Dear Kwame Red (2)

By Kwame Okoampa-Ahoofe, Jr.

Like master

like slave...

yes,

like you,

your slaves

prefer to see

only half

the truth,

the full-truth

is too unwieldy

and leaden,

plain maddening

and shocking

to be true...

the full-truth

is a bitch,

as New Yorkers

are wont to say...

the half-truth

which is half lies

which they balloon

out of size

and shape

till it explodes

in their half-assed

faces which are

no faces at all

but arse-holes

fitted with eyes

noses and

droop-lipped

mouths...

the other day,

they had one of those

dope fiends,

the one with the Double-

December head,

libating you

in the name of

Uncle Tim,

your former

Sierra Leonean

friend,

Mister Bankole,

heaping an assortment

of praises

on your peakless

hairline...

once again,

they papered over

the truth

like the rest of us

were some

arrant fools...

Kwame Red,

you know,

we have been wondering

if your unknown dad

was Dracula's

twin-sib,

that goddamned

goldsmith who,

legend has it,

raped your

teenage mom

and took off,

pants and briefs

in hand,

a step ahead

the cops;

they say

he was a Kru-man

who bartered

jewelry

for sex:

is that how

he got yo' mama,

Kwame Red?

Coptic-teen-fucker,

coptic-crib-robber,

Kwame Red,

Ghanaian women

were too dark

and culturally crass

for your taste...

Fathia-Fata-Fiafito!!!...

yes,

Fathia befits

the trickster

who made

head-pads out

of egg-shells,

who drove

his white overlord

yonder-sea,

whence he came,

and yet kept

his blonde wench

by his desk...

Fathia-Fata-Fiafito!!!...

no,

you did not have sex

with that woman,

Miss Erica Powell,

you only stroked

wisps of her

pubic hair

with the ballpoint

of your pen;

saw nothing

but your own

image

in all things

Ghanaian and

African -

thus Ghana

became the autobiography

of Kwame Red,

for which you were

dashed

the Lenin Prize,

Moscow's

nigger par-excellence,

our one great

curse...

2/16/15