Thursday, November 11, 2010
The Awakening by Frank Malaba
And left a withered kernel of hope for days to come.
Forget a rainy day.
For those have come and gone.
I am looking forward to the dry, scorching hot desert days.
Only from them can I learn that there is an oasis awaiting me.
I want to drink. I want to quench. I want to drench.
To soothe the forgotten bulb in the dry soil of my bruised past.
I want to eat. I want to fill . I want to feed
The forgotten cub of my African Pride,
Battered and left for dead in the grasslands of domination.
The clouds of hope are gathering over my crushed spirit
And are promising rains of healing and growth.
I am a mound of clay,
Longing for skilled potters’ hands.
I am moist and ready to be molded by the wisdom
Of my forefathers and those that have overcome the mystery of life.
I want to sing. I want to dance. I want to strum
The strings of chaos and confusion that plague my future.
I want to clap. I want to percuss. I want to bang
The drums of worth and significance,
That long to resound over and over to equip me for the benefit of posterity.
The dust of jealousy has settled in the cradle of my heart
And will soon be brushed off by the duster of confidence.
I need no emancipation,
For I never was a slave of anyone’s false idealism.
I am the true ocean, purified and hallowed by painful experience.
My skin is black and tough and tells the story of my victory over sublime hate.
I want to walk. I want to run. I want to stomp
Over all the voices that have raped my mind of self worth.
I want to fly. I want to soar. I want to ascend
Over the resonant clatter of well meant mundane reason
To find my own truth, untarnished by force fed religiosity that destroys me
To create a walking and obedient cadaver.