Old Friend, We Made This for You by Yannick Marshall

By Yannick Marshall

This number of poetry is a plea and a present from black youths to Africans of the continent and the Diaspora. We sought to discover the broadest topics and so much salient of concerns dealing with Africans. via those poems and essays we provide our perspectives, principles, questions, and paintings at the beginning to our humans, our 'Old friends'. "Old pal, We Made This For You" is our contribution as , younger, black, prepared poets to the discourse on Africa and Africa's redemption. Marshall and Aganga met in secondary college in Botswana. almost immediately after sharing poems and concepts they begun engaged on a venture that mirrored a Pan-Afrikan imaginative and prescient from either the African and African Diaspora's standpoint. That venture developed right into a choice of poems referred to as "Old good friend We Made This For You". Olayemi Aganga born in Nigeria and dwelling such a lot of his lifestyles in Botswana has a special figuring out of the problems dealing with the continent. residing in Sub-Saharan Africa he has witnessed the areas plight with Aids, violence and poverty and has first-hand event of what it skill to be an expatriate Nigerian in Southern Africa. As such his poems are good rooted within the politics, tradition and the city event at the continent. Yannick Marshall born in Canada to black Caribbean mom and dad has a company realizing of the Caribbean immigrant event and what it capacity to be black and a descendant of slaves in North the USA. As a member of the black awake African Diaspora his poems mirror the slave and post-slavery adventure and the slave's mystic romanticism of the continent.

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I gave her the mints and the salt beef and walked past the kitchen calendar to my mother’s bedroom. My mother was sleeping with a hot water bottle on her chest and a spinning fan by her bedside. I 42 placed two capsules in her water and watched them sizzle. I nudged my mother awake. ” She smiled and drank the water. 43 PRO C E S SION TO DI L A PI DAT IONS Scarecrow magic, late in the field, When dark men jump picket fences, leaving trails of country bourbon As the red barn heaves its breath into the night Rain falls like miracles on the road, Polishing cornstalks with moonlight; Down the gutter of roofs like squeezed lime, Wild rain is the dreadlocks of heaven Extinguished lighter smoke chalks the night, We feel the beat squishing between our toes while Women drape over our shoulders like listless sunshine Coming in from the party: Flip-flops, swaggers, and drawls, Hiccups freckle the air like ripped cardboard As delayed jokes resume their tickle Flies bunx the kitchen lights Out the door, four feet search for the grass Crescent on the veranda: love’s haiku 44 The moon printed on the dark sky like a stuffed beetle, Scythes already killing the canes, Carried on straw hats, through the sweet water The canes fall like shot men— Through the sweet, green, Caribbean water 45 K I NG S TON L IGH T The fishmongers come on Tuesday, Smelling like papaya seeds and saltfish While schoolboys play football, trying to impress The young girls with neatly plaited hair, who would settle To walk home rather than press through minibus passengers.

The glass doors of the clinic-pharmacy were always shining, blurred forms flapped newspapers, or tapped prescription bottles 4 inside. I open the doors to find Madame Meda speaking with a stranger. ” Madame Meda was always over my head like a fat hummingbird. ” Madame said something about her keeping my mother in her prayers, but my mind was already distracted, scanning the aisle for Tylenol. I thanked Madame, kissed her on her cheek and picked up the medicine. An old man opened the glass doors of the pharmacy.

North star of a teal night replacing bone marrow with longing as welts deep like pockets furrow skin. Pupils flashing histories of whips, of home Push your hand through my hair, brother. I am who I am 30 N E O -S OU L neo-soul, afro queen we vegetarian, bok choy, steamed grass in shallow water you bring beauty out like champagne from a bucket of ice i toast to the alchemy of your skin crushed and drawn with milk, you touch me like gospel 3 T H E SU N I S G OI NG D OW N The sun is going down, Making snakeskin of taps running cold water Over your temples as you wash your locks, I come with a bag of seashells and Put them in the sink, You smell of kerosene and papaya, Black Dutch pots whistling on the fire … My mind jumps broomsticks To take yours to bed, When the rain makes your signal weak, And invites you to a mattress Under a roof massacred By shotgun shells of stars, Then, I’d watch your words tilt like fedoras And trace the aurora borealis Through the lattice of your eyes Seeing sugar cane fields, coconuts and rye ...

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