But for the indolence of my race
Where do I echo the crack in my voice
When the sweetness of the strangers
Has erased the linings of my forefathers
The horizontal sunset of my father
Has caved in for the tick tack of the clock,
My father’s constricted conscience is battered
Condemned and branded primitive
Yes, even obscene and obsolete.
I must kiss their traditions to be saved
I must model my thoughts, must
To the mould of their intuitions
Do I join their dance and jive to deceitful symphonies
Or remain rooted
To the primitivism of my ancestors
I remain tall
In the filthy gab of my roots
Than to wear the garb of a stranger
Who pits me against my blood
And laughs at the follies of my mind.
*Abdullahi O. Haruna Haruspice is a social critic and publisher of World Entourage Magazine
(part 2 is coming up on Wednesday 7th March)
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.