Friday, November 26, 2010


Hands smooth and soft
Unscathed by life’s worries
Only haunted by ghostly fairies
Untouched by roughness
The roughness of the Black skin
Black skin born in the fields
Bred on bread from the worst breed of bran

Those hands I have touched
Those hands I’ve been rubbing recently
Hands that have held guns
Guns whose bullets have gone through hearts
Hearts of my little brother and drunkard uncle
...Listen to this deafening silence
And I have learnt to ignore the paleness of these hands
For I now know there is no Black and White
Only brown and pink, brown hands entangled in pink
And pink became pink when they peeled off brown
For years brown was peeled off and trashed in cans
Each can awaiting brown hands to pikitup

The soft hands whose bearer I now walk with
Hands that now hold me like a gun
Abreast, cocked up and set to shoot
Set to shoot at whoever dares the past
For the hands of our time to the raceless race belong

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