Africa is the land of unsettled spirits. The tortured souls of black slaves dance on worn asphalt, feeding on the hope of the breathing corpse. We invest in antiquated propaganda, seeking life in what has long left the earth and re-birthing the very sin that has pilfered so much of what bore our freedoms. We have sought the power of God in man, forcing generations to abide by words of the wicked. Such words that resuscitate regression and smother equality; the ones they use to substantiate the transgressions of greedy governments. We bow before goons because we fear a loss of lifestyles we do not even enjoy. The African dream, corroded by corrupt politics; tax payer dollars, funding the demise of taxpayers. We have become an essential part in our own degradation- the water and sunlight that photosynthesize a broken system overrun by callous predators. We watch them stick their hands in the mouths of our children and spill the blood of our suffering. Collateral, they call us, underpriced security for their depraved schemes. How has it happened that we are captives again, to more men? Is this what they had in mind- our parents and those before them. Are these our best lives? Those that insist we live.
Tag Archives: prose
I’m a wrecking ball at best,
A big house with empty photographs,
You are my only souvenir,
You are my silver lining.
– Jacob Banks
I’ve been harbouring a debilitating anxiety lately. I just feel like I can’t escape failure long enough to find something to love about life. I needed this song. It’s the meaning behind it, I think. The fact that Jacob Banks wrote it at a time when he “hated everything and wasn’t content with a lot of things in his life”. Sometimes I have conversations with people who don’t know I exist, and their words feed my soul. Strangers who turn their pain into verses of healing. What I love is that everyone else doesn’t matter, just the song and the salty tears. No one will share the burden of being me, I am the sole proprietor of my trials. Still, it’s nice to hear a voice that speaks of the pain, and sings of the brighter day, especially when those closer- Just. Don’t. Get it.
Even if it does just last for a few minutes, he makes me want to believe in silver linings.
We search the earth for implied permissions. Permission to speak before humanity. Permission to feel from our loved ones. Permission to count among nationals. Permission to come into our own. But if we wait to be told when to speak, will they not also expect us to read from their script and pause at their instruction? Perhaps there is more merit in being different, in standing out by standing up with bruises all over our hands and faces; souvenirs that tell stories about our lives and all the times we chose to live who we are- unapologetically.
Sometimes speaking is too much effort; smiling is duplicitous and being attentive is damn near impossible. Perhaps the world is just too much. Or, could it be that some of us aren’t enough? It, this, all of life may well surpass our limitations.