This is a work in progress, started in South Africa…
The black horde was coming and you were afraid
Afraid you pushed and pushed and grunted as you did so
So you held them back long enough to feel the strength in your own arms
Arms that had tried eight times to drown that accursed black kitten
But then the black horde came anyway
Surging into the streets, across the big roads that divided
Them from
Others
Into the towns of the nation
And they came, some chanting, some singing
But all dancing, because that is what black people do
Long black fingers clawed at your throat
Would not stop choking until you stopped pushing
So you sighed and said, “I surrender”
And showed your hands—although stuffed with money—to prove that you had stopped pushing
And the angry black horde drew back.
Now it is hanging back in shadows as dark as itself
A little smaller now (some of its number having been emancipated) but only a little
Agitated, but only enough to hurt itself
With delicate wrist flicks of knife wielding hands
And angry pressure on triggers meant for the past struggle
Struggle. Past.
I am the black horde come again
No one struggles with me
Or if they do, they hide
And I am the only one among the horde
But even my eyes are averted…inward?
The black horde is waiting again
For another couple of centuries of pushing
This is a work in progress, started in South Africa...
The black horde was coming and you were afraid
Afraid you pushed and pushed and grunted as you did so
So you held them back long enough to feel the strength in your own arms
Arms that had tried eight times to drown that accursed black kitten
But then the black horde came anyway
Surging into the streets, across the big roads that divided
Them from
Others
Into the towns of the nation
And they came, some chanting, some singing
But all dancing, because that is what black people do
Long black fingers clawed at your throat
Would not stop choking until you stopped pushing
So you sighed and said, “I surrender”
And showed your hands—although stuffed with money—to prove that you had stopped pushing
And the angry black horde drew back.
Now it is hanging back in shadows as dark as itself
A little smaller now (some of its number having been emancipated) but only a little
Agitated, but only enough to hurt itself
With delicate wrist flicks of knife wielding hands
And angry pressure on triggers meant for the past struggle
Struggle. Past.
I am the black horde come again
No one struggles with me
Or if they do, they hide
And I am the only one among the horde
But even my eyes are averted…inward?
The black horde is waiting again
For another couple of centuries of pushing
Tagged as:
Africa ,
African History,
Poetry,
Racism,
Travelogue
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
I read this work the first time and meant to come back. I understand the emotion well enough, God knows. You say that it was “started in South Africa.” How? Did anything in particular set it off? Or did South Africa force out a poem that was already simmering in you?
“I am the black horde come again
No one struggles with me
Or if they do…”
I wouldn’t mind hearing what other readers say about that line.
What set off this poem? I suppose the setting of Cape Town. I wrote this on the bus, in the middle of working on a short story. I looked out the window and realized that for ten minutes straight I hadn’t seen any black people, and I thought, “well where have they all gone?”
That being said, I have never been “a black horde” or part of one. I’ve come from a place where people were generally colourless, unless they were different enough to be classified as “white.” But there was no black, and very little horde. So some may say I am trying to stir up something that should die because even though the “black horde” was “successful” in SA, it was still painful. Some may say this and I will have no reply…