I caress the battle scars of your open city, Moping faces turn concrete, People nursing little disgusts, Little sicknesses, little envies. People forcing God to bend this way, People doing yesterday things in tomorrow ways.
It occurs to me now that I am only black twice, A specialist will listen to my chest and Call out my dualism or bipolarity Or something just as godless.
And for this, At the end of another donkey day, My next fight with a blond mistress, Will transpire in the wee small hours of Tuesday, Her ignorance impenetrable, Of the things I have stuck up my business end And this will be profound satisfying.
Twilight finds me a white man again, in a bit of a pickle. And in this painful occupation, In this second skin, In this adopted sepulchre of mine, If ever I prospered well at this classic treachery, As I do sometimes on my evening prowls on the fish market street, Where I finally become something … Continue reading Hank, If Ever I Were A White Man
In Nigeria, we refer to a newcomer to a foreign place as a Johnny Just Come (JJC), a play on Johnny-come-lately. This story is about one of such – a JJC to America. The story is a comical narrative on the travails of immigration for a Nigerian student who bumps into original encounters of racial quirks in America observed with some hilarity and lightheartedness - and some confusion (America is examined through the eyes of members of a family spanning three-generations). Chinuam runs a blog in America - called the JJC Diary - where he summarizes his new friendship with America. He writes back to his know-it-all, loquacious grandma who cannot read to dispel all her long-held American stereotypes. His father has a fantastically unsound view on America as well. The story focuses on a formulaic viewpoint of Black America often held by Black Africans from without, lopsided but ultimately emancipating, with a cast of unforgettable characters.
It was simply an unbecoming case of the pot and the kettle. A curious occasion of friendly-fire, if you want to be poetic about it. It had become so vilifying in novel ways to find that some members of the black community now echoed the exact same racial stereotypes of anti-black racism on fellow blacks, not from the slant of ‘Uncle Tomness’, no not that, but from a deepened sense of a misplaced heritage and the need to not further murky the waters. More black bodies arriving at airports, struggling to fathom the wrinkles of America, would invariably, result in even increased effort to, as per usual, explain and validate ones black existence in America.