like a trenchant treble in an echo chamber
of wonder. Was he a butcher of livestock
or of men? Was his past work in an abattoir
or a boardroom? Did any of his victims
lean their heads into the curve of a melody,
sun striking one ear, tuned for the song’s end?
#Labour
Two girls are tending a sick calf, kneeling
in the direction of Mecca. I would call it
worship, except religions have spoiled the heart
of these simple acts; of a body moving and finding
orientation; of hands placed on flesh to help
with healing. A haze of dust hangs in the air,
the criss-cross sticks of a Moringa fence makes a grid
that frames their labour. The calf is twisting, but still
– although there is no sign of its mother. One girl
strokes its back. Her scarf is made from a piece
of Presbyterian Church anniversary cloth. The other
girl wears knock off Off-White trainers; conceived
by a designer favoured by Rihanna and Louis Vuitton,
an Ablorh with family roots enshrined less than 400km
away from the earth she crouches on. With coaxing, the calf
finds its feet. Unsteady at first, it regains balance and turns
to lick the hand of the Presbyterian girl. Both girls
dust off their long, bright skirts, rising as the sun sets.
Moonwalk
Once you nail it, you’re hooked as a baby
that’s discovered rhythm; round a bright corner
and back; in the middle of a mate’s party
the crowd parting as if you have dark wands
for legs – skill becoming reflex. It won’t hit you
until after your fifth heartbreak, the probability
that your lust to go back to the lover before
the last, might be linked to that rapid flick
of Michael Joseph’s glove before he floats backwards.
After all, whatever problems you might have had
with the old flames, there’s been reflection. Funny how
you forget the petty flash points of your rows,
but can recall exactly how they made your skin tingle,
the imprint of their lips at the tips of your fingers
still a phantom that can resurrect shivers in you.
What’s important is that, for now, it’s just an urge;
you know cause and effect is never simple; you know
MJJ learned that move from someone, you’ve heard
his father beat him; you know your own daddy
used to slap your mummy. She’d lift you by
your arms, leave... but always returned. The music
his pleading made was an addiction she couldn’t shake
till he died. And that whole vial of time, you hid
in your room, rewinding that Maxell, stopping the tape
at the point in Billie Jean when that bass rhythm hits,
then pressing play, the song’s protest surging forth
while you learned to glide, back, back, back, pause,
shimmy, the volume rising over arguments, your heels
repelling each other like magnets, never touching earth.
To Be In Love
Sometimes love is static, that ancient
honed vinyl crackle, tagging along easy,
a groupie bearing the bounty of beats,
B-flat horns, Hammond highs and double
bass staccatos that make a classic song.
If your father ever missed record’s release
it was due to some lure your mother conjured;
if he didn’t, the record’s pull surpassed the gleam
of the lips Mother smiled with - it was love
either way. Imagine how, out of a lifetime
hoard, he wakes one weekend to curate for you
a selection of songs, letting the 33⅓s spin
as he records them onto magnetic tapes he will
pass on. Stickler for detail, he adjusts volume
levels so Lateef’s horn will not suddenly drown
Masekela’s Lady when the songs lean to transition.
He will die soon after you have learned to love
the five tapes he labelled for you, technology
will move on and you will stop playing them,
listening to A Little 3/4 for God & Co as MP3
instead of on the old grey machine that clicks
with a familiar cushioned resistance in the dark
before the motor starts its coordinated roll,
before the sound lifts the hem of the invisible.
But some blue day, your heart broken, sorting
through the detritus of an eternal love
that just failed to make a full fifteen years,
you stumble upon one of the tapes. You are
surrounded by boxes, a lone black spot
beneath clear-eyed London skies - a rare thing.
Batteries located, you insert modern ear buds
into a pale blue SONY Walkman and press
play. Lionel Hampton’s vibes ring out sharp
and cheery on How High the Moon. Time drags
you back to your book-filled living room in Accra
where all your loves were seeded. You remember
what it feels like to be in love because it is right,
not because it’s what’s expected; you are lost,
close to heaven for 3.20 minutes before Hamp’s
flourish pulls you to the present. As the sound
fades, a shadow falls over you. It may be
a passing bird, it may be the shape of your father’s
silhouette. What is certain is a new song is
beginning, something with brushes as gentle
as lashes - and your cheeks are wet.
Casablanca
PRELUDE
Barely through with the opening credits, film music,
and already I’m mad; that projected map
that stuffs nations into someone else’s dwarf
of an imagination: an entire history named French
West Africa, a bright inheritance of diamonds
and pain flagged for Leopold as Belgian
Congo. I’m relieved that the text inked over
the part of the continent I call home’s blurred
so I can’t see the insult. Then the Black man
from the United States of America starts playing
the white and black of the piano with a big smile.
ACT ONE
Of my father’s stories, the one with the Moroccan Amazigh
who taught him to shoot in London, has everything: star-
crossed lovers, adventure, a kind of betrayal. Shape-shifting
from speeches in the Black Power underworld, it was natural,
after attempts on his life and two sweet honey traps,
to head from Algiers, train and fight with the Independence
movements gaining traction in South West Africa. He broke up
with Kirsten, his Swedish lover, seen with him at a café
table in a picture in our house, staring at him
his whole life. Franz Fanon was waiting; he loved her
but he couldn’t live at ease, knowing his people were not free.
TRANSITION
[pan shot of expected desert scenes; rapid montage
of volunteers in training (remember Black people
can’t be on screen for too long), flash quick image
of Cuban flag as the new recruits take cover
behind sand dunes (maybe a hammer and sickle
for good measure), we hear a quick volley of gunfire,
fade to black present]
