Voices of Our Ancestors
by Fidel Alexander Massaquoi
we asked where it went wrong
why when we tried to move, they don't tag along
but with every corrupt act they were there
warning of the ill fate we will have to bear
the sounds of bullets flying
and of bombs exploding
those were the cries of our ancestors
we swore we repented; we swore we forgave
we, a happy family, and in our hearts have love engraved
but deep down we despised
making them bleed in our demise
the sirens wailing
the mass undertaking
those were the screams of our ancestors
we are growing we say
we have been purged clean, no chance we will go astray
but the vice of denial, not accepting who is not of our race
scaled our hearts, made our heroes shudder in disgrace
the steep slopes rolling
the dark clouds descending
those were the tears of our ancestors
"They can still make it right," they hope
we can still make it right, we know
with love as the sail, and our kids the vessel
the glorious days would inevitably be factual
‘cause their singing and dancing
the nation rejoicing
these would be the smiles of our ancestors.
Fidel Alexander Massaquoi is a civil engineer living in Sierra Leone. He enjoys reading fantasy novels and listening to rap music. He spends his free time (whenever he sees little of it) writing poems and one-liners. Follow his work on Twitter at @elfidof7.
Black Woman
By Rosaline Virginia Bundeh
A black woman is told:
your smile is dazzling and elegant but it’s too much
your laughter is stunning, but it draws attention and it’s too much
you are hard-working, you bleed your palms and bruise your knees, but it’s not enough
I notice you have two hands that bind softly but you act like they are on cuffs
you are beautiful, your skin glitters but it’s still rough
you are black, you are cultured but you are not black enough
being a black woman is tough
To a black woman, they say:
you talk boldly, you’re defensive but it’s too loud
you work tirelessly but you always frown
Some say: don’t look up, look down
others say: don’t look down, look up, don’t act like a clown
don’t stare, it’s rude, don’t look down it's dumb
you are too ambitious; you’re always chasing something like a crazy cat
you’re this! You’re that!
To a black woman, some say:
your stretch marks resemble the back of a tree and it’s not pretty
your curves are unique but your thighs are too thick
your thighs draw attention. They are too flabby
they define saggy breast as being slutty
they will say; you’re too humble, you’re too rude, you’re too fast, you’re too slow
society will always complain and want black women to act like a supernatural being
when they are treating her like a worthless thing
As a black woman
my elders will hurt me, but I dare not speak
men will touch my hips, and squeeze my thighs, force themselves on me and smile
It’s our culture to be respectful even when they are breaking our bones
or bruising our thighs or painting our faces black and red with a slap
men will rape you, but it’s not new, its most of my sister’s stories,
they say: I am not that beautiful but I am always complaining
I am an attention seeker, so I should stop whining.
Being a black woman is like being against the world
It’s like you carrying mother earth and fighting with the sun and moon
they will expect us to speak after cutting our tongue
society will say ooh no! It’s a girl
and they will shake their heads in disappointment
even if we mop the ocean, they will still point out the tiny drops and say we are lazy or call us an embarrassment
they will send us in the dark, pluck out our eyes and say stop acting blind
We are Champions
Our skin is rich, fresh, dark, and soft, it glitters
Our greatness is about embracing our true selves regardless of the pains or heartaches
I’m a black woman with flaws but I’m me and I’m unique
I’m a pearl
You are a black woman, you are tough, you are priceless, you are rare, you are worth a king’s ransom, you are valuable
Being black is POWERFUL.
Rosaline Virginia Bundeh is a writer and public health practitioner currently residing in Freetown. She finds beauty in words and enjoys the trials of life. You can follow her on twitter at @RBundeh.
BATA
If I could drum, I’d run deep into the forest and play. I’d start slowly, beckoning the ears of townspeople, inviting their subconscious to dance with me; to dance to the rhythm the forest exudes. I’d play faster, increasing the intensity of my sound, strike after strike, it would grow louder. When the surface of the drum is moist with sweat dripping from my face I will strike it even harder, I will strike it to my death. The metallic tang of the African drum will crackle and bite like village fires where tradition is passed down. I will beat the drum like an angry July rain descending on a cluster of zinc roofed houses with immense fury; I will not play music, I will play pain, misery, and death. I will beat the drum until the blood from my heart rushes straight to my palms and flood the surface of the drum, muzzling the sound of my beat, then I’ll beat the drum even harder. I’ll beat it till the sorry animal whose skin was borrowed to craft the instrument shrieks in anguish. That ought to keep the townspeople awake.
By Sidikie Bayoh
Sidikie Bayoh is a Sierra Leonean poet, and gardening and woodwork enthusiast who currently resides in Accra, Ghana. Follow him on Twitter: @dikie_moe Instagram: @dikie.moe
Fool’s Glitter
“ Like a baby still-born
Like a beast with its horn
I have torn everyone who reached out for me.”[1]
---
Nestled in the pregnant ground
The ancestors tamed me.
Midwived by the Companies’ adventuresome greed
I mewled and seduced, fed fanciful needs
And then
Lionised, I nurtured organised terror
I roared out my unholy power
I took humanity
and shoved it down my hole.
Gold
Solhan’s choke hold
Diamonds
Kailahun violence
Cobalt
Goma’s child soldiers
I took insanity
Fed it gas so it would explode.
Like a bankrupt billionaire
Like a unicorn turned bear
I will tear all the values that came before me.
I take humanity
And shove
it down
my hole.
Dedicated to the victims of the June 2021 Solhan massacre.
[1] From Bird on the Wire by Leonard Cohen
About the poet: Yarri Kamara is a Sierra Leonean writer living in Burkina Faso.
His Silence
Too much has happened here
He has waged silent warfare
Socially learned neglect as norm.
Avoided glances and eye contact.
Shut doors and cellphone for finger tips.
His attention, his smiles, his affection-
reserved for those who do not make him feel ashamed of his own existence.
His conversation, his loving touch
for those who validate his struggle to climb to the respect table
where I should be but could never attempt/ing to reach.
Too much has happened here
He has left the smell of polite smiles at my efforts to be worthy of acknowledgement.
He has eaten in putrid quiet that reeks of anger at his childhood, while she has scrambled around looking for her way out in festive dishes and perfectly set tables.
I hear his fear in the hallways muffled by her regret and suicide attempts.
She has mopped over them with parent-teacher meetings, over investment in our lives or over loving everyone and the attached parts of herself.
Too much has happened here
We have fought over clothes and accessories
We have competed for titles that nobody told us were birthrights
We have placed the judgment of our worth in him, her and the institutions that massacred him and her - left them in present bodies, drowning in wells of broken down barely breathing unsure souls.
Too much has happened here
I left.
I have identified, then co-identified to find I mis-identified for the books to tell me not to identify at all.
I have nightmares of the boy I let touch me
Strum his curious tunes across the keys of my skin
To unlock his unreadiness and flee from too muchness.
I have nightmares of the love I felt for him and the disdain he felt of me.
His was always a lock I picked apart while the mirror in the keyhole made him cringe with memories of too much happening in his mother’s home.
He has replied emails and love letters with one word answers while he questioned everything about hating how much he needed to love me.
Too much has happened here
We wake up in sweat in the middle of the night
Panting
We hear whispers of failure and gossip about how we did not win the competition for titles nobody told us were birthrights.
Nobody ever yelled love at us
Nobody ever shook respect into our hands with stretched out palm.
Nobody ever painted peace in green walls around us.
I do not want to be alone in this apartment.
Too much has happened here.
-By mw.
