AFRICA! MY AFRICA!

Am I really African? This is a question that I can’t seem to answer no matter how hard I try. I can call it a search for identity yet I identify myself as a pure African.

I have heard stories of how my great grandfathers and their friends stood and got off their hats at the mere sight of a white colonialist who was just 20 yrs. of age when they were in their sixties, I have stories of how they were whipped as they bent themselves lame on their masters farms the whole day and humiliated before the very people who saw them as heroes. I don’t know what I really could do to repay the pain they endured to liberate a generation that would not even appreciate their efforts. I wonder, Am I really African?

I have read poetry that depicted the struggle that we Africans, not even we but they, went through as they sought to liberate us.

Oh Africa! What can I do to repay You?

When Father and Son were separated, Father to the mines and son to jail just for looking at a white girl. When a mother who had thirteen children was left with only two just to satisfy the colonial demands.

Africa my Africa! What do I owe you?

I have read prose fiction of the struggle, how a brother turned against a brother due to sycophantic tendencies but they still remained a family.

My Africa, they called you a dark continent and I wonder; was it because you challenged them so they wanted to make you feel inferior?

Why My Africa? Why?

They said You are a question and they are the answers so You shall forever lean towards them for solutions. But I wonder, is it to be so?

You see, when I look at your bulged back, I think it is because they overworked you. The River Nile symbolic of the lashes on your sons backs, the tall mountains symbolic of the clobbering your sons went through. I occasionally hear your Rivers weep as they shed their tears into the oceans through which your tormentors came.

I remember you long hair, the one which you cherished proudly, whose beauty was incomparable and incomprehensible but they cut it till nothing was left on you. These are your trees my Africa.

They said they wanted to educate your sons and daughters. That they needed to have a god that they would look up to and all their problems would be solved but they had a gun on one hand and a religious book on the other. They made us know them more than you my Africa. We feared them and dis respected you, did to you as they did and followed the ways they taught us and instead of appreciating it they said we were ‘aping’ them.

My Africa, they told you eldest son, a father and a husband, that he was not good enough compared to their toddler. Let me tell you a secret you know my Africa, you see when they come here, we dance ourselves lame at the airports but when we go to them…

They still come for us even after they left after scattering your children for they were and still are afraid of their unity. They say you are not good enough to discipline your own so they do it for you. They force us to take hemlock and when we refuse they punish us. My Africa, I love You but I just cannot stand and watch as they Kill You. For long you have kissed their buttocks and they spat on your face but you said nothing. You reserved your anger and projected your utmost kindness unto them. Your back is bent from their enslaving work but you still strain yourself up to shake their hands, your once beautiful face is scarred and drenched with tears but you still embrace them with a new and refreshed smile each day. Your beautiful hair is long gone and I know you still labour to renew its glory but you still bear your pride.

You see my Africa, I am sorry for all these that they and we did to you.

I want to be as one of your sons – Neto, Nkuruhma, Luandinho, Kenyatta, Lumumba, Mboya…

I want to feel what it is to be African…

My Africa

I AM AFRICAN!

A Hearts Desire

Look into my eye
Love you I
And don't ask why
For my words have all but gone dry

Dwell deeper in this heart
That's too meek to cause you any hurt,
How it hopes you trust
For it, you almost always burst

Hey- My royal Lady
Please - cure this malady
With your heart that's so pure
And in a trance I'll be sure
When your glance I endure

How it hopes you see
How willing it is to sacrifice for thee
So with you to be
Till the end of beings.
© Sam D. Otieno

A SEGREGATED FAMILY

It is quite mind blowing that a nation is represented by the use of two characters, character who happen to share the same familial ties. Well this is Athol Fugard’s extraordinary achievement in his more than recommendable play, The Blood Knot.

This is a play that capture a nation at the height of apartheid and the divisions that have cut across a nation. It would be undeserving not to consider this play parabolic by all who appreciate Fugard’s literary skill and wit throughout the play.

Highly and utterly symbolic, this is one of the best plays one could ever set out to read. The plight of the less favourable in the society (blacks) is depicted by the use of elements of nature with the favourable class depicted with what truly suits them (birds).

In this play, Athol Fugard uses two characters; Morris and Zachariah who happen to be of the same mother but different fathers who are absent from their lives for a considerable time of their lives probably since their birth. Morris is a fairly light skinned individual and could pass for a white while his brother Zachariah is black. It is evident that Morris is favoured at the expense of Zachariah by their mother. Why? Well, this is one of the many questions Fugard leaves unanswered but worry not because I will try and answer them to the best of my ability in this article.

            After their mother’s death, Morris leaves Zachariah behind as he goes to try and fit in to the white culture just because his complexion could pass him for a white. This turns out to be quite a trap for him since being a white had more to it than just the skin colour. Life becomes unbearable for him and he returns home.

            It is quite ironical that Zachariah works the whole day while Morris gets to save his, Zachariah’s, hard earned money. Morris in other words could be said to be the de-facto accountant of the family. This occurrence is symbolic to the harsh conditions the blacks go through, they get to work as slaves while the whites save/keep their money. It could be said that among many other forms of enslavement, the blacks are financially enslaved. Morris happens to be more of a polished African compared to Zachariah. He is literate to the extent that he writes and reads letters addressed to Zachariah. During his time away, it is also clear that Morris learnt a lot from the whites most notably their mannerisms and speech. He is more of a gentleman compared to Zachariah who exhibits the traits of a native African man.

            Absent fathers, one mother and totally different children. It could be said that Morris was of a white father while Zachariah is of a black one. But why is Morris favoured? The father is black and so is the mother. What we could suppose is that the level of apartheid drove the blacks to a point if dire inferiority complex such that they turned on they own so as to appease the powerful race. Fugard kills it with this. He removes the fathers from the picture and lets a mother turn against her own child. At this point, one would also like to reflect on the position of black women in the South African society. The boys’ mother must have been a servant to a white who must have raped her so that she conceived and gave birth to Morris and refused to claim responsibility of Morris. What of Zachariah’s father? His case must be a quite definite one, though not told, a keen reader could and should figure it out that he was killed by the whites probably before his wife was raped or after and he too must have been a worker, slave, at their farms. Black women are also not protected just by the virtue of being black. Most if not all of the black women in this play are raped. Zachariah rapes Connie while his mother is raped so as to conceive Morris. Miss Ethel Lange, a white who is also a sister to a police officer, is not raped. This is a depiction of how the whites were close to power, if figures of power seems an overstatement.

The monstrous theme of Apartheid and Exploitation are things that Fugard masterfully depicts in this play. Morris confesses his sins by saying that they are not that black, one may wonder if sin is actually coloured and since this is an abstract idea, it leaves the impression that the black skin complexion has nothing to be desired.

Living a more or less mechanical and technical life, the brothers have no time to spare for themselves, especially Zachariah who spends the whole day at the gate where he chases children of fellow blacks. This task seems tiresome since he comes home a wretch. Morris in the meantime spends the whole day in the house waiting for Zachariah’s earnings so he could save them. Quite ironical.

It is also important to note that when Morris plans to leave he packs his Bible, his OTHER shirt and an alarm clock. All these three items are symbols of the life the brothers are living. The alarm clock is symbolic to the mechanical life they are leading. Their life is controlled and they have no choice but to adhere to the rules or norms. The bible Morris packs must strike the reader as a fortune discovered. It serves to symbolize a lot of issues depicted in the play. The basic and most common attribute represented here is Christianity. Morris is definitely a Christian since he seem to cherish his Bible a lot and even recites Christian prayers. It is symbolic of the white man’s religion—who Morris represents in the play. Zachariah has no religious affiliation to which he ascribes and this is a depiction of the native African community. It is ironical since oppression of the weak is a vice condemned in the Bible yet the Whites oppress the Blacks. The Bible also symbolizes Morris’s literacy. Not to over rate this but I believe it must have been a King James Version. His prayer may also serve to prove my point “…our Father which art…”

Morris also packs his other shirt. He might have had several or two yet Zachariah had one which he constantly or at worse none.

“…You see, we are tied together, Zachariah. It’s what they call the blood knot…the bond between brothers.”

Reference is payed to Athol Fugard’s The Blood Knot

A HAUNTED HOME

Peace, Love, Unity and Democracy…

Values we once upheld with pride and dignity

In our land and home…

Peace now turned to pieces,

Love now hatred,

Democracy now dictatorship.

Dreams of our forefathers

Now nightmares to our children

Our envy now our mockery.

You see,

I can’t seem to understand what went wrong,

My homeland now a wish

As to my neighbour I now seek refuge.

Sleepless and cold nights,

I can’t even look at his eyes as shame now rules my heart and wishes- its servant

The serenity of my home now sold to blood thirsty marauding uniformed gangs.

‘Service to all ‘now ‘service against all’

Weapons of defence, now of offence.

The symphony of our anthem now substituted with the ricocheting of guns,

I wonder what will sprout from the scattered shells.

As the remains of our fallen brothers feed these patient scavengers and their ghosts entertain the serpent.

I hope my grandson is not born in a neighbours’ land

Neither do I hope for his father to marry in it.

But as I hope for a ‘better’ tomorrow’

Out of this land, to where I can dream again in the warmth of my sheets,

And with pride, look into my sons’ eyes,

My allegiance shall forever be sworn to you

Engraved in my heart forever you shall be

With pride I will always proclaim you

Your statutes I shall forever uphold

With honesty I will serve you and your descendants

And with love I shall speak of you.

My Country, My pride.

Sam D Otieno

Long Walk to Freedom Quotes

“I am fundamentally an optimist. Whether that comes from nature or nurture, I cannot say. Part of being optimistic is keeping one's head pointed toward the sun, one's feet moving forward. There were many dark moments when my faith in humanity was sorely tested, but I would not and could not give myself up to despair. That way lays defeat and death.”
― Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom: Autobiography of Nelson Mandela

“No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.”
― Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom

“A leader. . .is like a shepherd. He stays behind the flock, letting the most nimble go out ahead, whereupon the others follow, not realizing that all along they are being directed from behind.”
― Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom

“Freedom is indivisible; the chains on any one of my people were the chains on all of them, the chains on all of my people were the chains on me.”
― Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom

“I had no epiphany, no singular revelation, no moment of truth, but a steady accumulation of a thousand slights, a thousand indignities and a thousand unremembered moments produced in me an anger, a rebelliousness, a desire to fight the system that imprisoned my people. There was no particular day on which I said, Henceforth I will devote myself to the liberation of my people; instead, I simply found myself doing so, and could not do otherwise.”
― Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom

“A Nation should not be judged by how it treats its highest citizens, but it's lowest ones”
― Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom

“I have never cared very much for personal prizes. A person does not become a freedom fighter in the hope of winning awards.”
― Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom

“Without language, one cannot talk to people and understand them; one cannot share their hopes and aspirations, grasp their history, appreciate their poetry, or savor their songs.”
― Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom

“And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
― Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom

“I could not imagine that the future I was walking toward could compare in any way to the past that I was leaving behind.”
― Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom

The Silhouette

My mind is starving,
My heart is craving,
My thoughts freezing,
As I try to comprehend this beauty,
That leaves upon me pity.
This beauty that rivals the Monalisa in all her glory,
This beauty that caresses every part of my body.
Healing all my wounds and piecing all the fragments of my crushed heart.
I really can’t comprehend this beauty,
That sweeps me off my feet, down to my knees.
And makes me a beggar…Comprehend
Wakes me up every morning and soothes my every dream…Beautiful!
I can’t really comprehend this beauty.
That leaves your silhouette, on my sandy thoughts.
Dropping my jaws like the autumn leaves.
Brightening my   face like the summer skies
And freezing my thoughts like the winter snow.
Don’t wake me up from this slumber, if at all it’s a nightmare,
Don’t liberate me from this struggle, if at all am a prisoner,
Don’t cure me of this malady, even though contagious.
Because I want to feel this beauty
Live it and Hold it…
“In as much as your beauty leaves me breathless and speechless,
It also leaves me thoughtless and pulse less”

By Sam Dennis Otieno

A HAUNTED HOME

Peace, Love, Unity and Democracy…
Values we once upheld with pride and dignity
In our land and home…
Peace now turned to pieces,
Love now hatred,
Democracy now dictatorship.
Dreams of our forefathers
Now nightmares to our children
Our envy now our mockery.
You see,
I can’t seem to understand what went wrong,
My homeland now a wish
As to my neighbour I now seek refuge.
Sleepless and cold nights,
I can’t even look at his eyes as shame now rules my heart and wishes- its servant
The serenity of my home now sold to blood thirsty marauding uniformed gangs.
‘Service to all ‘now ‘service against all’
Weapons of defence, now of offence.
The symphony of our anthem now substituted with the ricocheting of guns,
I wonder what will sprout from the scattered shells.
As the remains of our fallen brothers feed these patient scavengers and their ghosts entertain the serpent.
I hope my grandson is not born in a neighbours’ land
Neither do I hope for his father to marry in it.
But as I hope for a ‘better’ tomorrow’
Out of this land, to where I can dream again in the warmth of my sheets,
And with pride, look into my sons’ eyes,
My allegiance shall forever be sworn to you
Engraved in my heart forever you shall be
With pride I will always proclaim you
Your statutes I shall forever uphold
With honesty I will serve you and your descendants
And with love I shall speak of you.
My Country, My pride.

(c) Sam Dennis Otieno

THOUGHTS OF A MAN

When I was young I remember this time when I happened to be in an emotional emergency situation over this lady. I can't lie and say she was not beautiful because she was. I know for most this was enough to be driven crazy but I was not.
There was more to it than what met the eyes. I admired her confidence and modesty ; confidence not in the conventional sense, standing before a crowd and screaming nonsense, but in the way sbe potrayed herself. She knew who she was (and is)
Modesty not in her being conversant with the western lifestyle, but in the appreciation of where she is from. This is what I admire(d).
I couldn't tell her what I thought or felt ( I didn't want to create tension between us). I wanted the situation to remain as it was. The Modesty, The confidence and more so that sense of self assurance in her. I did not want this to decipate. Many would consider this move naive but it was the best decision I ever took.
"Feelings are mutual", my friend once told me, well in this case am not sure if it was so - and I don't want to guess so. I liked the fact that we could sit and talk over hours- or so it seemed, without pausing or pretending to be busy doing something so as to pass time; it just flashed by. I wish there was no concept of time.
Talk about myself, talk about yourself, talk about ourselves - no we did not do that. Talk about politics, no, talk about sweet consuming emotions, no. Can't even tell what we galked about but can tell when.
I like a challenge and sometimes I don't. Well, she was one and in this case am not sure if I liked it or not. A sense of confusion I guess. So elusive she was, one minute before your eyes, the next ...
Time passes and you know you feel differently but you are not sure what or why so your mind casts back for something that might give that difference : a word; a glance, a touch... I remained shaky afterward. Subject to distortion. But entering sophomore year I could feel it growing stronger, sturdier, that honest constant portion of myself, a link between my future and my past.
I could not let this be distorted -though at times I felt it being extinguished and when rekindled, itwas crazy.
All along no word, glance or even a touch would give it that shape -no matter how hard I tried to find one that would.
A rocky feeling - one might say.
" There goes my wife". I don't know what came over me this day. I said these words as she walked in class- to myself, that is. The confidence, modesty, that stride of pride not of what she has but who she is, that soft - is it alto or soprano. I don't know - voice,that always sunk my words whenever she said 'hi' to me. That focus and simplicity that always drew me closer though not enough, that sense of appreciation and complementing even the smallest of actions- attention to detail, blew me off EVERYDAY. How many men would not want to be possesors of this qualities in their homes- in a wife. If you think I am mad for saying what I did. No one, and if there is let him enrol priesthood or papacy or at worse a psychiatric ward. <br>
I did not want to elevate her to the place of a goddess, but with these attributes, I couldn't help,&nbsp; she was one in my eyes. I worship God not her though. <br>
Have you ever seen someone who looks beautiful no matter what she puts on? What if you saw her in a wedding dress? MADNESS.
Anyway, long story short, I am still young.

I Will Wait

I know it seems as eternity that I've been here
Here where no one sees me
Here where no one hears me
Though weary,  I will not be cowed by the circumstances
Though fearful, I will not back down
I will wait for storms to calm
I will wait for my time to come
I will wait and not get weary
I will hope and not despair
I will wait for my tormentor
And still wait for my saviour
If you are both I will wait for you

Just a Second

Just a second

Scattered clouds above me

A serene breeze blows past me

The sound of my chronometer entertains my pinna

But haunts my thoughts

With oblivion we look at each other

As our thoughts still wander

Mine, my fears

Theirs, my sorrows.

If only I could hide as my thoughts have,

And laugh as they do.

I wish he could grant me just a second

Just a second…

To let them know am leaving,

To let them know my heart’s bleeding,

To hold her hand once more.

And look at her heavenly smiles

With mine, genuine.

Just a second…

To let her know am no more

Just a second,

To share genuine emotion.

To let them know am sorry.

Just a second to speak my last.

Just a second, is all I need.

But will it be enough?

  

 I dedicate this poem to my cousin

The Late Pamela Awuor                                                                                                            

 ©Sam Dennis Otieno