No. 70
Edem Andy Afenu, 2T2 PB
Artist statement:
I usually provide a brief insight as to what I was thinking behind every spoken word/poetical piece I write. This time, I decided to let the words speak for themselves. All I ask is that you follow the journey of one who has been searching the past and continues to search the present for a time where there has been peace.
Blinded by the bright lights
and deep in the abyss of distractions,
I pray for a slumber that grants an escape
to a different time, another dimension.
To a state without worry,
to a place filled with harmony.
To a reality of a different time of life on our planet.
However, I’m chained with brothers —
and as we cross the Atlantic,
I find myself in a predicament.
And believe me when I say
that I can’t understand it.
It’s the “best of us” around a table.
Torn between conflating beliefs and fables,
but blatantly cursing what they believe to be true:
That all men are created equal.
My soul assents to this belief,
that despite being many
we are from one.
But the fact remains
that during this resistance of tyranny
the irony becomes engrained
as the resisting society fails to treat us as one.
So, with stripes on our backs
and arms in our hands
Nations were built.
With our fathers in cages,
our mothers denied due wages,
their economies prevailed.
I have been transported to an island
from which a brother is a descendant.
We grow cotton, sugar and coffee.
We mourn those lost to the sea.
And we dream for days we will be free.
A new dawn is amongst us.
And as its bright sun kisses my skin,
I find myself standing in a crowd
listening to my brother share his dream
of a time where character is society’s yardstick of judgment
and not relations to one’s kin.
But years have passed
and hopeful dreams have morphed into persistent nightmares.
A whip becomes a taser.
These guns kill faster than our answers.
And cages stacked on top of others
still house our fathers.
Despite living in the era of life-changing technology,
We can’t run free, call neighbours for help
or sell CDs to eat.
Our sons can’t be loud.
Our daughters can’t be proud.
‘Cause in the face of an officer,
survival, not state-mandated protection,
remains paramount.
Praying to their god for help
in our sanctuaries gets us killed.
Taking to the streets to
cry out against their injustices
makes us evil.
Kneeling gets us ridiculed and
saying that we matter
is another slogan to counter.
Deep in the continuous loop of oppression,
and still blinded by society’s social distractions,
this journey has not been a lesson
on my history
but reflections on the metamorphosis of my slavery.
‘Cause more than 70 by 7 years have passed
and during my time I have been an observant Pharisee,
one who’s done nothing
but kept the sabbath.
Convincing myself that we have it “better”
‘cause I’m on solid ground
and not crossing the water.
That a like on my profile is all I can offer.
That a hashtag or retweet will maintain order.
And while I can barely breathe on this land as I tweet,
my “contentment” still blinds me to others still dying at sea
‘cause I have been encouraged
to believe in our society’s idea of a negative peace.
But the cries from George won’t let me sleep.
And the chants to say her name are so loud.
I’m forced to wake from this trance of observation,
to stand in line, and call others to action,
to support one another and especially our women,
to dissect these well-functioning machines of oppression and brutality
and create a society where all are really free.
R.I.P. George Floyd, R.I.P. Breonna Taylor.
