I'm waiting for a metro train to take me to Greenbelt
Station. I walk into a conversation between an old Black man in aheavy black woollen coat - it's winter above
ground. He's talking to a young Black man, dreadlocks to his shoulders, jeans
sagged below waist, his thick D.C. talk masking his words. He's talking tough.
"We're going to show them come January 20th." The
young man says.
"Show them what?" the old man asks.
"We're going to show them what we are made of..."
"What?"
"That the White man should have never messed with the
Black man."
"What do you mean?"
I turn to look at them. The old Black man is sitting next to
a young White woman. Her hair bleached and streaked, her legs in neon pink
stockings, crossed at the knee. She shifts uncomfortably. The young man digs
his right hand deeper into his back jean pocket, exposing his boxers even more.
"You know...when we were back in Africa...We
were made of something, before they came and fucked with us."
I can tell that he has heard the story, but does not know
too much about it.
"What were we made of?" the old man asks, his
voice growling.
"You know about colonialism and all that shit...We...were...
we were strong."
Both of them pause. The old man raises his voice.
"We still are strong. We are superior to them. We are
closer to the Bible and when Obama comes into office, we are gonna pray for
him. He can't do it all by himself. And he's not going to do it all by
himself."
The young man gets uncomfortable because he knows the young
White woman is staring at him. Maybe his is conscious because even I have
turned around to look at the two of them. Maybe he can't stomach this
conversation. I turn back to look for my train.
And then I turn back again. I want to say something but I
stop myself. The old man crosses his hands over his cane.
"Oh no. Obama can't do it alone. We always make it, and
we ain't never had anything."
His train arrives and over the engine and beeping of the
doors open, I hear his words again.
"We ain't never had anything."
He stands up on his unstable legs, holding his briefcase in
his left hand and supporting himself with the cane in the other hand, he gets
into one carriage. The young man gets into a different carriage. He could not
handle the conversation.
heavens written by truthsseeker , December 08, 2008
This newspaper carries heavy writers. Thank you Bee, well told. I have not heard anything quite like this, so forgive me for being unable to understand.
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... written by truthsseeker , December 08, 2008
My thumb's a little heavy so pardon the double posting. Looked at the Daily Mail article and it reminded me of two things.
First, my revulsion at seeing that in Ewan McGregor's trip from Edinburgh to Cape Town, Long Way Down, in many place across the continent, he found himself welcomes by villagers eager to put on dances for him, the more exotic the more moeny they expected to be paid.
Second, and here in Kenya too, the Safari Cats, or those dancers at national holidays, in Kibera for tourists, and outside the National Theatre, etc. Make a dumb spectacle in the name of culture and show an authentic African.
Little wonder there are people who think this is good travel,'Safari' dress. Part of the fauna no doubt.
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