To Miriam Makeba
I too, have my "Eyes on Tomorrow."
Go on, girl!
Your album, with an exile's lament
Lifts me home.
Go on, girl!
Champion the anti-apartheid cause
from your artist platform
Go on girl!
Planning to return home.
You've tried your best from outside
To tell the world that we have a problem
Now you can go home,
Sure, you can do concrete things
--help the children, help the elderly.
Go on home Homegirl!
The fact that the chicken-house has some rotten eggs
doesn't mean the chicken should stay away!
Listen to the song "I still long for you,"
by South African composer Victor Masanda
It's a victory song for me
Captures what we all feel,
Having been to so many countries
Like you, I could fill a Zimbabwe wall
with the names of many a warrior
missing in action
or faintly fallen in exile
missing home,
Their "Eyes on Tomorrow!"
June, 1990
Hot!
Looking at floor, head down
Wrinkled forehead, frowning
Wrinkled nose,
Biting lip,
Hands with peeling blisters
Soles with ruddy swollen sores
Slouching, slovenly, tired looking,
Slumping,
Arms crossed in front as if to protect self
Hot!
Day Light & Darkness
Certainly, daylight!
Winking,
Sitting,
Facing each other
rather than sideways
or away from.
Your body positioned
to include me
in the dyad.
Eagerly, ready for activity
In daylight,
Tapping on shoulder
Crossing legs
Fidgeting,
Squirming
Trembling,
Playing with buttons,
Preening hair,
Feeling clothing,
Tapping feet,
Hearts' thumping
Pulses drumming,
Nodding recognition
And agreement.
Suddenly, darkness!
Blushing with goose bumps
Tired looking,
Slumping.
Snapping fingers
Holding finger to lips
for silence - sh!
Pointing fingures,
Staring directly to disapprove
Nodding disagreement
Shrugging shoulders.
Eyes sparking with tears
Waving farewell
For good and all.
I Want to Go Home
I'm tired of your flat, monotone
And abscence of feelings
I want to go back home
To bright vivid changes of inflection
Loud, medium, soft reflection
Fast, medium, slow
But, strong,
Confident,
Firm,
Like a soloist soprano.
I'm tired of your weak,
Hesitant, shaky monotone
Broken, faltering regional
Colloquialism.
I want to go home
To exhilarating rythms.
Beauty of Fine Woods
You move away when I move toward
I move toward when you move away
Yet, like fingerprints,
Nature in every tree ordains
Differences in color and grain
To create the beauty of fine woods.
Of course variations in tecture and grain affect the finish,
And sometimes it's impossible to guarantee an exact match in finish
between two pieces of furniture,
Even though identical finishing processes were applied.
But now, with hi-tech and genetic science-wizz
The challenge is to take initiative toward or away from
Narrow or widen distances gradually
Take a uniform finish on the natural woods
And appreciate and enjoy their beauty.
Black Pitted Olive
Proud to sing of you my Black Pitted Olive
Tall, lanky, with close-cropped hair
Neat, well ordered, organized presence
In any crowd alive.
Proud to sing of your energy that radiates,
Like tears from wide intense eyes,
As your voice with melody dances,
Your limbs moving to a dozen beats at once.
Proud to sing of your rhythm and drama
You, soloist voice, sensuous sonorous sonata,
Warm and sweet legend in your own right and wit:
Dancer of penetrating musicality and intensity,
At continental home and everywhere in the diaspora
Proud to sing of you, my Black Pitted Olive
Hurrying to the Bulls game
Fans drive right through
Chicago's most god-forsaken
pieces of real estate,
otherwise known as public
housing complexes:
Mother Cabrini,
Henry Horner,
Robert Taylor,
Ida B. Wells -
All people who made a difference
in their own way -
Now known best for the tumbling
housing project namesakes
Most god-forsaken
By lexus-driving fans
Hurrying to the Bulls game.
Harambee!
When I look around, I see
We're still as strong and lively as ever!
Millions of pure people power
Back home, in the Caribbean and America diaspora
- the voice of the community pours out.
"Harambee!"
I reckon with our diferent complexions
The twists of our hair, destiny of morphology
and the girth of our constitution!
Our very diverse programming,
serves our multi-cultural community!
But listen!
We're entering a new century
Without our once loving welfare
or foreign aid with or without strings,
our regular income has diminished.
Last century,
We tended to become dependent on a source,
and when it changed,
the void was filled with bickering
And self-inflicted wounds!
It's now time to become really creative
and produce fundraisers
like an annual Reggae/Worldbeat Ball
And then everybody will more loudly call
"Harambee!"
You're My Munch (To Humanity)
You're my sweet corn
Costing only a buck an ear
You're my light, fluffy pancakes
Thick, golden French toasts
And delicious, crispy waffles
You're my frozen breakfasts
Tasting just like home-made
You're prepared with the finest ingredients
You're the perfect breakfasts.
You're my hot butter corn
You're the turkey, dressing with sausage,
You're mashed potatoes, rice casserole with deer and beaf
You're squash, corn soup with pheasant
You're my cranberries, fry bread, buffalo-elk-jerky
You're my smoked salmon and goose
You're my maple glazed orange roughy
You're my Sweet corn on the cob
You're my breast of chicken oscar
You're center cut fillet of tenderloin
And spicy Bayou vegetables
You're surely my salsa
You're my munch!
The Mud-walled Bungalow & the Skyscraper
On July 7, after the ambulance failed to show up
That 1949 silent night, a meek mud-walled bungalow
witnessed my birth in nothing compared to a manger.
My mother Beatrice, up to now, bitterly recollects
Her new-born yelling and yulping with colic.
My sister Ida plugged her ears, to avoid the squeal
Eldest sister, the late Mebra, gasping in sequel,
Quickly clasped her late father's hand and on his lap fell
Both of them too terrified to understand my squeaky yell.
Now, I understand why I was reluctant to enter this world
Look at me, fifty years later!
I'm on a journey up this bustling skyscraper-studded life,
This time a belated ambulance on hand
To steer me through the remaining bone-jarring miles.
En route, I jounce across clear endless savannahs
Swerving to avoid deepruts to the sea.
But once there, with a whole life to live ahead,
I voyage under sail when the winds are favorable,
Under steam when they are not,
The vessel sails and chugs as I creep up day after day
Storm-tossed time still lies ahead,
As I sail forward, clinging my eyes to the horizon ahead.
To Winter
Here,
In your glorious wing-flapping
whiteness of the elements,
I dance to the twenty-below windchilled
snow of feelings.
No more wild flowers
crown these rolling relics of praire
As they did the savannah of my youth.
No birds sing in the oak savannah,
And frogs don't trill
In the lush wetlands
Because of you!
The Hair-cut
Harry is bent on my getting a hair cut.
It shows in his eyes,
He's determined to make it stick
the next time
he makes an appointment.
He has made three
or four appointments
for me in the past three days,
but each of these didn't work out.
I showed up for each and every one of them,
but for some unexplained reason
each had been either postponed
to a time I couldn't make
or simply unceremoniously canceled.
This Saturday morning
I'm still lying on my bed
when the buzzer of my door bell was pressed.
I go to check, and there stands Harry.
I usher him in and as he lumbers in behind
his labored breath,
"What's up?" I ask him
He smiles, exuding high spirits
about what he has accomplished for me,
or what he's about to.
"I thinks we could try our luck."
He says,
"I called two places - One had no room.
The other would take us at 11:00 am."
"Would you ride with me
so that we go to check out your hair cut?"
he inquires.
"Oh yes!" I mumble,
"But, I've to have a very good shower,
maybe ten minutes!"
"Why that long?" he retorts,
His eyes dilating in surprise.
"It might take a good shower on my part
to ever get a hair cut around here."
I say sarcastically.
"Huh!" Harry chuckles,
as he leaves for his apartment,
"I'll wait, but don't be long in the shower.
We've to be there in an hour."
If it wasn't for him insisting on this haircut,
I was on the verge of giving it up.
Sometimes I have temptations to let my hair grow
and flow curly, in the manner of the mau mau warrior
and eventually when it is fully grown,
I'd be honored to be a Rastafarian.
With nothing to lose whether or not
I had the haircut,
I begin to drag my feet to the shower room.
Although I promised Harry, I would have a shower
and get ready to ride with him,
the impending trip was clearer to him than to me.
Honestly, Harry, I want to tell you,
"I'm not enthused about haircuts any more,"
But if you ever said, "No!" to Harry,
you hurriedly lost his friendship.
He was impatient with negatives.
For that reason,
although something in me tells me
that it would be easier to see a cat with horns
than get a hair cut here,
I treasure my friendship with Harry,
So I obstinately oblige.
Thoughts rush through my mind
as the water rushes down my body
from the swishing shower.
To get a haircut - I have to fit in
their tight schedule.
I hear somewhere in this city
there're someplace you could just walk in,
and no one pulls the plug on you.
but for me, these places
are as remote as the moon.
Well, Harry is at the door again.
"Hurry, hurry." he entreats me.
I'm just emerging from the cozy shower
to start looking for the best clothes
and cologne to adorn myself with,
because I know that I don't
have anything else to show
the very selective barbers.
I want to be neat and decent,
so that nothing about me turns anyone off.
To be honest about it, the mirror tell me
I really need a haircut,
also to save my head from a painful operation
combing every morning.
I needed to liberate my scalp
from the fangs of the wooden comb.
A haircut for me isn't merely ornamental.
Getting it is freedom of expression,
Freedom from pain and oppression.
From berberic bigotry and tyranny.
"They wouldn't have me half-dressed."
I say to Harry.
Inwardly, I think they wouldn't have me
dressed to kill either,
but decency prohibits me
from sharing this with Harry,
who has worked the whole week
to get some clippers on my head.
He says,
"But you have to be there in twenty minutes."
"I'll be waiting in the car."
he adds, shuffling to leave
as if to protest my delay.
Heavy laden
with the gravity
of my reluctancy
to go through
this haircut ordeal,
my mind is rather nebulous
about what to wear.
As I rummaged
through the cluttered closet,
several garments enticed me.
Most seductive,
being the shouting white pants
and silk shirt,
that I had purchased
from the very mall
I'm scheduled to have a haircut.
I pull them out.
Oops!
There is no button on the shirt.
That might give them a reason
not to giving me a chance.
Soon there will be a hillock
of clothes on my bed.
The more I look at the closet
the more confused I become.
I've to decide now or never.
I put on the white pants at least.
That is easy!
But as for the shirt,
I hesitate once more,
then I pick out another silk shirt.
"This must do it!"
I say to myself,
slipping my feet into a pair of sneakers.
If they don't want me all black
at least my clothes are pretty white"
I told myself as I left my apartment
to join Harry in his car,
where he has the engine on.
He backs out of the packing slot
as if we had an emergency.
There is a truck racing southward,
but giving his rearview mirrors
a jealous eye contact,
he cuts in front of it and speeds ahead of it,
slightly above the speed limit.
Soon we're finding it difficult
to blend into the traffic flow.
Harry is lane-hopping,
trying to maneuver,
uptighting his body for control,
his elbows slightly bent,
keeping his hands on the wheel,
and legs straight..
He's in such a hurry
it's difficult for him to keep to the right.
He keeps straddling lanes so much
some drivers give him the finger.
I pull a safety cushion from the backseat
and make the seatbelt my better half.
Soon we're tailgating every car,
hitting the breaks sometimes
and sweeping through intersections
after the light has turned amber.
Somewhere downtown,
Harry talks to the stop-light in English,
"Come on Lights!"
And the lights changes on command.
Then he asks me,
"Do you know where we are going?"
"No! I snap.
I expect you to know all the nooks
and crevices of this minuscule city.
You're born here, weren't you?"
"No!, he says,
I was born in Neenah!"
He pulls into a gas station
just to make sure.
The place is block away
from the gas station.
Soon we turn into the parking lot
We see a big neon billboard flickering
"Hair Services Emporium."
Harry notices a car pulling out
of the "Handicapped" slot.
"That car is my car's twin" he says.
I scrutinize it to verify his claim.
"The difference is -
it has a fuel-injection" he says,
as the car disappears from sight
and his comes to a standstill,
where the departing car has been.
Harry is on disability
so he has the "Handicapped" license.
He leads the way into the building.
There, inviting us in with ecstasy
another, but smaller neon-light sign,
"Hair services Emporium."
My heart beats faster,
as we entered the place.
My head is just about to be
kissed by the thin lips
of clippers.
My hopes and dreams heightened,
I try hard to expel any misconception
of this place and people I was Lilly about.
What has seemed like eternity,
finally ends.
The monster decides to release me
from anxiety.
The whole thing seems as if Harry
and I were getting off the elevator
on the 13th floor of a building.
The door opens and as we walk out,
there isn't any such floor,
yet the teeth of the collapsible gate
closes behind us.
I feel like a mouse trapped within.
Panic sweeps over me.
I'm unable to breathe,
as some unknown hand tightens
its grasp around my neck,
I nearly suffocate
as I survey the wondrous mouth
of the woman at the counter,
Stuttering and muttering:
"Can I help you?" she asks Harry
"Yes!
We have an appointment
for this guy at 1:00 am." Harry,
my self-appointed spokes person replies.
"Oh! Are you serious?" the woman cries,
dropping her clippers to the floor
as if she has just had a death in her family.
"I have never cut any black people's hair!"
she reveals.
The automatic door to the building closes
as two new customers come in behind us.
All thoughts of "I knew it Harry"
flash like lighting through my mind.
"But we had an appointment,"
interjects Harry.
"I took it"
admits another lady,
who had listened to the conversation all along.
The air becomes humidor and more tense.
There is an unusual moment of silence,
which Harry breaks:
"Racist bitch!" he curses.
Everyone remains hushed.
Thank God the women take it easy.
They could call the police on us
and have us arrested for sex harassment.
I think it is an out-of-date contraption
of primitive tactics
to stand there pouring out
a barrage of dirty names at the women,
whose grounds we stood on.
It is clever for Harry and I
to take our business elsewhere.
Shocked beyond words,
I lead the way out.
As sanity beckons me to quit,
I hesitate,
then head for the open steel door.
Harry turns out too,
staring menacingly at me.
As if he needed a hair-cut
And I begrudged him.
Two Ways
One of the ways is a two hour walk
To the nearest river, for a fresh air
And a drink of fresh water holding out
Your rod to fish the wallowing wallaye
And pulsing perch
If you wish deep-water fish
A boat shuttles you to the coast of sullen sobriety.
The other way is a seven hour trek
Along the trucks
Where sometimes only a designated driver can see
to the edge of the park,
And a mud-road that washes into a quagmire
During the rainy season.
And oh, for some nebulous reason
You took the latter
To indulgent inebriety.
Reply to Monica
If I would say yes to you,
I would be unfair to Hillary
I would be humiliating her.
Just imagine you were in Hillary's shoes.
You definitely would not be happy
to learn that your husband is having an affair
behind your back. Also if your parents knew,
they would take me for an extremely irresponsible
and destructive person. I can''t also marry you.
What would be the goal of the affair?
Suppose you become pregnant?
It is not enough and right for you
to simply say you do not care
because if any of these problems occured,
you'd find out you care:
every person then cares.
I can understand you're very bored with life.
You have to think of better ways of fighting boredom
than having affairs with old and married men.
It is very unfortunate you don't like school.
You may have your legitimate reasons for not liking school.
But Monica, school is like medicine.
You have to drink medicine even when it is bitter.
Today young people have to do well in school. Otherwise their future will be bleak.
You may for example run the risk
of being unemployed in the future, Monica.
That is why I implore you to do a good job of learning.
This may even give you the chance to suggest
changes in the school system in the future.
The sentence: Stop the world I want to get off
Frightens me.
I mean it, Monica
You really have to be more positive about life.
Perhaps you are depressed today
but you will get over this feeling soon.
In any case if you think the world is ugly,
it will change: make it change.
Nothing in life is permanent.
Instead of lamenting about the state of the world,
you must prepare yourself to change it. This is a task
the young generation must address itself to seriously
Monica, I think you should be more determined in school.
You should have more friends of your age.
Keep off from love affairs for the time being.
Even when you grow older, please steer away from married men.
Please don't say I'm simply preaching to you
Like all oldfolks do.
Sometimes we simply brush off the truth
by branding it "preaching."
Don't think I have spunned you.
No. In fact, I hope one of these days
we can meet and have a chat.
Perhaps it would be better if we had such a chat
with you in the presence of your parents
May be they haven't given you
as much of their attention as they should have,
especially your father.
I wish you success in life. Cheer up, Monica.
You may be travelling through a long dark tunnel
at this moment in your life but soon you'll behold light
And as you said, this world of ours is in dire need of plenty of love.
One day love will shower this our world.
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