Am I the only one who sees it?
The weaves, lightening creams,
Abused cough syrup, cheap booze;
Inferiority and desperateness.
Who taught the little girl
To detest her shiny nose?
Why does she hate her hair so much
She’d buy that of a dead Indian woman?
Show me one black role model
And embarrass yourself.
Fuck that, do this:
Tell me if you even have a role model.
Oh, are you too scarred to think?
Wasn’t slavery abolished way back?
Still I see how you look at them;
Godly fear and acute inferiority.
Who taught the little boy
To prefer a yellow-bone
And laugh off the dark ones?
Who nested that unfounded preference?
The government denies us properties
And sell them off to the Chinese.
The elderly now believe Africa
Was better under colonialism.
Are they wrong?
A continent content with
Queuing up for loans every year.
Money that buys bread, butter,
And pussies of exotic women.
Because ours have to stay home;
Supposedly to take care of the kids.
By take care of them, we mean
Repeat the cycle of instant gratification.
You’d think Cape is of good hope yet
They burn fellow Africans with plastics.
Lazy and stark volatile like the rest;
Blaming the Guptas for clutch.
Donations, like a flood of waters,
Fall into hasty and abusive hands;
We inject vials to make the butt bigger,
Abusing intended medicine.
HIV, TB, STDs etc.
We are the hub of acronyms.
And we put deaths on God
Cuz apparently we are prayerful too.
Should I go on,
Or is it gratuitous at this point?
If you want to see more
Open your eyes and look around you.
PS: When I went back home a few weeks ago for my mother’s funeral I was reminded about the ghastly things that we, as Africans, do to ourselves. My mother died from diabetes and most probably medical negligence. There are actually so many possible ways to look at it. Zimbabwe barely regulates products and most of the products are imported. Diabetes is very common and nobody ever stops and think it might be cuz of the products that grace our market place. People don’t see patterns; every death is God’s doing as far as my religious community is concerned. More’s the pity, my mother’s prognosis summary was written in ink in a brown copy that primary school kids use; It was fucking hard to read and was not very detailed. Oh, and a friend of mine told me I had become a little lighter in complexion. Apparently I was supposed to weep with joy or something. It’s very sad to say the least. Anyway, R.I.P., mama; I miss you like an idiot misses a point.