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
