Yesternight, I said to my lover:
‘If Africa was a woman,
she would tell tales of
how she was raped by her children,
of how she was maimed by her brethren.’
My lover replied:
‘My love, if Africa was a man,
he would tell tales of
how he jumped from ships,
of how he fell from cliffs.
He would tell
of chains and pains,
whippings and weepings,
toil and dirt, and blood and sweat.’
Then I said to myself:
‘If Africa was a god,
he would go back in time
to erase the scars,
to rewrite the stars.
But if he did, he wouldn’t be Africa anymore.’
My lover then looked me in the eye and said: ‘You are my Africa– beautifully scarred.’