She rarely goes to tha temple, mosque or church.
She seldom reads tha vedic script, bible or tha koran.
She is skeptical of priests, prophets, yogis & imams.
She prefers climbin’ trees, swimmin in lakes, watchin birds &
admiring tha radiant sun.
She adores the shades of flowers, the patterns on leaves,
the constellations of stars, tha buzz of bizzy bees.
She seems to trust dirt & mud.
Her teachers are the dung beetle & the ant.
Her favorite dance class is that of bugs swaying salsa
with blades of grass.
She truly takes after her mother:
I want to ask Her
to be ma gal
but I know deep within she doesn’t
she loathes Man
coz he’s chokin’ her mum
pollutin’ her sacred womb…
her land her air her water…
her only one true love…
I’ll fill ma heart with dirt
saturate ma mind with brown mud
clog ma lungs with all kinda flowers.
I’ll learn to swing & jive like bugs
spend as much time with the helmeted clans
residing in cow dung.
I’ll listen to the singing birds from
sun up to sun dusk.
I’ll learn to love Earth
I’ll learn to love her
I’ll play in dirt till I turn to dust.
Maybe then I’ll win her trust
be her Earth
earn her salsa kinda Love.
this truth from tha east n west got mi a lil’ confused. written by men then bound in sacred books. these same books put us in chains, bound in ships across tha oceans as slaves, put us to shame coz we were heathen before they came n brought us the truth so we cud be saved. saved from tha supposed darkness in our souls. convinced that before they docked at the shores of our seas we knew nothin but lunacy & sin. They condemned the gods in who we believed, they mocked our spirituality, they questioned the validity of our humanity, the sanctity of the blood flowing thru our bronze skin. By some strange twisted logic they convinced us that their god was more real than ours, their truth more superior than that passed down by our sangomas; & as the dominoes roll, our hue was said 2b the weaker of colors. Maybe we got psychologically played, spiritually gamed. Maybe it was magic tricks inscribed in sacred scrips, propagated by wolves in sheep skin. Maybe it was just destiny. Maybe it is just economics. Maybe it is heresy to believe that spirituality is not mathematics where you can make up a formula to prove that one divinity (urs) is true & the other is just the unfounded imagination of heathen fools.
If you take me to school & teach me how to knit numbers & words,
I will not find any interest in welding swords or guns.
Teach me to write rhymes & to multiply figures
so that I don’t end up using knives or pulling triggers.
You are not Afrikan by chance.
You are an exquisite divinely crafted work of art.
Masterpiece sculpted ba God’s own palms.
Finely polished with sifted sand n coated
with tha softest dust marinated in tha savannah sun.
You are not Afrikan by chance.
You are sketched in natures cyclic line
serenated ba tha seas rhythmic rhymes
even tha skies solemly confess that
you are surely divine.
Your intrinsic insence is no lie
ur spectrum of blakness is beyond space n time
let no one tell u otherwise.
You are tha universe’ first child
tha custodian of tha soil on which you stand.
You are Afrikan by design.
if u got haterz in ur life, that means there’s somethin u doin right.
so u gotta keep doin ur thing & all will be alright.
mouths will talk & tongues will speak
but don’t let ‘em dumpen ur spirit or graze ur skills.
this life has lions, this life has sheep,
but neva have roars been frightened by bleeps.
so do ur thing. the sky ain’t that limit.
“We alone can devalue gold
by not caring
if it falls or rises
in the marketplace.
Wherever there is gold
there is a chain, you know,
and if your chain
so much the worse
and sea-shaped stones
are all as rare.
This could be our revolution:
to love what is plentiful
as much as
_Alice walker, we alone.