My Hands Are Full.

Being born an African, one does not know peace. When you are born an African American you only need to fight one major bigotry – racism. When you are born an African you fight the world. Every prejudice you can conjure, I suffer. I cannot fight for you, my hands are full.

We share a skin color, you say so, but only love me in war. Yes, you – African American brother. When the racist war is done and the noise has decreased; you would turn to me with scorn and say that I should go back to Africa. You would say that I am not even black. You’d go on and say that I do not know its meaning. I suffer racism, then I suffer you. My hands are full.

So I packed my bags because I’d had enough of your prejudice. I came back to Africa; my motherland. I thought, “Here, at last, I have people who will love me.” But Alas! I was wrong. Up in Egypt and the Mediterranean countries still hate me for my color. They say my black is dirty. They would not even look at me in the eye. My hands are full.

I was of the thought that the North truly sucked and decided to try my luck down south. But I was met with fire down there. They roast you like turkey down in South Africa. They did not welcome me at all. They said that I should go back to my country. I am a cache of all things malignant. My hands are full and tied.

So I ran back to my country. A place I thought I would find peace and the love that I was looking for. I thought that the journey was well worth it, and that I can finally dine, wine, and sleep. And for the umpteenth time again I was wrong. My tribe is my crime down here in Kenya. They support you – African American brother – to disinfect their ineptness. Truth is, our hands are full. They are full of things that we do understand them at grass root levels.

I am truly sorry if I do not shout as loud as you would have wanted me to. I have lived life as a mercenary. Always on the lookout, always on hire. When my service was no longer needed, I got promptly discarded it. My service was my identity. Without that, nobody recognizes. All of ye. Thy hands are full.

I will only join the fight after the dust in our house has been cleaned off, the police brutality has been addressed, and reforms within the judicial services and police have been made. The alleged perpetrator has been to put a trial and that corruption would cease to be a case. I will only join you once I have been recognized for my enterprise: not my service to your cause. No need for pretense as they do down here. I would if I suffered the maladies from ostrich syndrome. My hands are too full to carry it. You wear cotton, I wear guns, shields, and arrows. My hands are full.

One Comment Add yours

  1. john msagha says:

    Bro this got me to the core,the type of sense in this article is bomb
    #myhandsarefull

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