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One terrifying truth
unveiled in one short afternoon:
exile brings losses like
forgetting to remember
ordinary things.

Ama Ata Aidoo, Homesickness

many of the things the words were about
no longer exist

the noun for standing in mist by a haunted tree
the verb for I

the children will not repeat
the phrases their parents speak

somebody has persuaded them
that it is better to say everything differently

so that they can be admired somewhere
farther and farther away

from Losing a Language by WS Merwin 

Well, Sonny,” I said gently. “you know people don’t always do what they WANT to do-“
“No, I don’t know that,” said Sonny, surprising me. “I think people ought to do what they want to do, what else are they alive for?

From Sonny’s Blues by James Baldwin (via ruralcity)

It is only when you are stranded in a hostile country that you need a romance of origins; it is only when you lose your mother that she becomes a myth; it is only when you fear the dislocation of the new that the old ways become precious…

Lose Your Mother

Does my mom wonder,
Always in those hours after hours,
what I was up to when we were both younger?

I want to assure her that I would wander
Behind our two-room house with no company
Except three languages to practice- but none of those was loneliness,
I was fluent in waiting.

My Mother Does Not Sleep, Maya Wegerif

Our value is not determined by our ability to produce African flavoured versions of Western convention and form. Such an approach will surely only ever leave us playing catch-up in a game the rules of which we did not write.

Emma Dabiri @thediasporadiva on why she is not an afropolitan.

I fear my silence may convince you
I have moved on.
I wish.

I came apart in your bed before.
Last night I lay there trying to recollect myself.
We barely spoke.

I woke up buried in your back
and drowned in sweat.
Even in my sleep I must have known.

Maya Wegerif

You see they leave you with naught,
but the official report
says pride must be bought,
so we sought out the liquor store.
Still many have fought,
and many have taught us to love.
But when legs have danced
and hearts are sore
who will teach us to let ourselves be loved?

Mudbloods, Maya Wegerif

I’m far from those who knew me
before my boobs grew.
And still,
in the city of dreams,
I’m boy in the leaves,
and I’m the girl in the kitchen too.

Mudbloods, Maya Wegerif.

if we
people of color
burn the world down.
for what
have experienced.
are experiencing.
we don’t.

how stunningly beautiful that our sacred respect for the earth is deeper than our rage, nayyirah waheed (via nayyirahwaheed)

(via stfufauxminists)

Hello moon, hello stars, hello weeping lake.
Hello sky, hello wind, hello empty page.
I’m sorry I have been away so long.
I thought I had found love again.

There were 4,000 white farmers in Zimbabwe at the time of the land invasions in 2000. They have since been replaced by almost 200, 000 black commercial farmers. The white farmers who violently took over the farms in the 1950’s and 60’s displacing 100,000 black families from their land were inexperienced in farming. The Rhodesian government of the time had to support them providing training giving them low –interest loans for equipment and seed. It took the farmers about 20 years to become commercially successful. According to a recent report, in the ten years since the farm invasions, despite the drought and disinvestment, the resettled farmers are reaching the production levels of the white farmers they replaced.

Dali Tambo, People of the South.

Like an injection revolution stings at first.