Kagne
Kagne
Every day I am tortured,
thinking about what has
and might happen to me.
Every night I cry myself into a sleep
full of ghostly white men, over and over cruelly
ripping me away from my village
in lovely, lovely, lovely Africa,
my home.
I dream of the joyous days,
overflowing with happiness,
before the white men came.
Then they are replaced with cold days filled with apprehension and fear.
I cry out in my sleep and wake myself.
I shiver, for this is another of those
cold, fearful days.
All I wish for, anymore, is to be
held once more in my mother’s warm, comforting arms,
to hear one more of my father’s stories,
to run free as the wind once more,
to see the sights of my village a last time,
and to hear my family saying to me
Don’t be afraid. There’s nothing to be afraid of.
What can those white ghostly men do to you that they have not done already?
Be brave,
Kagne.