I know whited sepulchre
you do not feel anymore
the touch of our done fingers
which for want of acceptance
cling to the wall of furore.
For close to sixty years
now we have lived like internees
working our fingers to the bone
for idiots to reap the harvest.
You know too well backpedaller
I have had to run rusty rings
round your compact as butter neck
in public places and at home.
You filled up the only wellspring
from which we washed off frustration
indigent and naked like air
without a pound of flesh to spare
struggling to stitch our torn lives.
You are aware snake in the grass
we have for these years eaten dust
and mopped marble floors with dry tears.
Our nakedness hits you like fart
as we sweat blood filling the holes
Phobia has burrowed in our hearts.
Neither love nor the fawning hands
of classism can reshape us.
I will not set myself ablaze
like the abused Tunisian youth
for the machete screams of freedom
to spread like dry season fire
from the harsh highlands of the north
to the soft lowlands of the south.
I will flit from hamlet to town
to tug the heartstrings of Reason
and torch my people's consciences
to knock down all old foundations.
John Ngong Kum Ngong (20th century) Cameroon
Source: Free Verse