Capetown: The Men ‘Round Here.


Family,

I know they are family,

Brothers even,

but we are distant

distinct

with a kindred flesh.

Perhaps our father covered

the continent like a strong

gust of blackness.

My brothers here are

distinct.

Their walk does

not command the world

to hum and recall the

rhythm of their step

nor does their face

speak of a dual sweetness

and onyx sword but

instead they disarm with

wide, bright smiles that seem

permanent and routinely

ends the callousness of hearts long

rubbed raw and through by truths of

white supremacist,

capitalistic,

heteropatriachal

fuckery.

Small waists with thick hips

that are accustomed to carrying and

bearing the loads of

apartheid.

Pouches full of flesh that

snakes down legs causing

the hips and lips of the viewer

to tremble

with fear, lust and delight for

the night that s/he/they to

may taste the

fruit of the

motherland’s

first born.

They stand with a gentle pride. Knowing

something of the world,

something of you,

that cannot

be

said

in polite company.

True that their nation

is recovering from the prison of whiteness but

truer still that we are

the bastard children of white

violence.

Rude,

true

regal. But

taken gently under the guidance of two

large, black-bright and watchful

eyes.

My God!

The way they

shine!

The South African

men.

Brothers.

Family.

How I’ve silently longed

for a loving reunion.

Follow Tabias Olajuawon on Twitter @BlaQueerFlow. Like our page on Facebook at BlaQueerFlow & Tabias Olajuawon Wilson.

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