There is a rawness and a tangibility to this struggle, asserting itself like a shawl over the spirit and engendering a gradual fading away of the substantial, particular (in)carnation we occupy. Essentially, we become apologists in an oppression we neither deserve nor comprehend but in which we are too lost to realize the extent of our performance in the disservice.
There is a rawness and a tangibility to this struggle, asserting itself like a shawl over the spirit and engendering a gradual fading away of the substantial, particular (in)carnation we occupy. Essentially, we become apologists in an oppression we neither deserve nor comprehend but in which we are too lost to realize the extent of our performance in the disservice.
There is a rawness and a tangibility to this struggle, asserting itself like a shawl over the spirit and engendering a gradual fading away of the substantial, particular (in)carnation we occupy. Essentially, we become apologists in an oppression we neither deserve nor comprehend but in which we are too lost to realize the extent of our performance in the disservice.
Most people are wearing cloth made masks they lower to their chins when they want to talk to you – there is something about the need to communicate with the lips visible, moving. Some are wearing matching Ankara and facemask prints, in a fashion statement that even Covid-19 cannot mask.
Are poets really cowards? What if they are sadists who love to mock the whole world? What if it pleases them to see people wracking their brains trying to find meaning in their words while they sit and laugh at their foolishness? Maybe there is some sort of high that comes with writing what sounds like pure gibberish to most people.
Seeing this “system” collapse has been slightly comforting, but it is heartbreaking that so many people lost their lives for us to get here. People are still dying for this cause. At the end of it all, I’ll still be black. And my future children, regardless of my partner’s race, will be black. But maybe it will mean something different for their generation.
Spreading panic is a Nigerian pastime. Living in an environment of perpetual gloom, one can understand. But I don’t understand the motivation for the Nigerian behind a smartphone and bandwidths, who envisions the worst, whose Facebook post or tweet can cause his reader depression.
To colour is to accept that there are limits and bounds, that freedom is the deep end of a shallow pond and drowning is not a choice. That our liberties are normative and must issue from the collective fiat of convention, the healthy custom of the many against the wily tempest of the one. Liberty then is a prison of accepted conduct, a glazed casket waiting for us to die.
The Pain of Distance by Transpoesis/Andrea Grieder
