The Black Man's Song
An erudite and emotional reflection in the middle of a long journey.
Last Sunday, 21st August 2016, I performed one of my poems at
Trafalgar Square in London in memory of my ancestors, those who came and
went, so that I could be.
They would have come and gone
unheralded, like most ancestors, simply mythical beings that have been
handed down through the generations until they become grainy pictures in
the mind or just footprints in a sandstorm. The ancestors who lived
through the slavery years however fill me with a great sadness. The
sadness comes from knowing that no matter what potential they had as
they travelled the 9 months from conception to the birth canal, most of
them would not be realised.
In the version of slavery adopted by
the Europeans, the unborn child was also the property of the owner,
which could have kept slavery going forever. From all I understand
about slavery, the idea that a human being still attached to the
umbilical cord of its mother is a slave is one of the most unbearable
things I have ever come across. Before that child is born, before it
takes the first suck of its mother’s teat, even before its conception,
the potential of that child is enslaved. Think about that and imagine
that it was your child.
I am a descendant of slaves. I am the
result of slavery. Slavery across the Atlantic was the starting point in
a new and perilous journey that nature made in my name a few hundred
years ago. I am in the middle of that journey and the final destination
is unknown.
Whether you believe in Nature, Yahweh, the Universe
or whatever you think is worth worshipping, or giving praise to you must
recognise that something fundamental started in 1441, when the European
slave trade in Africa started. The Portuguese captains Antão Gonçalves
and Nuno Tristão capture 12 Africans in Cabo Branco (modern Mauritania)
and took them to Portugal as slaves.
In 1444: The Portuguese de
Freitas lands 235 kidnapped and enslaved Africans in Lagos a city in
Portugal, the first large group of African slaves brought to Europe. It
is now becoming big business. This is some 50 years before Columbus
stumbles across the Caribbean in his search for India.
Those
realities that have made me, also denied the me, I ought to have been,
from ever becoming real. That me, drifted off into a parallel universe
where hopefully, I grew up in the love, security and traditions of the
past thousands of years in the river beds, plains and valleys of West
Africa.
The new me after all this time, will look you in the eye
and proudly say, I was , I am and I will become again, what I was always
intended to be.
This is part of my story and I give homage to my ancestors.
This
poem is copyrighted and is a section of a much longer poem which
continues the journey to the present day. It will be part of a new
collection of poems to be published soon.
The Black Man Song
I
Want To Tell You A Story
I
Promise It Won’t Take Long
It's
About A Tribe That Is Filled With Glory
It's
Called The Black Man's Song
We..The
People Of That Blessed Land
Were
Stolen In Our Innocence
Taken..By
An Unmerciful Hand
And Cut
Off From Our Inheritance
We Had
Our Native Culture
We Had
Our Native Tongue
Suddenly
There Was A Vulture
Forcing
Us To Sing His Song
He Took
Us In His Stinking Ship
Three
Hundred At A Time
Our
Incentive Was His Stinging Whip
Our Food
Just Gruel And Lime
For Long
Long Months..Imprisoned By The Seas
In The
Bottom Of His Pit
No
Recreation..Just His Histories
Us
Tired..Dying..In Our Own Shit
More Than Half Passed Away On Those Rides
Too
Sick..Forgetting To Be Proud
Bodies
Thrown To The Ever Present Tide
While
The Wailing Grew So Loud
While The Wailing…Grew…So Loud
They
Must Always Be Remembered
They
Will Not Die In Vain
Their
Bodies..Now Dismembered
Must
Illuminate Our Brain
If
Willie Lynch existed, he would have said
“Slavery
Is A Psychological Game
Where
The Master Makes The Rules
Being
Afraid To Die Is Just The Same
For Wise
Men Or For Fools”
For
Three Centuries We Helped The Master
All His
Countries Became Great
Economically..They
Could Not Grow Faster
The
Blacks Just Grew Inanimate
In
Jamaica "Mada Nanny and Cudjoe" Fought And Won
Very
Small Victories
Tacky
Took Over Where They’d Begun
Trying
To Brighten, Our History
Our
Women Took The Brunt
Of The
Master's Attack
They
Were Not Important
Even
Less..Could They Fight Back
Raped..Vandalised..And
Scandalised
Self
Respect And Dignity Drained
Through
Fear They Were Totally Hypnotised
And The
Master's Will Was Maintained
Men
Seeding Children For Three Hundred Years
Painfully
Discharged From Responsibility
Whipped..Flogged..And
Killed..The Scars They Bear
To
Remind Us Of Their Sensitivity
We Say
That Uncle Toms Were Nought
Paradoxically..They
Saved Our Race
Outgunned..Outmanouvered..And
Out Thought
They
Kept Us From Our Final Resting Place
All Our
Heroes Fought And Died
Too
Proud To Toe The Line
Too
Impatient To Wait For The Turned Tide
Survivors..?
No. Heroes..Fine.
Slowly The Tide Began To Turn
Toussaint
L'Overture Beat The French
Slavery
Economics Was Now Being Spurned
The
Europeans Couldn't Take The Stench
In 1838,
We Thought We'd Come To The End Of The War
But It
Was Only An Interlude
They
Gave Us Our Freedom..Then Charged Us A Star
Just For
Water And For Food
And Maya
Angelou Cries
And
Still We Rise
And My Heart,
My Soul, My Spirit Replies
My
Father Is The Great God Osiris
And I
lived In The Delta Of The Nile
We Were Sent
Here To Learn Peace And Forgiveness
And
These Lessons Are Taking A While
So…We
Take Our Pain And Go Forward
New
Horizons Are Ahead..
They’re Not
Too Far
Keep Remembering
Our Past..
Remember
Every Word
Let’s Never Ever Forget ..
Exactly Who We Are.
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