today he’s a successful businessman and although those things that happened to our family meant Morlai was never able to finish college, all his own children have done so.
For whatever reason, even though we loved him, for Santigi redemption never came.
On my last visit home to Freetown I arrived to discover Santigi had had a stroke two weeks earlier. In the weeks that followed, Mum and I tried to get him moved to a care home, but he died before that could happen. So we bought him a coffin and all his neighbours chipped in to buy him a suit from the secondhand-clothes stalls at Government Wharf. I had never seen Santigi in a suit. I asked Mum what he looked like. She laughed softly, and told me he looked good. I was back in England on the day of his funeral. I couldn’t go so I sat at my desk and I did what writers do. I wrote this instead.
Danielle Legros Georges
Born in Haiti, she is a writer and translator, the author of two books of poetry, Maroon (2001) and The Dear Remote Nearness of You (2016), which won the New England Poetry Club’s Sheila Margaret Motton Book Prize, and the chapbook Letters from Congo (2017). She is also the editor of City of Notions: An Anthology of Contemporary Boston Poems (2017). She is a Professor at Lesley University and is Boston’s second Poet Laureate.
Poem for the Poorest Country in the Western Hemisphere
O poorest country, this is not your name.
You should be called beacon. You should
be called flame. Almond and bougainvillea,
garden and green mountain, villa and hut,
girl with red ribbons in her hair,
books under arm, charmed by the light
of morning, charcoal seller in black skirt,
encircled by dead trees. You, country,
are merchant woman and eager clerk,
grandfather at the gate, at the crossroads
with the flashlight, with all in sight.
Lingua Franca with Flora
In spite of all who would renounce petals
the petals come: chèlbè1 some, shy some,
no dirt will hold them back. Planted
in dirt, and drawing from dirt, they explode
hot-pink, burst red, blown clean in the trade
winds that sweep down like a Moorish lover;
washed clean, darkened by Caribbean Sea rain:
these creeping bougainvillea.
And hibiscus flower, still delicate, still fleshy,
returning constantly to the Haitian day
he was stripped like a god of his name:
Rose de Chine. To the day he was brought low
to blacken shoes, made show his black blood
in the shine on the boots of American Marines,
1915.2 He, now named choublak, spilling
dark tears for tea.
But who can deny the sly chevalier de nuit?
Night’s knight, who blooms only at night,
unbolting his tiny white flower, perfumed,
redolant. Intoxicant known to those
who travel the night, and the night into day
down the worn trails to town, down the hills
for something, for life; known to those who
cut deals with ominous lords, with the devil
himself. All pinned by his lance.
It is he this girl picks to sweeten her dress
as she will emerge a goddess; in a rinsed
azure shift, after birdbath in alley
with enamel tin cup and tan bucket.
She will go boldly to her love who will
whisper to her in a schoolboy French
learned before he quit school; before life
swallowed him—and to seal their accord
(for there is a deal being made), in the gravity
of Creole, wi cheri, wi—tout sa’m genyen se pou ou,
yes darling, yes—all I have is yours.
A Stateless Poem1
If you are born, and you are stateless,
if you are born, and you are homeless,
if your state and home are not
yours—and yet everything you know—
what are you? Who are you? And who
am I without the dark fields I walk upon,
the streets I know, the blue corners
I call mine, the ones you call yours . . .
Who am I to call myself citizen, and
human and free? And who are you
to call yourself landed and grounded,
and free. And who is judge enough?
Who native? Who other?
And who are we who move so freely
without accents of identification,
without skin of identification, with
all manner of identification. With
gold seals of approval. With stamps
of good fortune. With the accident
of blameless birth. Who are we to be
so lucky?
palimpsest dress
rests on
a hanger—silver
shape
meaning
to be
shoulders—
whose neck
stems, bends
about a bar
that hold the armoire up
palimpsest dress
bias-cut
diasporic
(travels well)
hand-sewn,
hems, darts
(suitably)
to the stole’s
left, the bustier’s
right
palimpsest dress
which type of woman
slips you on
ink-spot
and all?
Songs for Women
I will there be no women here
who would circle red-
dressed, ruby-hearted,
glass-cut. If there be flowers,
then the bloom of cyclamen
awned in green’s glowing
night-vase, night-shade,
wild in wind. Sin be the will
to descend, humming-bird still,
steal the fire’s sound, take note
and return it. Let song be
the skin of a glimmering,
unsettled, razing, belly-deep
in the strike of match and band.
Be the belly, the pepper-pot.
Come close just to drop it.
Slide ’til the notes are a scaffold,
ash-flicked, unphoenixed.
musing
the muse licks her own tongue
pens rhymes for her own pleasure
dips her quill
mind stick
in dark ink
of her skin
and sits at a large bureau
thinking
Wangui wa Goro
She is a translator, writer, poet, academic, cultural curator and editor, best known for her scholarship as a theorist, critic, practitioner and promoter of translation, including its practical applications. She considers herself a cultural ambassador and advocate. She has spent over 40 years promoting and nurturing literature as an academic, throug
h translation, criticism and curation in different parts of the world. Her friends consider her to be the quintessential transnational global Pan-African, feminist Afropolitan, which, though she finds hilarious, she relishes.
Looking down from Mount Kenya
Where do you hope to join my life
Flowing
Not like a river
But as torrents and currents of the tide
Buffeted by multitudinous waters of change
Going back and forth?
Lapping up the high and low banks
Dazzling the plains with luminous floodings
Awash against the orange-red sky of our history?
Where?
Do you and I
Merge as minor or major (con)tributaries
To the great sea—
Vast ocean of change?
Or where do we become engulfed by other tides of the past
Of victory and of shame.
And what futures unforetold, then and now?
What do we become?
Droplets of vapour
Carried under the translucent sky
To descend on unsuspecting blossom of spring-tide freedom
As a dewdrop—inseparably defiant;
Or swallowed by the parched earth of our desert(er)s
Or a hailstone in the tropical storm?
Here we stand poised to (e)merge
Like Gikuyu and Mumbi
In a world of numerous possibilities
Drawing from history
And awed by the great expanses of the earth, the sea and the sky
That are our future
And which hold promises of infinite, infinite
Possibilities . . .
London, 1997
Kitamu
(A sweet thing, in Kiswahili)
Sweetness here
Is untranslatable.
Delicious?
Sugary?
Saccharine?
Bitter even?
Where it is never clear
Whether it is black, strong
Decaf or white
The heart melts
The mind moulds
The coffee burns
The tongue lies
The missed hiss
In the complicated kiss
As cup meets lip
And it is neither hot nor cold
And the blend does not tell
From where it comes
Along the fissures
Of the region
Valleys
Mountains
And crevasses
In Kilimanjaro
Kenya
or along the Niles
Blue or White
Is always
A question
Of the gaze
And the mind
And the heart
And the winds
Which buffet souls
To cross those troubled waters
Home
The smell of home
Brewed
In a hotel
sweet pot
Kitamu, 2013
Nouvelle Danse on a Rainbow’s Edge
The party is over, I know you naked now unmasked
The glitter and swagger in blood-lusted drunkardness
Falls with each step.
Sometimes you twirl and whirl
your powered lies around my innocence,
Making me believe that you love me,
That what you do is for my good
Yet, from time to time, your mask slips
And I catch sight of the gnarled glimpse directed at me
As you plunge and plunder
Plunder and plunge
So we dance,
Hips gyrating, heat sweltering
Round and round and round
Young and old together
Until the crack begins to show
In the falter of your step
Staccato, two three
I twirl
You stop
And I dance, dance, dance a new dance
Round and round and round and away from you
As the glitter beneath my feet flies, in Kenya:
57, 63, 68, 86, 2007 . . ., one to one
I could hold you and guide you
In a modern dance
But why should I?
Or find you a new partner
Who will stretch your step, I
But why should I?
For now
Just for now
This has to be my dance
Alone
Refining each new-found step
Rediscovering the mystery of my own beat
Of wonder-dance
Of women-together dance
That lifts us to higher ground
I dance, dance, dance
On
And on
And on
Dance on you may
Or watch me
In this moment
Of my dance
Alone
1989
Zita Holbourne
A British trade union, community and human rights campaigner and award-winning activist, she is also an author, visual artist, curator, poet, vocalist and writer. She has performed on television and radio and at a wide range of events including the National Diversity Awards, Glastonbury Festival, the Houses of Parliament and the TUC, and had the honour of writing and performing a tribute poem for the official UK Memorial Service for Nelson Mandela. She has been published in a range of anthologies, is the author of Striving for Equality, Freedom and Justice, and regularly writes for a range of national and specialist journals on social justice, human rights and equality issues. She won the Positive Role Model for Race Award at the National Diversity Awards in 2012, was listed as one of the top ten African and Caribbean Women of the Year in 2013 and was a finalist and one of five people’s choice poets in the Manorlogz Xtreme Spoken Word Contest in 2013. Her work has been recognised by the United Nations and she is part of the UNESCO coalition of Artists for the General History of Africa.
I Died a Million Times for my Freedom
My Freedom was not gained in a day, a month or a year
To achieve it I had to overcome both sorrow and fear
I walked across continents and centuries
Many times stumbling, falling down on my knees
I died a million times for my Freedom
Not a day passed when I wasn’t grieving
But I never gave up, never stopped believing
That I would reach the destination called Freedom
Sometimes I cried for my Freedom
Other times I died for my Freedom
My body and soul became my own Queendom
The ground beneath my feet never there long enough to call home
Constantly I ventured to uninviting pastures unknown
I died a million times for my Freedom
Be it one century or one year
I could sense Freedom always near
The scent of sweet liberty permeated my nostrils
I etched songs of Freedom in my mind that became my gospels
Strong and defiant, never forgetting proud roots
Passed through DNA to my womb’s precious fruits
I died a million times for my Freedom
Sometimes I was taken, sometimes I was used
Other times I was tortured and abused
My tears of sorrow deepened the sea
Broadening the divide between Freedom and me
Rebellion gave me hope and determination
My resistance knew no boundary or limitation
I bore the scars of my captivity
Like tribal marks of identity
I died a million times for my Freedom
When I was held back physically
I charted the route to Freedom mentally
In order to keep journeying towards my goal
The map of Freedom was imprinted on my soul
Between the stench of bodies decayed
And so many promised loyalties betrayed
I caught fast breaths of sweet fresh air
I could taste Freedom drawing near
I died a million times for my Freedom
When I couldn’t run I walked
When I couldn’t walk I talked
Promoting the very concept of Freedom to all who would hear
Convinced that Freedom could be reality if only they would dare
To claim it as their right
They could bring it into sight
When I could no longer walk, I rested
Learning that if I invested
In my own physical and mental well being
I would never stop believing
That Freedom could be mine
And when I finally arrived the sensation was divine
I died a million times for my Freedom
Even though I was wearied by centuries of oppression
Aged beyond my years by sadness and depression
Weathered from exposure to extreme elements
Frail from multiple abuses and resentments
I embraced my Freedom like an old lost friend
And refused to release my grasp for fear it would end
I died a million times for my Freedom
I died a million times for my Freedom
I died a million times for my Freedom
The Injustice of Justice; Extradition
She was born in the land of the ancestors, raised in the city of Angels, lived her early adult life on an island made of dreams, pursued by a government intent on dominating the world, imprisoned in a jail situated on stolen land, tried in a court room built on the backs of enslaved peoples torn from the land of the ancestors that was her birth.
She was deemed guilty until proven innocent, labelled before they knew her name, persecuted with no crime to charge her for, taken despite refusing to surrender her freedom, demonised because of her religion, misunderstood because of her multicultural upbringing, rejected because of her ancestry, disregarded as a human being and seen to be entitled to no rights upon this earth.
She refused to break when they tortured her, denied them the pleasure of seeing her weep when her heart was breaking, refused to let them see her turning crazy when she felt herself losing her mind, between the beatings, as she lay in solitary confinement for days that were the same as nights, she comforted herself with the recollection of words spoken by great philosophers and poets and memorised verses created out of the depths of her soul about the injustice of justice, remained resilient, determined and brave, held on to her belief that the truth would one day set her free because she’d been raised to value her worth.
New Daughters of Africa Page 45
