I stand on ground cracked with divided opinion.
My flesh pale on the earth,
my tongue doesn’t carry this place’s many words.
Only my own lost unfurling.
Outsiders see the wild.
I see the jungle of the city
that wants to eat me
for being outsider inside it,
I’m not forgiven not forgotten.
There is history here,
under my feet are paths I didn’t walk.
But I’ve been lead on them,
heavy under them.
I don’t belong, even if I say
myself as African
in a tongue I don’t speak,
African Afrikan Afrikaans.
Betrayer, I don’t know,
I wrap myself in reds whites blues
of lands I no longer belong to.
Lands in my blood, not under my feet.
My gods are in Hollywood’s hills,
your gods stolen by Picasso,
and in London’s towers,
where they keep your jewels
that they stole too.
The missionaries gave Africa
a new god, but he’s not mine.
So I’m further lost.
Raise me up, I’ve shot
out of this ground from
from foreign blood.
Purple blossomed, alien and admired,
loved and hated.
My people have drained the land,
we’ve Dug our roots new,
stolen the richness in the soil.
I’m a new blossom on this tree
blown off and wandering suburbs.
I stand one leg in Africa, one in Europe,
so they say my penis dangles in salt spray
and so we are all made bitter.
Who is Africa? I don’t think it’s me,
If it isn’t, then on this ground
I fly empty flags, I fly
an empty petal in suburbia.