Writer’s Poem: The past

I came across a phenomenal African Poet today. Her poem was shared by “global citizen”. It fuelled my love of poetry, reminding me of the power poetry has to revolutionise the world. It reassure me that poets are here to make a statement, an impact and as a reminder. Especially, in places where oppression is rampant whether in visible or hidden forms.

I stalked the author and found that she has a blog here. Thank you very much Zuhuru Seng’enge for your poetry.

Do not fear the past by Zuhuru Seng’enge
Do not fear the past.
It is ugly
but it is ours,
Do not hold on to lies
That you were fed when you were young.
Learn the history of your people
Find the truth
to free your soul from evil
Learn the Qur-an
Learn the bible
Find the meaning of life and religion.
Do not fear the past.
It is painful
but it is real
Blood was spilt and people died
but love and unity had survived.
Learn the tongue of your ancestors
Reconnect with the roots of your blood
Find the knowledge
That was stolen
Find the life that was robbed from us.
Do not fear the past.
Embrace it
Let it teach you the wisdom of your race
Take its lessons and live by them
Own the identity that was erased.
Do not fear the past,
Do not hate it.
Do not fear the past,
Learn about it.
Let it teach you
Let it nurture you
Let it remind you, of who you are

Black History-

The ship sailed their tanned bodies,
on a fateful day with promises,
filling the souls of young black
Men with:
dreams born of ignorance
dreams fuelled by innocence
dreams affirmed with words
which taste like honey,
mouthed by men who spoke
a fancy language.

The oceans witnessed the horrors
which men, inflicted
on another, without skipping a breath.
The promise land drew but
with no promises,
the Eden for the black man became,
A new wave of hell…

I am the descendant
of one such black man;
My soul is rooted
With black history:
We are not slaves who
gained our freedom;
We were free Men long before,
The chains found our wrists…

M- memories of past

Lets rewind to
Say- 150 years ago,
When my people’s
Wrists and feet,
Glinted of iron sheet,
Under a scorching 45 degrees.

When the sea,
Was a place of terror,
And the shore- a land
Of no return.

When rulers, entrusted
With the right to rule,
Gave it all away-
For miniature return.
Like the lives
Of their men, was nothing-
Nothing but mere goods
To be traded,
Used and abused.

Until the tables turned,
Patience and resilience
Paid off.
Tears and sweat,
Blood and death-
Accumulated a victory.

That-
Is the history of my people
Your people.
Ingrained in their bone,
A will to not give up.
So don’t you give up.

Two weeks of the A-Z challenge done, two more to go. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to reply to all of your comments, it’s been a busy few days, but will Get to them. Thanks and have a lovely week ahead. ❤❤

Roots-

They told me my colour,
Was like dirt on the ground,
To be stamped on, and trod on-
Had no dignity on the land.

But my mother told me,
It was the colour of the land,
This dull brown, they tramp on,
From it, We will rise.

They told me to back off,
Books weren’t for my kind,
It was picking time in lane’s hill,
Cotton’s all that’s worth my time.

My mother laughed and countered,
Without me there’d be no kind,
For books can’t feed their stomach,
They’d always need my kind.

They said I had no history,
My past was a hole in time,
An arrow which hit its target,
We were a lost- lost tribe.

My mother shook with fury,
At the claim we had no roots;
History’s filled with us she raged,
Our tears, our blood, our joys.

From then, I hugged the library
Time for Cotton, time for books;
When they claim I have no history,
I write out to them of our roots.

The above image is courtesy of All black everything. Tumblr

Black History-

The minute she opened
her mouth, He was gone;
He was a criminal,
In the eyes of the world;
A man born from black race,
Against a white skin;
No court of man would,
acquit and free him.
The case was a plain one-
“Her words against his”,
With damning evidence,
Betraying what she speaks,
But the world then was ruled
by prejudiced men,
Who place white color,
Above all else.

But that happened decades
Ago- it’s history,
Depicting the struggles,
Of our fathers to be free.
So when you look down,
On the black of your skin,
Be nothing but proud girl,
You have every right to be.
Black, white are naught but
Colors of the skin,
For, we have the same red
Blood coursing our veins.

The beautiful art above is by Anya Brewley S 

Flash Fiction: Greenville, Thiefville

Every town has one of those tower thingy which reflects it’s history. Redville, was so named due to the massive bloodshed which occurred post-colonialism. Yellowville derived its name from the character of its ancestors, they were said to be “bowls of sunshines”. Blueville was formerly an area of water, before the drought set in and the water dried.

And then of course, Greenville, my very own town. It’s said to have gotten its name due to the generous nature of our fore fathers. They helped out neighboring towns with food during the historical famine.

Until now, each town abided by its name- the redvillers are aggressive people, the yellowvillers are happy people, the bluevillers still arrogantly dwell on the fact that they were formerly a sea body but with the greenvillers, something’s changed.

A series of armed robbery is threatening the piety of our name. Oh boy, what tragedy it’d be to have our name changed to “theifville”. The redvillers would never let us hear the end of it. Those robbers better get caught.

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word count: 175. This story is in response to flash fiction for aspiring writers photo prompt challenge, hosted by Priceless Joy. Each week we are given a picture and are to write a short story of about 150 words (+/- 25). Thank you Sonya for this week’s photo.

Flash Fiction: Retmor Manor

Lucinda slugged her way through a rocky, undulating pathway to arrive at the hill-top. Stopping to catch her breath, she noted down the exterior of Retmor manor, all the while, cursing her luck for getting the most boring assignment- History of Retmor manor.

It was a ginormous stony rectangular building with high walls and an isolated tower placed at each angle. A narrow metal door led towards the interior of the building and there were no other exits. The first floor was bare while the second contained portraits lined across it’s walls. At the far-right corner was the picture of a lady who could pass for “18th century Lucille”. Lucille stared jaw-dropped at the picture, lost for words. She rubbed her eyes, re-affirming it wasn’t in fact a dream.

Just then a male voice boomed all around the mansion, Lucille’s heart quickened and pulse raced. “Don’t be scared, your highness“, the voice said “this is only your destiny“. The color drained from Lucille’s face and all she could think of was “I am so screwed”.

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word count: 175. This story is in response to Flash Fiction for aspiring writers photo prompt challenge, hosted by Priceless Joy. Every week, a new photo is released and the participants are required to write a 150 word story (give of take 25). It is so much fun participating named also reading the wonderful stories written by the other writers. Do check out the link above, there is a story for everybody there.

Flash Fiction: Tale of old time…

The early inhabitants of the land had a belief that twin children were an unnatural phenomenon and hence, had to be killed. They had no basis to their claims other than a ridiculous spiritual inclining. It is said, the “twin rocks” first appeared after the first set of twins were murdered and buried under the ground. The two rocks were barely small stones then.

As the atrocities of man towards twins increased, thus did the stones grow- into rocks and then ginormous mountains until the villagers feared for their safety. With religion and civilization, dawned the realization on the villagers that the act they carried out was nothing but barbaric.

Prayers were said, forgiveness was sought for, the murder was stopped and the mountains steadily dissolved into the two small stone statue we see today. It is said, the stones never returned to ground level in order to serve as a reminder and warning against such atrocities.
         But then again, this story I got from my grandmother and it might as well be a tale of old time.

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word count: 178 (oops, slightly over). This story is in response to Flash fiction for aspiring writers photo prompt challenge, where each week a picture is given and we are required to Write a 150 (give or take 25) word story on it.