Dear Neighbour,

Does it bother you that you lost your ability to mind the minds of many?

At some point, you had to realise the guise wouldn’t last through the centuries

of quiet mumblings and midnight meetings mingling the minimum with the many.

Wokeness caused them to remove the cloaks that cloaked the fact that

you don’t own the air

or the spaces

where the faces faced the passage of the past.

Explain to me the thought process one undergoes  

to let the undertow tow them under so

they find themselves exposed

on the white shores of a black man’s coast.

White man by land.

Colonized own land.

Colonize, you’re white, man.

Exchange of currency currently perplexing your backwashed attention span.

Does it bother you that you paid your labourers for each row they laid?

That this time their time was dispatched with free minds.

I hope you didn’t mind too much when they departed on time,

but you harbour this motley crew of resentment while peering out your window.

Two coloured women chatting on a limestone government road

equates to one whole black person in front of your myopic abode.

Threatening to prove civility.

Threatening you with ancestry.

Is that why you thought it fitting to command “move along; go home”?

Neighbour, follow your own advice.

Board a transatlantic flight

back where you come from.

Does it bother you a black man can fondle the success you can’t?

Rulers

Leaders

Modern Mad Men.

You sit in the shadows and watch the dark be illuminated.

Mek me come home meet you in my yaad.

Your white robe makes you feel entitled to question me:

“Are you only here temporarily? Stop your dogs from barking like we do in first world countries.”

Funny how you probably took a loan

or sold everything you owned

or saved for all of your pale, decrepit life

because you promised your transparent wife

to make the third world your first choice

for your last home.

To build that white house across

from the one that the black man owns.