Poetic Stupor

Black Cotton – A Symbol For Unrewarded Struggle.

Written by Luqman Temitayo Onikosi.


It’s so loud and vivid in my head,
All the deeds I had slaved for,
Gone unrewarded,
Now playing up,
In my head.

Weighed heavily on heart,
Can feel all the pulses,
In all cardinal pressure points in my body,
Pump with terrible aches,
I quaked in devastating pain,
I wish I could reach the pulses inside me,
And rip them out.

Dried up dreams,
Like the skin of the lizards,
Trying to stay human,
Able of achieving dreams,
But I don’t believe in the institutions,
Cos they conditioned and even killed my dreams.

We all scared of telling the truth,
I am scared of telling you,
You are scared of telling me,
Cos we are afraid of what we would think of each other,
Must times I feel the only person I am safe telling, is me.

We walk are around with our two eyes open,
But our inner eyes of wisdom are wide shut,
Our ears hear,
But we do not listen.

What am I?
I cannot phantom.
Perhaps the embodiment of my existentialism will guide my heart to my purpose.
Nudging to a Post Traumatic misunderstood reality of the violent legacy of the supposedly – far abolished historical colonialism.

Why is the condition of my Black African life is walled up around White Privilege and class existentialism?
Is it because of  the problemitization of my black skin body?
Or by lingering fear of the sins of the legacy of their fathers’ oppression and suppression of the chattel enslavement of the African peoples and the subsequent imposition of colonialism and neocolonialism upon the descendants of the enslaved African?

Maze of thoughts run wild in my head.
Fact I know is I am black,

And I am descendant of the oppressed and suppressed continent of Africa.

I can see the fear of my skin body in your eyes and body language,
The only solace I have is by African definition of my faith,
The intersectional politically charged radical balance,                                                           Between the vertical line of my spiritual well being and the horizontal line of my material well being,
Is the concentric core of my Psyche.

In the cord of my existential,                                                                                                           Is umbilicaly entwined with the bio-diverse destiny of the mother Africa.
Intrinsically, dependent on the environment.

As I drown slowly to the abyss of the encroaching flood neo colonialism/imperialism,
Gasping for air,
Mother Africa slowly,
Gasp for life,
But they exploit her like no tomorrow,
Cohort-ed against,
Neo – slaving away those black people,
Whose lands were naturally endowed.
Now coerced to flee,
For greener pasture,
Cos their lands had been cursed,
By the edifice of our civilization.

In neigh future,
Immigration laws,
Would be a weapon of choice for warfare,
As the climate change disasters unravel.

So, people think,
Being black,
Life must be characterised by hardship,
Therefore we need your sympathy,
To get us off the ground,
Hence, charity advertisement.

Yet fail to see that Africa problem,
Is environmentally induced,
By the same climate that bind us together,
That your carefree politicians are not harmonious about her fate.

Your sympathy wont rid Africa of the crisis,
It will only subdue the souls of the needy you help,
Subjugate him or her to be subservient to you.
Your empathy – instead,
Would breed social justice, freedom and independence,
To guide their life,
And guard their destiny.

Life has taught me valuable lesson,
Like you cant be in my shoes,
Cos naturally,
We have different shoes size,
I stand out,
I don’t blend in.

A black cotton, I am.
On the contrary,
A black sheep, I am not
Yet, I do not know who I am,
But I know what I am not.

I don’t soak in water like white cotton,
You cannot spin like soft white cotton.
You cannot dye me, cos I am ebony to a fault.
Tough to be processed,
To be tough is to persevere.

Like the black cotton,
The harder you hit me,
Yet, I do not fall apart.

The stronger,
The louder,
And melodious I become,
Cos the institution atrocities marinate me,
And prepare me for the sun,
That radiate the hide on the surface of the Yoruba gongon drum.

A chattered heart,
Broken into many pieces,
A broken heart,
Enduring hard crushed dreams,
Will heal again.

I am losing myself.
I cant help myself.
Lying sick in bed with burden.
Looking up to the heavens for help.
But seems heavens look blank.

The silent whispers of old wise woman,
Echoing so soothingly reassurances in my heart,
Resounding prayerful words a mother can only say to her hopeless distressful child,
‘Have We not opened your breast for you?
And removed from you your burden,
Which weighed down your back?
And raised high your fame?
So verily, with the hardship, there is relief,
Verily, with the hardship, there is relief
So there is one hardship with two reliefs, so one hardship cannot overcome two reliefs.
So when you have finished, then stand up for Allah’s worship.
And to your Lord Alone turn all your intentions and hopes and your invocations.’

Against all odds,
As the sun rises on the Eastern horizon,
Sinks on the Western horizon
Son will defo rise again,
Expect me.
Title Credited to 2pac Shakur



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