The man from Kongo
told me
that long ago
his mother’s mother’s mother’s mother’s
Mother
was taken.
Ripped away, to be sailed away,
and sold away to Ayiti.
The pride in his eyes
in saying, in stating,
that HE KNOWS.
I said HE KNOWS.
Mwen di w li konnen!
That he has fanmi in Ayiti.
That pride,
matched the tears welling up
in mine eyes.
For bondage and time,
distance and clime,
changes NOTHING but the rhyme.
And the rhythm still calls
as the almond leaves fall.
Sticky mango juice and palm wine
as we write line by line
African history.
An Afro story.
Our story.
The Osirian drama.
The storms of Oya.
Aida’s Rainbows.
Ogou’s anvils.
Water to drink and fire to breathe,
Wrapped up and blessed
Damballah’s coils.
Caught in Legba’s Crossroads.
Back to Ginen,
In the Heart of Kongo.
A tree snatched violently
from the earth of her mothers,
Laid roots in an island,
Birthing her daughters in a mountainous land
of Golden Flowers.