Sikayena, My Country Is Gone Abroad

sikayena,
my country is gone abroad.

written by
amma birago
dali toreador, 1968.
- Do you know what they're made of? … Cloth.

- Where will he land?
- Trick is not to.
- It must feel amazing. … It's how I imagined America to be.
. Out of Africa. Finch Hatton. Karen Blixen.
sikayena
have you seen my money? ... i am looking for my money. shika kpakpa sterling.
... it is how these women made real money on the brink of independence. … yes, sikayena, shika
kpakpa sterling, - not some ramshackle pretend currency flash in the pan, old boy network riding
in and through high on faux sovereignty. … these self-made women, shika kpakpa sterling,
cheshire cats sitting pretty, foreign currency cash in hand and in foreign banks, and right in the
middle of tropical africa. … how sterling is that?! … pure gold standard, these women!
have you seen my money? ... i am looking for my money. ... yes, sikayena, shika kpakpa sterling.
not so long ago, women-traders minus standard seven cast off their forties husbands, grown men
in the old boy network wielding United Africa Company charters, UAC now Unilever & co.,
pushing paper, drafting and administering contracts for glamour and kingsway stores, … and so
these women, casting off mid-forties husbands in the early fifties, they rented minuscule offices
at the fishing harbor, took up trading with deep-sea trawlers, supplying cartons of fish and
importing holds of real dutch wax hollandaise right there on the turf of highbrow and very
calculating turkish-syrian, jewish-lebanese, korean and greek gentlemen of the gold coast, all
suited and dogged.
... it is how these women made real money on the brink of independence. … yes, sikayena, shika
kpakpa sterling, - not some ramshackle pretend currency flash in the pan, old boy network riding
in and through high on faux sovereignty. … these self-made women, shika kpakpa sterling,
cheshire cats sitting pretty, foreign currency cash in hand and in foreign banks, and right in the
middle of tropical africa. … how sterling is that?! … pure gold standard, these women!
have you seen my money? ... i am looking for my money.
not too long ago, even to this day, when hip young men and women, transplant transnational
locals, oxfords and real oxford street, not some ramshackle old glory street in osu lined with
apple-crumble and sea-salt dilapidated mansions, skeletal decorative wrought iron now flaky
pastry … osu bordering downtown, large and sprawling between james town and near labadi, …
transplant transnational locals, decked oxfords on real oxford street, ... when they are arrived,
just like those before them did, they call on gold, gold like alchemy and gold like touchstone. i
have made it, they say. i have real money. touch wood, i have gold. … and then there are those
locals who, surprise, surprise, though transplant transnationals, overseas and never come back
home, they are broke. i have no gold, they say. … how glamorous is that, though? … real gold
for currency and vocabulary even when broke? … fancy that!
so then there is this thing … this often and not-so-sudden memory of a name which spells gloom,
gloom and leaving the world to darkness and to me; awake or asleep, it throws me right down in
gaol, in abject dark, on stone-cold concrete: weak at the knees i grope for a seat; i sit my abject
self down, my face propped in the dark and on the humble-pie fists of my palms, my elbows too
proud to beg for grease they would rather beg the knees for life-support, and I forever
contemplating the dark and my lot: how and why a child-bearing woman names hers sikayena;
high school and very high class, gold is scarce is what she literally says when she calls sikayena!
… why and how in the world?!
have you seen my money? ... i am looking for my money.
and yes, so the news is that sikayena is childless; and so without husband and therefore minus
real dutch wax hollandaise for warmth or status, for legal tender or promissory note, she is
abject, lamenting that gold is scarce.
… and so finally, self-fulfilling, sikayena is come to life; scarcity is borne in the wind. ... how in
the world?
how in the world?! … tell that to the giant papier-mâché pounds sterling flagship figurehead
masquerading at the intersection of selfridges and knightsbridge, corpulent, it is she who once,
not too long ago, before and even still after independence, was called and breastfed real guinea
gold.
... awake or asleep, it throws me right down in gaol, in abject dark, on stone-cold concrete: weak
at the knees i grope for a seat; i sit my abject self down, my face propped in the dark and on the
humble-pie fists of my palms, my elbows too proud to beg for grease they would rather beg the
knees for life-support, and I forever contemplating the dark and my lot ...
… and so finally, self-fulfilling, sikayena is come to life; scarcity is borne in the wind. ... how in
the world?

- Trick is not to.
. Out of Africa. Finch Hatton. Karen Blixen.
my country is gone abroad
all bets are off;

my country is gone abroad,
i have seen the blueprint.
my country of origin is gone abroad:

the big house by the village square is empty
and so is the one in the heart of the city.
there is a new one under construction on the outskirts;

i have seen the blueprint. …
however because the city conjugates overnight
we have a blueprint for another in the hinterland.

and will be back when there is no country:
it is the reason the lights are off.

and i have seen the blueprint:
all bets are off.
on switchback road when i was a kid
the patch of country between east and west cantonments around which switchback road and
around was my childhood. a living green house, it was. i have never known of a more fertile land and
more hopeful country.
we had a farm where we lived on switchback road when i was a kid. a vegetable garden it must have
been, though a farm it looked to me at that age. the tomatoes are what i remember the most. the
tomatoes and the good and kindly looking man from the department of parks and gardens who
came to our home one tuesday after school, early in the evening and told us we would start with
something called a nursery and then make beds. we were to grow onions, lettuce and tomatoes my
mother had requested, he said, most pleased with himself.
a nursery and then beds, sounded like home to me, at that age, and surprisingly, more so now.
there is nothing like a tomato farm. there is nothing quite like the good good green and dull pungent
life-giving scent of tomato plants, their nonchalant little yellow flowers which gave way to
deliciously pale green turgid fruits and then soon the good berry of the tomato, the big and red-ripe
berry, near perfect round which in some of the fruits clamored what looked like squares and ovals.
we had a farm where we lived on switchback road when i was a kid. a farm. a garden. …
i had looked forward to it so much since mother drove us by the department of parks and gardens
on our way home from school one day in january. parks and gardens was our world as kids, a bubble
it was, a life and living green house. from makeshift fishing expeditions and much discovery under
the giant greenhouse effect of good good earth, we followed waterways and streams, embraced the
housewarming sweet scent of living and also decaying loamy clayey earth chocked with evergreen
plant life and giant fruit trees assorted in the bubble of my childhood and in what seemed like the
middle of a more hopeful country.
around was my childhood. a living green house, it was. i have never known of a more fertile land ...
we lived on switchback road, in the neighborhood of parks and gardens. why was it called
switchback, i did not know. but we had a farm on switchback road when i was a kid and that to me
was home. switchback road it was explained to me because it began from one end of cantonments to
the other and it must have been a looped kind of road which switched back near to where it started.
a farm. a garden. … the seeds in the ground and covered. the seeds in the dark and covered good
good earth. many times, in the middle of school in those weeks i remember staring out of the
window and wondering if the seedlings would remember to show up. if they would not forget the
promise and potential held within which the good and kindly man from the department of parks
and gardens assured us of.
around was my childhood. a living green house, it was. i have never known of a more fertile land and
more hopeful country.
jesus is love and art of the groove:

ex ivy league, the commodores and jumping ship.
an uncle came to babysit us for what seemed like three months when we were kids. our parents
out of the country. and this uncle had returned from abroad and in his way back abandoned his
profession, throwing it to the dogs, the gods, and the sea … he was up with his fine self, and on
Saturday mornings housekeeping and cleaning like it was his religion, the commodores for
company. jesus is love in its groove, on repeat and lit like church rendered our home as a temple.
the commodores. I remember thinking when he explained who they were, me thinking
commodores sounds like ambassadors, and then asking what commodore meant.
jesus is love and the whole place turned soft temple and sweetness which i imagined was the turf
of adults, nothing Sunday school about this groove, this joint, and this our uncle dutiful, caring
and the engineering he spent his inheritance acquiring as a profession I guess ended up knocking
the non-blackness right out of him. he returned, ivy league and dreaming of unemployment and
about making it big as a musician, a singer, full of music, records, and packs of soft cloth to wipe
his vinyl clean before and after use, cherishing his vinyl collection of records more than his
girlfriend at the time, … full of the art of finding his groove, and taking care of vinyl records,
their sleeves and their grooves, the needle to the grooves and out of the speakers came the sound,
crisp and crackling clear, Lionel Richie, the commodores.
… and this our uncle, his friends and their girls will come to the house for what seemed like
parties, predesigned, pre-packed ... but no, they probably used the place for their spontaneous
meetings, for adult and artist talks, hashing out dreams, drinks and their girls … and come to
think of it, these girls not more than twenty-two or three, university students, such fascinating
people, tall, skinny and stunning and on the arms of these defected men too good-looking, too
fresh, and full of beautiful energy. they were master of ceremonies, master of ambiance design,
and their women, their laughter girlish and their faces of wood rose porcelain … their men
dreamed of a music band and they of celebrity-hood in tropical africa when the time comes, …
yes, they were going to party, karamu, liming, fiesta, forever … people dancing all in the streets,
and the music playing on … everyone dancing their trouble away ... and the crazy-fun language
in there, tam bo li de say de moi ya, yaay, jambo, jumbo!
to my eyes as a child, they were adults, their boisterous updates of so and so and such and such,
who is who and how to get things done, … and their girls, full of clicking high heels and chatty
girlish laughter, they will suddenly invoke solid ambiances and velvet meaning in life and love,
… the girls, tickled, squealing, half-wild and half-fascinating, clutching their men like their
pretty purses, and the men, cruise control, and in love all over again with their women and their
plans for a music band which will take africa and the world by storm, … the band must have
fallen apart, the members jumping ship to other things like family, and children, back again
abroad, because artist is a thing you were not quite allowed to be or define back home, back then,
…. and the market and audience for the kind of work they dreamed of I am sure non-existent in
africa at the time, it seems, … jumping ship and full of dreams is what the life stories of these
men became … one in London, one in Brazil, and the other in America, a doctor, for a long time
miserable, dejected … and our uncle remaining in the country, faithful and unmoved by his
uncertain fate.
these adults who boisterous updates of so and so and such and such, who is who and how to get
things done, … and their girls, full of clicking high heels and chatty girlish laughter, … they will
suddenly invoke solid ambiance and velvet meaning in life and love, a fascinating bunch, the
girls clutching their men, and the men, cruise control, in love all over again and crooning along
with the maestro, El Richie.
an uncle came to babysit us for what seemed like three months when we were kids. … on his
way back from ivy league, an abandoned profession, throwing it to the dogs, the gods, and the
sea … he remained with us for longer than intended, long after the parties were over and his
friends had disbanded and jumped ship, the problem with his father never resolved ... who wants
an ex civil engineer, ex ivy league, gloriously unemployed and dreaming of a music band that
never saw the light of day? a defected and prodigal son, dreaming of how to make it unemployed
and writing songs in the eighties in tropical africa? … early on Saturday mornings he was up
with his tall and kind of fine light-skin-ded self, and you would find him housekeeping and
cleaning like it was his religion, the commodores for company, jesus is love in its groove and on
repeat and our home lit like church and everyone feeling in love and golden in Lionel Richie’s
maestro, holy-rolling and heartfelt surrender to jesus’ love, and our uncle, an apprentice crooning
along, backup singer, front and center in the middle of tropical africa and the eighties.
#art of the groove

#sweet sound and jumping ship
#it’s gonna be alright on the nightshift.
my home is in the dark
heart of africa.
and artificial darkness.
because I am at home in the dark,

I make my home where the dark is.
so bring on the power outages.
my secret self finds its feet and gestures

once stifled now break free in the dark.
bring on the power outages,

bring them in bulging bulks and wholesale,
in them I discard my shell, from under which I crawl
and emerge a story teller, weaving truths like yarns
of my hidden desires and alien secrets in the caress
of relationships skyped from exile and aliens native
and love-lighting bush fires, bringing down the wires
of the old telephone poles, lines sagging corpulent,
telling indiscretions loose on the lips of distant lovers
how sacrifices too costly have impressed their weight
upon runaway renegade minds and now breaking them.
heart of africa.
and artificial darkness.
because I am at home in the dark,

I make my home where the dark is.
artificial darkness.
raising Cain
on patriarchy,
colonial affairs and fuck you, motherfucker.
raising Cain, I am told I was not raised right. my father’s colonial affairs made the zebra and
at times the okapi of me. it was he put the wild in my eye and the stripes on my mind. he
made a wild thing of me. I have no home and now alien for status, alien, near animal and
with a handsome price on my head: I am wanted for lacking domestication.
raising Cain, I raise hell and was not raised right. I am after my father’s country, his
language, his property and his ways. for the record, and you can fact check, I was raised for
my father’s country; my mother a bitch, his colonial affairs and her marriage to him
botched, I despise my inheritance designed to fail me and the taste buds of my mind ...
and so here I am squatting my father’s backyard, looking up his proverbial behind, refusing
family annex and house negro. at dusk, before night falls, I rise from overnight hellholes and
I start raising Cain and hell, calling my father and the skies to which he belongs and calls
home motherfucker.
raising Cain, I know I was not raised right. my father’s colonial affairs made the zebra and at
times the okapi of me. onlookers see a red in my eye, where my father put the beam, it was
he put the wild in my eye and the stripes on my mind and today I am found wanting, lacking
domestication, living in limbo, easily recognized by the twist in my gait from wrestling gods
on the outskirts of the world, my arm and middle finger perpetually in their face and also
up theirs, and all the fucking while
yelling
motherfucker, motherfucker,
fuck you motherfucker, motherfucker!
… fuck you!
a bastard child, my mother a bitch, his colonial affairs and her marriage to him botched, I
despise my inheritance designed to fail me and the taste buds of my mind …
… and so here I am squatting my father’s back yard, on my own raising Cain, a self-made
orphan and one hell of a wild child, yelling to the heavens and to my father motherfucker.
raising Cain,
an ode to the dispossessed,
their mother a bitch and their father
motherfucker.
missed me in my language
to say you have missed me in my language

immediately inserts in my mind's eye
a clip art of a pair of eyes eager-eyed at the train station,
on the platform and in the middle of the streaming crowds of commuters,
a pair of eager eyes at the train station and looking for me.
to say you have missed me in my language

says something like your eyes feel stood up by me,
stood up, looking for me and wanting me, prodigal me, …
and I already forgiven by you,
and you still stood up by me.
to say you have missed me in my other language

is to say something like your eyes are worshiping me,
your eyes have made an idol of me,
your eyes invoke me, desire me,
your eyes are calling me, …
#prodigal me.
#forgive me.
#your eyes an idol of me

#and you full of eyes and still stood up by me
Chad came home looking indian and breaking French.
in the early to mid-eighties and in my part of Africa, in west Africa, a host of chadians, a real
exodus and in biblical proportions, they arrived in the capital cities of west Africa, in droves
to accra and in most major towns in west africa, mother’s French up until then unheard of
and suddenly inspiring me to assemble the first kit of complete sentences in French, a
survival kit it was and just for the fun of it.
we will always have water I thought. in accra there’s the ocean nearby. we will always have
water, water and this country power. it will never be us laid threadbare, to rest or scattered
to the four corners of the world with the words broken pinned to our minds and on our
chests for name. this is accra, we live by the ocean; our food and our water and power will
always be organized and no misfortune.
exodus and in biblical proportions, they arrived in the capital cities in west Africa, in droves
to accra and in most major towns in west africa. long hair and indian looking, their women
and girls mostly pretty with dull yellow teeth and chapped lips, barefoot and tattered
clothing, … and suddenly, with reason enough to celebrate, like a sudden bread, water, food
and more change, quickly and suddenly they rallied one another, climbing out of beggars’
guise and pitiable ruse, they huddled over the breaking bread and breaking paper money,
sudden crumbs, suddenly, more money, more coins.
exodus and in biblical proportions, they arrived in the capital cities in west Africa, in droves
to accra and in most major towns in west africa, long hair and indian looking, their women
and girls mostly pretty and all of them battling dull yellow teeth and chapped lips, and the
testament of yellowed eyes and dirty rags as they stood persistent, suddenly a family of
them, a little clan ambushing your car and you cannot move until you forked out the monies
and whatever food you had in the car, the strong testimony of their yellowing eyes and
teeth, … and suddenly, with reason enough to celebrate, like a sudden bread, water, food
and more change, quickly and suddenly they rallied one another, the little clan of them,
from their strategized pesky attacks and begging alms in allotted territorial foursquare mile
apiece, and suddenly they rallied one another, climbing out of beggars’ guise and pitiable
ruse, they huddled over the breaking bread and breaking paper money, sudden crumbs,
suddenly, more money, more coins, distributing their wares and gains.
the whole experience of them was like an encounter with families of pesky little brigands,
unarmed, nonverbal but very threatening, ambushing alms and they hang tight, through
thick and thin, it was something to see, definitely to write home about. mother’s French
unheard of and inspiring me to assemble my first kit of complete sentences in French, a
survival kit and just for the fun of it. Je cherche du travail. J’ai faim. J’ai soif.
they are not gypsies, really, mother explained. they are a people whose country’s broken.
landlocked, a country without water and without food … they have left their homes and
houses in Chad so to survive their misfortune, to pursue water and food, and shelter if
possible ... they are seeking refuge in a new country. …
we will always have water I thought. in accra there’s the ocean nearby. we will always have
water, water and this country power. it will never be us laid threadbare, to rest or scattered
to the four corners of the world with the words broken pinned to our minds and on our
chests for name. this is accra, we live by the ocean; our food and our water and power will
always be organized and no misfortune.
so yes, I remember Chad in accra in the early to mid-eighties looking indian and breaking
French, their disappearance as sudden as their appearance, at least in my little girl’s mind
and memory. … come to think of it must not have been too long after uprising and
uprooting Lagos-town and Agege from Nigeria and so stranded at the borders and
somehow finally finding their legs, they found a footing in the backcountry of commercial
and non-residential accra.
our royalty on retreat.
our royalty are now disguised multicultural and on retreat for life. at home or abroad, it is their
disguise which much like the new exile is the postcolonial skins and stripes in which they are
wrapped, tight and impermeable. our royalty have learned to walk amongst us, as one of us, but on
retreat and for life, at home or abroad. you will recognize them if you are good at it by their majestic
brows and unshakeable pride-filled eyes and their rain or shine humble but knowing smiles, that
old money look, old money, old gold, old and otherworldly authentic glory and that kind of tried and
tested grace. the stripes they carry, like insignia on the tattered uniforms of old veterans, their props
suddenly removed and haunted postcolonial … the evidence of their once great fortune now
misfortune, our royalty are like true okapi amongst regular zebras, blue-eyed but camouflaged
amongst the un-fluttering window blinds at home and stars and stripes abroad and in exile, the
words taken out of their mouths, the wind from their sails, the ground from beneath their feet and
the spirit land once in their sole custody, sacred and blood pact by the living dead, this sole custody
and spirit land now overwritten by constitutions parliamentary and parlant beaucoup, empty
vessels and puppets on strings.
our royalty are now disguised multicultural and on retreat for life. at home or abroad, it is their
disguise which much like the new exile is the postcolonial skins and stripes in which they are
wrapped, tight and impermeable. the stripes they carry, like insignia on the tattered edges of the old
veterans uniform, their props removed and haunted postcolonial, you will recognize them if you are
good at it by the majestic bearing in their walk on the land in exile or at home, by the little they
speak in public, the unhurried manner in which they speak if they have to, that deliberative, roomy
yet measured pose in their voices as if transmitting from ancestral antennas, … the evidence of their
once great fortune now misfortune, our royalty are like true okapi amongst regular zebras, blue-
eyed but camouflaged amongst the un-fluttering window blinds at home and stars and stripes
abroad and in exile … you could also recognize them by the words taken out of their mouths, the
wind from their sails, the ground from beneath their feet and the spirit land once in their sole
custody, sacred and blood pact by the living dead, this sole custody and spirit land now overwritten
by constitutions parliamentary and parlant beaucoup, empty vessels and puppets on strings.
unable to hide their majestic bearing, yet blending in and out of the tableaux of us, our royalty are
now disguised multicultural and on retreat for life. at home or abroad, it is their disguise which
much like the new exile is the postcolonial skins and stripes in which they are wrapped, tight and
impermeable. our royalty walk amongst us but on retreat and for life, at home or abroad. you will
recognize them if you are good at it and are on retreat yourself, knowing the trends like familiar
strings attached-ness of the haphazardry of colonial legacies untenable, and yourself retreating
from the war-front, the crazy and the faux nation-making, constitutions parliamentary and parlant
beaucoup, empty vessels and puppets on strings.
# parliamentary and parlant beaucoup

#empty vessels and puppets on strings.
#royalty on retreat and no surrender.
#not quite yet.
don’t be speaking my tongue
you may read my mind for all I care,

but don’t you be speaking my tongue.
… not my mother-tongue.
there is something about your mother-tongue,

or the language its tonality
and syllables that bathed your insides before birth
and then urged the growth spurts of you
on the playgrounds of your youth before
hormones shot their first kick up your spine
in other homelands far from where
you will always call home.
lovers may come and go but the that-one

who was the first to come at you
in the spirit and language of your mother-tongue …
I don’t know about you but there is

something in that first contact,
that first encounter with what seemed like love …
… it is nothing to do with them really,
and everything to do with you and
the voodoo installed by your mother-tongue,
… the language its tonality
and syllables that bathed your insides from birth
and then urged the growth spurts of you
on the playgrounds of your youth
and the land you will always call home.
Homies like ex-colonials stockholm-syndrom-izing,

Homies multilingual and in motherland cultural disguise
… they may come and go …
but the that-one who was the first to come at you
in the spirit and language of your mother-tongue …
and like I said I don’t know about you,

but I know I am speaking the truth of me.
in my mother-tongue lies
the potent rudimentary elements
and algebraic calculus
of sweet voodoo to me.
... you bet.
so you may read my mind for all I care,

but don’t you be speaking my tongue.
… not my mother-tongue.
you might gain an upper hand
and my unguarded heart.
without village and rites of passage
on branding, identity and sacrifice.

on mourning the loss of culture and on recognizing self.
do you know me?
you don’t know me ...
you have no idea
who I am!
life, experience and trauma like fire, warping and remolding the soul of you, iron wrought, how
trauma molds and clay-casts the wax of you, and you come out warped and twisted, a marked limp
in your walk, and soon you are unable to find a container for you, your new twist, your new gait, and
soon unable to find a resting place for your body and mind and the body of work of you.
when they ask ‘do you know me?’ and add ‘you don’t know me’ and then other things like ‘you have
no idea who I am’ I tend to think they are coming out as having been branded, hard and harsh, their
bodies and minds processed by trauma and an accompanying sacrifice, and by the sacrifices they
have had to make, totaling the cost, … the trauma they have endured and how in its full, crazy and
warped way gets them feeling entitled, perhaps to something better and not what is … trauma and
sacrifice having molded them, or processed them into a person other than they themselves can fully
grasp, fathom or recognize …
do you know me?

you have no idea
who I am!
you see, sacrifice and trauma brands you, claims you, owns you … iron holding a burning measure of
heat and pressed to your brow, the back or the shoulder plates of you, the meat of them receiving
the brand, and you a new commodity and ready for market. life, experience and trauma itself like
fire, warping and remolding the soul of you, iron wrought, how trauma molds and clay-casts the wax
of you, warped out and twisted, a marked limp in your walk, and soon you are unable to find a
container for you, your new twist, your new gait, and soon unable to find a resting place for your
body and mind and the body of work of you.
you see, sacrifice and trauma brands you, claims you, owns you … so you come out of the blazing
fires of life, experience and trauma, sudden cold water doused to lift the heat and break its rapid fire
process, leaving the proud mark of the brand of the gods that now claim you.
do you know me?

you have no idea
who I am!
become of us, dear Patsey

… on jumping ship and skin.
the underground railroad. you have to find your own way, pay most cases, costs an arm and a leg, or
then pray, pray for the going passport and visa with new false names, all kinds and manner of cargo
liberal laissez faire and laissez passer or standardized tests and college applications, the
underground railroad, or the overpass and the flyover airlifting the fortunate, fortunate to not have
been born in this here ghost country, to a ghost couple, … but there, over there, yonder and beyond,
overseas, born there and not here, the underground railroad whispers in the dark in the corn,
undertone but urgent because soon and very soon comes the softly clanging signal in the days when
the moon half empty, low and touching yonder. this here signal not for those here because
grandmother, because mother’s in-laws, not for those from here but not of here, …
thank god, thank god, praise god not of here, their fortune and not misfortune, their survival and
options not tied to this place, they are airlifted from this place, from this place where faux
citizenship and from where citizens give both arms and legs to get away, this place no place, this
place ghost of a country, a refugee camp where beggarly hordes stranded straddle, a transit spread
broad and artless from pillar to post, from border to border, hoping angels flyover with ticket in
hand, boarding pass clutched enable jumping ship, jumping skin, options like good butter spread
broad and diverse, where plantations with master workers union, high income and good tax
bracket, where more respectful masters smart, benevolent enough to impose, harness, cart and
hearse way before the horse, defense, social and security taxes, all manner of sacrifices, so that
work, work, work and better living conditions, mortgage and purchasing power, grand slave
quarters back to back to back and in rows, pied - à - terre like mansions in strangled suburbia
utopia, manicured lawns, decked and prettified, work, work, work, occupation now and new
identity, profession now creed and new custom, identity drained of brain and its accompanying
heart, …
work, work, work, and so that disposable and stellar income in dollars solid and sterling brand new.
away, away, away, get away from here, preaches the underground railroad, away from here where in
reality a refugee camp spread broad and artless from pillar to post, border to border, a refugee
camp in disguise as continent and countries cut out like cupcakes chewed up in colonial mouths
framed by moustache handlebars, …
colonial mouths where dark continent plunged in foreign gut and gullet dark, creepy and seedy
alleyways, where no light, feels like no water, no power however light at the end of the tunnel, north
of here, free north where boarding pass, flight and landing card, where on arrival rinse mouth of
maternal tongue, strangle, drain brain of nostalgia, the underground railroad freedom stars and
spangled banner in his eyes half mast, because free north, free north, he repeats and on arrival
forget coming back to where no country, here where haunting by country ghost tentacles, stay there
where a country in the making, in the shaping, shifty, shady, shape shifting, jim crow, jumping ship
and jumping skin.
… dear Patsey, what will become of us?
roots and wings
try not to, if you can, he told me, as though on his deathbed,
to own things that are very fixed to the ground.
things very fixed to the ground will come to rule over you,
inhibit you and come to possess you,
and then you are not but dispossessed of it
and not of yourself.
so try, if you can, to own things that are not fixed to the ground.
things which will come along with you, things which travel with you, …
… own things that you complement
and things which are not quite complete without you.
such things will always come along with you and easily to where you please.
so what I’m saying is that keep roots that will travel with you.
go where your roots will gain ground and room to gain more depth,
and you will find that these roots will thrive where you are.
and so try, he repeated, as though with his last breathe,

to be mindful of your freedom at all times.
remember that freedom
that cannot come along with you and easily where you please
is freedom not worth having
or fighting for.
because things very fixed to the ground will come to rule over you,
inhibit you and come to possess you,
and then you are not but dispossessed of it
and of yourself where this very thing that you give your blood to
is concerned because it is not but very fixed to the ground,
like a country, say.
Golgotha.
addiction is the new voodoo
if only I could get a one good hit of that shit, …

yeah … do me baby, do me right good.
if I could get a one good puff of that stuff, …

a good puff … come on baby, hit my spot.
you know what’s up.
addiction is the new voodoo. some substance or experience by which we swear, our minds
and our bodies trembling for that hit, mechanic-like and trembling, jerking kind of like back
and forth for that stuff, profane, vulgar and just too much, just too damn-motherfucking-
much as you press on, holding that thought, transfixed, your eyes on that prize, that trip,
that spot, that cross, that sudden calvary, golgotha, dear jesus. …
… the new voodoo, addictions come in all sorts of guises, they come as sacrifices, they come
as routines and rituals, they come as ablutions, as titles and investments, diseases, alchemy
and yes, also cures, heck even as side-effects.
… you damn right, she says.
I told you, baby girl. we all

addicted to some shit,
don’t care what it is. all and each,
from workaholics right on down,
addiction is the new voodoo.
trust me, it is the new cure.
one hit, and bam! …
yeah, baby! … you got that right.
do me baby, do me right good.

to love.
to love is like to have your heart grow legs. to love is like to have your heart on a pair of legs,
the legs on roller-skates rollerblading miraculously. and these legs taking your heart to
town, with or without your permission: your heart to town, paint it red, of course and
running crisscross and red lights and you from a distance hollering like a mad one, flagging
down oncoming traffic and this heart on sudden and new legs and these new legs on roller-
skates rollerblading, and you without your legs to stand on, trying to catch up with this
your heart gone to town on your legs and painting the town red, while your heart and you
beat by rollerblading miles and picking up the tabs and also trying to catch your breath and
up with your heart on a pair of legs, roller-skates rollerblading.
to love.
to love is like to have your heart grow legs.
to love is like to have your heart on a pair of legs, the legs on roller-skates rollerblading
miraculously.
hey baby …
I know an elderly woman who sits alone and besides herself
most evenings on my way home
and from time to time, just when I think we are done exchanging our pleasantries and our
making conversation, she will ask me, calling my name ever so personally, familiarly, when I
am about just four steps away from her station in life,
… hey baby, you know what day it is today, then?
Wednesday, I will say slowly, seeming to need to figure it out myself, taking a moment,
pretending so she does not feel so bad; I like for her to know that for people she considers
lucky and with it, there is more often than not and just like with her, a figuring out to do, of
life, of what day it is and of dates and companionship, work, security, safety nets, ...
… Today is Wednesday …
Wednesday … I see … and when we wake up it will be Thursday, then?
this second question she never fails to ask, and I respectfully never provide the information
before her inquiry.
yes, tomorrow will be Thursday.
… I hope we wake up in the morning, she says prayerfully, accompanied by the sweet clasp
of her denture-filled smile. … I hope we make it through the night.
we will make it through the night, Marilyn, I say reassuring, brushing it aside like it is no
issue, which it is, a non-issue.
thank you so much, baby. … sure is nice to know that.
sure is nice to know that, baby, I ask-think to myself wondering about making it through the
night. … making conversation, or do I know that for a fact?
… hash tag; I believe, help my unbelief.
#life … #social security and companionship … #safety nets

driven places.
love carefully, love expediently;

the things we love drive us places,
through the window at times and out of our minds.
so be careful what you love and what you desire.

be careful what you pray for,
be careful also what you give your heart to
because the things we love drive us places.
we pay for the things we love, you know …

these things destined to break our hearts
destined to break our minds
and for which we pay dearly,
paying for the joy they bring us,
at times two or three times the price
by this price which we seek to make them stay,
these things we love destined to break our hearts
we pay for dearly with our lives;
we pay for the things we love.
love carefully, then; love expediently

for the things we love drive us places,
through the window at times and out of our minds.
be careful what you pray for,
be careful also what you give your heart to
for the things we love ...
glossolalia,
I am the unremembered.
my name is glossolalia, i am the unremembered …
before my first memories, i had lost my limb and do you know i did not know it? … then i
lost my head and did not know it either, and then finally my tongue … it was not till i began
speaking in tongues, in several tongues, bleu-blanc-rouge, and other assemblages … i began
speaking bleu-blanc-rouge till blue in the blackface, my stars and stripes and spangled
banner appendages in bandages and upholstered amongst the silent trees and forests
booming with collapse …
that is when it occurred to me.

when i could not speak of what happened to me …
when their words failed me, was when it occurred to me …
i lost my tongue and on the way away from home.
my name is glossolalia, i am the unremembered …

and the dismembered and do you know i did not know it?
before my first memories, i had lost my limb and do you know … then i lost my head and did
not know it either, and then finally my tongue … it was not till i began speaking in tongues,
….
glossolalia, i am the one who lost my tongue and did not know it till i began speaking in
tongues. please do not tell me what hit me. … please don’t you tell me.
bleu-blanc-rouge
stars and stripes and spangled banner
glossolalia, my multicultural;
i am blue in blackface
beautiful disregard,
peace pipes and smoking guns
constant, like a chimney, there is the certain type of chain smoker who has made their peace
with life and with you, smokers and nonsmokers alike so long as the stick, the peace pipe, is
right there in the careless grip of their lips and connected to their lungs, their lungs a living
sacrifice, a living and breathing smokehouse for the gods in their chest, …
with life and with you, they keep it there, the smoke, connected to their lungs, they have made
their peace with life and with you, while you begrudge them for smoking, they examine you
square in the face without as much as looking at you, beautiful disregard and that faraway look
in their eyes when they do, when they look at you, they smile, they are at ease, they are free;
what they are telling you over and over again without as much as a word? ‘please cut me some
slack, it is no use this your nagging, we are sold out to the gods, a living and breathing
smokehouse in my chest and in my ribcage, my lungs on fire and blackened out for the gods’, ….
the stick, like a peace pipe, right up in there between their carelessly numb and numbing lips,
happily connected to their lungs, this smokehouse for the gods in their chest … they are
unflustered that your whole wardrobe and chests of drawers smell of resin, of smoke residue,
they are unflappable when threatened with the thought that you could be leaving or leaving
them, you could be before or after sex, pre or post coitus and they cannot be moved. they are
straight up with you; you know the score where chain smokers are concerned, yes, you know the
score because you know they have made their peace with the gods, they are sold out, a living and
breathing smokehouse this pair of lungs of theirs. on fire for the gods.
sacrifice, a living and breathing smokehouse for the gods in their chest, …
with life and with you, they keep it there, the smoke, connected to their lungs, they have made
their peace with life and with you, while you begrudge them for smoking, they examine you
square in the face without as much as looking at you, beautiful disregard and that faraway look
in their eyes when they do, when they look at you, they smile, they are at ease, they are free; you
could push and shove, nag and huff and puff, throw a shade or several, they cannot be moved,
and soon you are the monkey they want off their back.
sacrifice, a living and breathing smokehouse for the gods in their chest, … smokers are intact like
that, unmoved and unmovable, they are straight up with you, you know the score where smokers
are concerned, yes, you know the score because you know they have made their peace with the
gods, they are sold out, a living and breathing smokehouse this pair of lungs of theirs. on fire for
the gods.
my blue lagoon and in vivo baby daddy
the boy once my neighbor their fence the same as ours, he is shown up in my life, again. the last I
saw of him, I was a hair’s breadth from falling into passionate kissing with him, me standing next to him
in the darkly lit evening and on a silver platter all of my full and ripe teenage hunger and within grasp his
near young adult boisterousness, boyish recklessness, that and other things .... he is married now and with
a kid. and we could not ever have been kissing, anyways, …. young enough to be wild and foolish, but we
are too kindly to each other to do that kind of thing, you see. too kind, and not wickedly enough, ... not
wickedly enough and also too knowing of each other’s life, childhood, innocence, parental guidance and
respect, yes, too much familiarity. too familiar. not quite family and yet not enough contempt.
dark and ultra-handsome, loving and very level-headed, he is the kind I could raise a child with,
but a child I could not have with him because he is like my brother …
the boy once my neighbor their fence the same as ours, he is shown up in my life, again. he is
married now and with a kid. … and before married and kid, he would speed-dial and IDD at ungodly
GMT hours just to ensure that I know how I am as much his choice for wife as he is mine for husband, and
that a child, a child … that was like ten years ago, … but boy we could not ever do that kind of thing, to
make a baby, that is, … because we are siblings, almost. ... and we could not ever have been kissing,
anyways, … too kindly to each other to do that kind of thing, you see. too kind, and not wickedly
enough, ... not quite family and yet not enough contempt.
unfortunate but it is what it is. we are like brother and sister, … our passions never could find the
needed legs to stand on, … legs or grounds, I realize which makes me think of the dark earth of the land on
which their houses stood, and that he is the one who would walk across their field to the fence and whistle
for my brother, his clever whistling at the part of the fence near my window because close enough to that
of my brother’s room and dad might hear it, … his whistling for my brother and accidentally for my
heart, my heart at the time toddling teenager and more than eager.
the boy once my neighbor their fence the same as ours, he is shown up in my life, again. … how is
your wife, I ask staring into the phone and through it to the land and era which shaped our lives ... how
are you, he asks, his emphasis on the you, me … and then that laughter of his, clever like his whistling of
old … and I know he wants to add that it could have been you, me, his wife …
… I know an ultra-dark and handsome man whose wife I could have been but I shared a fence
with him growing up … the boy once my neighbor their fence the same as ours, he is shown up in my
life, ... not wickedly enough … parental guidance and respect, yes, too much familiarity. too familiar. not
quite family and yet not enough contempt.
but oh such guinness complexion, such foamy and good, thickly headedness, … I don’t ever want
to see him ever again, I pray, fervently, silently, handheld gadget held onto for dear life, my eyes closed, …
the last time, the near falling into his kissing, the hair’s breadth, … such tall and dark and handsomeness,
such giddy boyishness in his eyes, his fetching smile, dazzling, luxurious dry stout and designer hops …
and yet not enough contempt for us to do wickedly things, but he sure is my cup of tea, this my blue
lagoon …
… Unsex me here, … mercy. …

… and I catch myself hatching plans in vivo and baby daddy …
happy father’s day, I added …
the woman under the mango tree

do you remember?
… there is a woman who came to your home at dawn and waited till after sunrise. she came
to you and waited under the mango tree, the yelping of the lazy dogs and the sudden rush of
the lazy breeze, its signature of dead leaves falling through the branches, the occasional
thud-thud of the mango fruits having given up holding and hanging on, too ripe or the wind
sudden and too strong, or the birds having pecked at it so much it was already eaten up
there and half alive, the stone of the seed showing through its half-eaten up bright yellow
flesh while up on the tree …
… the occasional thud-thud of the mango fruits having given up holding and hanging on, too
ripe or the wind sudden and too strong and when fallen to the ground, the ants, red, fierce,
like miniature trucks, minuscule articulators, new, strong and just now rolling off the
assembly line or like a pesky bunch of aliens, doggedly hauling away the mango fruit, its
bright yellow flesh and the good sweetness to it and their graves …
there is a woman who came to you at dawn and waited till after sunrise, do you remember?
… she arrived at dawn and waited patiently, statuesque under the mango tree till after
sunrise to see you and to see if you remember her. the look in her eyes and you knew she
was unhearing and unspeaking. amongst the yelping of the lazy dogs, and the occasional
thud-thud of the mango fruits having given up holding and hanging on, too ripe or the wind
sudden and too strong, she waited for you to rise …
… do you remember?
plain sailing the dark
we plain sail the dark, the silent night and each other making no waves.
ships passing the dark and each other in the night. once siamese twins, we are like two
tectonic plates strung in and out of the night and cursing the living daylights and the union
that binds us, cursing the living daylights, the union and blinding both the thieves and the
broad daylights that discovered us, splintered, and refusing our history, in complete denial
and passing the dark and each other in the silent of the night, half mast, head bowed,
shoulders slumped, plain sailing, making no waves whatsoever, making no waves and
making believe we never known each other, making believe we never been together, laid
together, lived together and the destinies we now live independent and intact, the one of
the other, the destinies and destinations transparent markings holding their tongues in the
annals of history.
shoulders slumped, plain sailing, making no waves whatsoever, leaving the winds
straightjacket and afraid to make a move, not aiding nor abetting in our steal away, forced
and now fettered inertia of the sleeping magnet between us, before and now history.
shoulders slumped, plain sailing, making no waves whatsoever, making no waves and
making believe we never known each other, making believe we never been together, laid
together, lived together and the destinies we now live independent and intact, the one of
the other, the destinies and destinations transparent markings leaving no trace but a
hungered history, hungered and naked for truth, whistleblowing and signifying our faux
incognito, the ghosts of our strangled dreams also backpacked, loudspeaking and
gesticulating in strange silent tongues, while undeterred, we plain sail the dark, the silent
night and each other making no waves and letting sleeping gods lie.
#sleeping gods lie abreast
# plain sailing the dark
the heart is made of bone.

heart and home is made of bone.
to know something deep in your heart is to feel it in your bones. for a long, long time I
wondered why … feeling something in your bones, …
it is why when it mattered it was in your bones you felt it, like your brain and your heart
took flight from your head case or ribcage and sought shelter in their turn in the hard cases
of your thigh bones.
to know something deep in your heart is to feel it in your bones. for a long, long time I
wondered why … then it occurred to me … the heart is made of bone marrow, it is in the
bones where blood cells come alive and from seemingly nowhere and no thing … in your
bone marrow where your breath takes shape, and word and you become flesh.
so come to find out that

the heart is made of bone
and so is home.
and to know something deep in your heart

is therefore to feel it in your bones.

and it is why I got a bone to pick with you.
heart and home is made of bone.

miracle mile.
serengeti galore; pacifica city at worlds end.
miracle mile. through broad glass windows, the city streams by. rapid buses on miracle
mile, three of them back to back and I am thinking the rapid is a train, overland train
undercover and right in the heart of the city, pacific ocean at world’s end ... world without
end.
nighttime. the city showers in multicultural and psychedelic lights. on Wilshire like a sweet
knife sunk through the hub and heart of the city, three rapid buses, each one a two in one,
and all three back to back you would think someone broke the heart of the city and a river
of blood red at world’s end ... world without end.
daytime. miracle mile. through broad glass windows, the city streams by. rapid buses on
miracle mile, three of them back to back and I am thinking the rapid is a train, overland
train undercover and right in the heart of the city. and the sidewalks of beautiful people
tired of waiting for the right roles emerge without agents and with funk for prop flock onto
Wilshire at Miracle Mile, strutting their stuff, the city a movie set and the behind the scenes
front and center.
miracle mile. …
through broad glass windows, the city streams by
… and by dusk transmogrified …
serengeti galore;
here come the giraffe,

there go the zebra,
here bambi
and there okapi
on Miracle Mile,
pacifica city at worlds end.
world without end.

Lufthansa, Aeroflot and Puer Aeternus.
there was this kid who came to live with one of the families on the street on which we lived when I was a
kid. I guess he had scaled all of the heights in his mind by when I knew him; tall, lanky, …. as kids we
would all gather on the porch of one of the houses of our friend’s to play and to sport; we talked about
things we fancied, food and such, of upcoming trips, places, countries, people, of dreams, ideas … and
about friends whose families moved to another part of the world … who had written to them, or heard
from them, whose mother was giving out soda or ice cream, whose daddy was coming back this week or
next year.
I will be a pilot when I grow up … when I grow up I will be a pilot ... is what skinny boy will say. his
parents were divorced and abroad in different countries. dreamy eyes and not at all here, he often
repeated that. looking at the sky, a plane so far off it was like a stunted arrow slowly but surely moving
across, through the clouds and across the late afternoon or morning sky. …
as a child all I wanted was for the years to go by quickly so I could get to where I was free, with time on my
hands to explore what ideas came to me, to connect whatever dots I had in hand, or mind, heart, gut, …
feeling. … it was curiosity about mixed-raced-ness, a knowing-feeling of its liminality, burdensome… the
mixed-race kids in our neighborhood, … and wondering what their parents would tell them, or had told
them, strongly suspecting their worlds stood on fault-lines, the constant fear of tectonic plates sliding off
and away, sudden sinkhole in the ground beneath their feet, that somehow mixed raced kids were plaster
of paris molded pretty on to dry walls on shaky grounds and trouble ahead: a ‘better half’ that will never
claim you, … and so pensively, privately, often shaking my head at mixed-raced-ness.
a pilot. well, I remember telling him once, you want to be a pilot because that way you could get to your
parents, see them more often … always on the way to your mom and dad when you are a pilot.
no, that is not the reason, he said, looking away, at the sky, squinting, the plane so far off, a stunted arrow
… and I looking at him sideways, … and often whenever he was with us, I looked to find a trace of a
behavior, a pattern, to confirm my suspicion of his choice of profession. he must miss his parents, I was
certain but he never shared that with anyone, not with me at least. he was twelve, I was ten when he went
to boarding school.
... it must take a special streak to want to have an occupation or experience as an aviation pilot, I think,
skinny boy coming to mind, skinny boy who is now a pilot, fully-fledged, wings and all. Lufthansa,
Aeroflot, up there in the sky, detached from earth, devising strategies to keep defying gravity, exploring
spheres aerial … at night, night flights, floodlights from the wings of the plane in the dark expanse of the
firmament and you at the helm of things, Boeing airbus, coming and going, double-decker omnibus in the
sky, and you like a sky-god shot through and thrilled on wings, Lufthansa, Aeroflot, a night bird, …
immense cavernousness these aerial spheres, endless fields of black and fields of light as pathways for
planes, free flying and defying gravity …
… morning flights are the best, if you ask me… all that crisp and thin blue resplendence, white clouds like
diamonds in the sky… and soon you read in one place or the other what pilots come to from constantly
needing the high and thrill and the unusualness of their jobs, that special kind of high and shot-through-
ness, … so then how an addiction grows on you and then soon claims you ... with male pilots, that certain
adventuresome-ness, gregariousness, impeccably white uniforms, most of them tall and beautiful
physique, at the bottom of things highly detached, yearning and reaching for the sky, dedicated to, living
for that next high, the next lift off, braving and breezing through hazardous meteorological conditions,
wrestling with the elements and freewheeling forces up there where they belong, perhaps this or next time
to encounter the gods of the sun, or the moon, or soon fully-fledged gods themselves … pilots, at heart
detached and here and there a struggle with substance abuse, which is not uncommon with adults in
general, what with nearing midlife crises, disappointments, expectation mismanagement. … don’t we all
desire to escape life by getting high to get by? …
i waited for you.
you could not hold on

not with where you stood
not with where you found yourself
with me you trusted the water

more than you trusted yourself
drowning will be kinder to me
water in my lungs
while you turned around
paid our debts
took more losses
more truth
and more fire
for you
pure fire
while water in my lungs

and knowing
that you will find me
and let me know
that i waited for you.
all bets are off;

i have seen the blueprint.
my country of origin is gone abroad:

the big house by the village square is empty
and so is the one in the heart of the city.
there is a new one under construction on the outskirts;

i have seen the blueprint. …
however because the city conjugates overnight
we have a blueprint for another in the hinterland.

and will be back when there is no country:
it is the reason the lights are off.

and i have seen the blueprint:
all bets are off.

- Trick is not to.
Out of Africa. Finch Hatton. Karen Blixen.

Sikayena, My Country Is Gone Abroad

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Sikayena, My Country Is Gone Abroad

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sikayena,

my country is gone abroad.

dali toreador, 1968.

- Do you know what they're made of? … Cloth.

- Do you know what they're made of? … Cloth.

my country is gone abroad

all bets are off;

my country of origin is gone abroad:

there is a new one under construction on the outskirts;

my country is gone abroad

my country is gone abroad,

on switchback road when i was a kid

jesus is love and art of the groove:

#art of the groove

my home is in the dark

because I am at home in the dark,

my secret self finds its feet and gestures

bring on the power outages,

because I am at home in the dark,

to say you have missed me in my language

to say you have missed me in my language

to say you have missed me in my other language

#your eyes an idol of me

# parliamentary and parlant beaucoup

you may read my mind for all I care,

there is something about your mother-tongue,

lovers may come and go but the that-one

I don’t know about you but there is

Homies like ex-colonials stockholm-syndrom-izing,

and like I said I don’t know about you,

so you may read my mind for all I care,

without village and rites of passage

on branding, identity and sacrifice.

do you know me?

do you know me?

become of us, dear Patsey

… dear Patsey, what will become of us?

roots and wings

and so try, he repeated, as though with his last breathe,

if only I could get a one good hit of that shit, …

if I could get a one good puff of that stuff, …

… you damn right, she says.

I told you, baby girl. we all

yeah, baby! … you got that right.

do me baby, do me right good.

to love is like to have your heart grow legs.

I know an elderly woman who sits alone and besides herself

most evenings on my way home

… hey baby, you know what day it is today, then?

Wednesday … I see … and when we wake up it will be Thursday, then?

yes, tomorrow will be Thursday.

thank you so much, baby. … sure is nice to know that.

#life … #social security and companionship … #safety nets

love carefully, love expediently;

so be careful what you love and what you desire.

we pay for the things we love, you know …

we pay for the things we love.

love carefully, then; love expediently

my name is glossolalia, i am the unremembered …

that is when it occurred to me.

my name is glossolalia, i am the unremembered …

… Unsex me here, … mercy. …

happy father’s day, I added …

the woman under the mango tree

the heart is made of bone.

so come to find out that