When you say Akata
Remember
You are speaking of a brother,
A sister, a child,
Mother, father
Kidnapped from home
Raised on far-off shores
Chained and beaten
Until hope became a faint glimmer
Until home became a weak whisper
Until humanity tasted bitter

Remember
You are not speaking of yourself
Because you had Africa’s forests,
Her mountains, deserts and hills,
Her rivers and other waters
To hide in when snow fell in the tropics
You had ancestral breasts to suckle on
Food for that long winter
And grandparents who remembered to teach you
The language of your people

Remember
That the white man used porters
Your own uncles
Willing servants, joyful warders
Who helped them draw that border
That split your father’s compound into two countries
And made your cousin a stranger
And started the wars that have left you an orphan
And started the quarrels that have driven you from home
To the place where the Akatas
Have labored and fought
So you have a place to come to
After your father’s house burned to the ground