By Kwame Okoampa-Ahoofe, Jr.

"What Next, Kwame?"
that was all
Uncle Bankole wrote...
and you fired him,
kicked his butts
so hard
he landed
on his pate
and broke
his neck;
but you were not
appeased...
Kwame Red,
"What Next?"
what next,
after you have
stamped your image
and name
on our schools
and shoes
and offices
and food packages
and drinking cups
and postal stamps
and our streets
and our clothes?....
Now you had
your head
in our wallets
and pockets
and church
collection boxes...
and when Uncle Tim
called you up
on your lunacy
for what it
truly was,
you fired him
on the spot;
he who never errs
and never dies,
you were not
appeased,
Kwame Red,
you were not
appeased till
you scissor-
kicked him
in the groin,
to the curb and
off the land,
and then you
mounted your soap-box,
and qualmless
and shameless
and unperturbed,
you started screaming
your screechy screams
about African Unity,
and then
had him cuffed
and shoved down
the beach,
prime game
for the sharks...
scissor-kicked him
to the curb,
and then
still unappeased,
you held
Alhaji Bamba
by the crotch,
slammed him
onto a Kano-bound
plane
and had bleeding
in his nose
and mouth...
"United, We Stand;
Divided, We Fall,"
and then he began
to fall
and fall
and fall
into a fiery
hell-hole,
'cause he couldn't
show you
the paper
marking up
his date of birth;
now we all know
the date of his death...
Man of Millennium,
you didn't know
your own day
and date
of birth,
Man of Millennium,
you cannot flee
your own cant
and mischief,
Man of Millennium,
you only know
your date
of death,
Man of Millennium,
you can
only fool
the blameless
and blind;
Kwame Red,
you cannot flee
your own
sun-cast
shade...

2/17/15