I met a racist
He abused me for my colour and I called him out for his lack of colour. He said I was a coloured, a man painted in the colours of inferiority, vigour and violence, and I said he was whiter than dying summer leaves, white, drained, plain and pallid. I met a racist, with his wildly flayed nose trying to sniff out mediocrity from our woollen hair and brains. The sharp stab that is a racist’s tongue, and I felt his burn. He had with him bars of soap, various bleaches and remedies to bleach the dark out of us. I met a racist in the corners of the village. He called us all out and gave us doses of the light, a remedy to pull us out of the dark. He gave women weaves to cover their ‘sisal’ hair and the young men music to dance to. He gave light to the old women, those who still drunk their potted beer and chewed tobacco. He gave them alcohol in bottles and cigarettes that fit the status of people deep in the warm thighs of civilization. I met a racist in town. He was dressed in a plaid but white with fade suit, a tired bible in his hands. He taught of slaves being submissive to their masters, and most of the slaves applauded. He claimed to take us out of the dark dungeons, to renew our thoughts and conscience, and he took away the chains and gave us sisal ropes. He removed our blindness then asked us to close our eyes, and most blind people did. I met a racist. He was a man surfing the waves of his father’s dreams, a loser looking to discover purpose for him and those he conquered. When I met the racist, he had with him a net for hunting butterflies but he was too foolish to realize they were full of moths. He was following a bunch of flies leading him to nectar, a bunch of vultures headed towards fresh meat. I met a racist whose tongue dripped venom and spewed hellfire towards those that lived in the dark. I met a racist, a proud leper who flaunted his disease to all and sundry, a slave who preached freedom, a drunk that sang in praise of sobriety. Most of the blind population vilified me for answering back to their ethnocentric god of light. Most of them converted from their skins and jumped into a bandwagon they didn’t understood. Many of them divorced their previous roads and took on paths they could not comprehend. The racist was like a storm, one that swept away huts made on sand and trees planted on rocks. He was the storm that carried with it thatch and lose iron sheets but those who had sight refused to perceive, and those who had faith refused to believe, for when he prodded , they prodded back and when he wrote they wrote back. I met a racist, a sweeper of the street who carried with him the scum of the society and left beating his chest, not looking at the long fall right at the end of the road, with his flock of new believers following blindly, basking in his vitriol and his rancour; comparing his colourless legs and cursing their coloured ones, admiring the bridge of his nose while cursing the valley on theirs. It will not be long till they fall. I shall listen to the crunch of bones and the last groans of a dying breed, a breed of mediocrity and halfwits, men and women who set fire to their own huts and traded their freedom for chains, their freedom for a life of slavery.
He abused me for my colour and I called him out for his lack of colour. He said I was a coloured, a man painted in the colours of inferiority, vigour and violence, and I said he was whiter than dying summer leaves, white, drained, plain and pallid. I met a racist, with his wildly flayed nose trying to sniff out mediocrity from our woollen hair and brains. The sharp stab that is a racist’s tongue, and I felt his burn. He had with him bars of soap, various bleaches and remedies to bleach the dark out of us. I met a racist in the corners of the village. He called us all out and gave us doses of the light, a remedy to pull us out of the dark. He gave women weaves to cover their ‘sisal’ hair and the young men music to dance to. He gave light to the old women, those who still drunk their potted beer and chewed tobacco. He gave them alcohol in bottles and cigarettes that fit the status of people deep in the warm thighs of civilization. I met a racist in town. He was dressed in a plaid but white with fade suit, a tired bible in his hands. He taught of slaves being submissive to their masters, and most of the slaves applauded. He claimed to take us out of the dark dungeons, to renew our thoughts and conscience, and he took away the chains and gave us sisal ropes. He removed our blindness then asked us to close our eyes, and most blind people did. I met a racist. He was a man surfing the waves of his father’s dreams, a loser looking to discover purpose for him and those he conquered. When I met the racist, he had with him a net for hunting butterflies but he was too foolish to realize they were full of moths. He was following a bunch of flies leading him to nectar, a bunch of vultures headed towards fresh meat. I met a racist whose tongue dripped venom and spewed hellfire towards those that lived in the dark. I met a racist, a proud leper who flaunted his disease to all and sundry, a slave who preached freedom, a drunk that sang in praise of sobriety. Most of the blind population vilified me for answering back to their ethnocentric god of light. Most of them converted from their skins and jumped into a bandwagon they didn’t understood. Many of them divorced their previous roads and took on paths they could not comprehend. The racist was like a storm, one that swept away huts made on sand and trees planted on rocks. He was the storm that carried with it thatch and lose iron sheets but those who had sight refused to perceive, and those who had faith refused to believe, for when he prodded , they prodded back and when he wrote they wrote back. I met a racist, a sweeper of the street who carried with him the scum of the society and left beating his chest, not looking at the long fall right at the end of the road, with his flock of new believers following blindly, basking in his vitriol and his rancour; comparing his colourless legs and cursing their coloured ones, admiring the bridge of his nose while cursing the valley on theirs. It will not be long till they fall. I shall listen to the crunch of bones and the last groans of a dying breed, a breed of mediocrity and halfwits, men and women who set fire to their own huts and traded their freedom for chains, their freedom for a life of slavery.
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