In White Gloves

these renegades
they speaks big englishes
jargons such as naïve
ignoramus
they calls me

they wears the most expensivest garbs
fashions and they drinks big alcohols
with sweet names like remy martin louis
they laughs at my rags when i
urinates on me self when i is
intoxicated on my chang’aa

pupils darting behind thick-rimmed glasses
they reads thick books
and brick size bibles
they preaches through the nose after
a fortnight overseas
where kogelo’s son plays ball with puppies at his lush green backyard
they condemns my african ways
they says the white son of god
will roast my sinful ass to ashes
when he comes

but, me flabbergasted, questions

what a foreign language gots to do
with my innate intelligence?
my olden sayings of wisdom
are sager than aristotle and einstein combined
pottery, churning flour into busaa
might as well war with the alchemists
of the best vineyards of bordeaux

and must i be a walking billboard
for louis vuitton and italian alligator shoes
so as to appear modest, modern and classy?
didn’t my black ass survive the sub-saharan heat
whips of slavery and cold cells in nyayo house chambers?

and if your god is going to lynch me
for being high on muratina
for being black and fearless and backward
for questioning his absence
when his books are re-written in my blood
when oil and the quran become my requiem
should i die on my knees groping for delusional redemption?
should i feign a brotherly grin
when a black hand in white gloves
extends its indifference?
should i fold my arms and watch in awe
as you pee and stomp on my gramp’s tomb?

am i not just another loud voice in the room
and will soon dust off my weary toes
and join the common dance?

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