Slave Womb.

Slave Womb

   wombtime in the morning time
   blackness on black,
   Echebe pounds plantain in the dashine bowl
   Okonkwo plants seed for the noontime harvest
   and Oumari sings the blues

   last night the message came
   the drums said--
   they are coming, they are on their way
   the drums said in the night womb
   the sound boomed,
   hollow across the plains
   and overhead we heard
   a spirit cry
   a woman-shriek, as the Oracle screamed
   and went mute.

   wombtime in the nighttime
   they came and took
   Okonkwo, Echebe, Oumari and I
   the plantain bowl lies empty and
   hollow, round like the drum sound we made
   when they came
   white on white

   they came in the morningtime
   the wombtime., nighttime
   day!
   and took the plantain bowl
   the dashine bowl
   and we!
   took the night sky
   and the morning breath
   branded chained and raped we
   raped us.

   on Goree Isle they kept us
   locked in the bowels of earth
   clay earth, our earth
   but the arms of Nana could not reach us
   could not grab us
   through the chainmail veil and free us
   collar round my neck like dog,
   and overhead I heard them walk
   footstomps on my head.
   cold earth, warm heart
   in the bowels of Mother Earth we wept
   for the drums had told us
   wombtime in the morningtime
   they would come,
   and the plantain bowl lies cold and empty
   dashine gone dry: yellow spittle on white
   earth.

   bone-bone dry
   manacled hand, chained to my Okonkwo
   head bowed, and Oumari's blues go mute.

   on the ship now
   mouth bound, head bound
   womb gone dry
   the taste of sickness on my breath
   and the stench of Okonkwo in my face
   I hold you now Oumari in my arms
   in my womb I try to shelter you
   from the steel tomb of the white-man ship
   BUT I can't
   my womb gone dry, dry lacerations
   from the cold, hard whiteness
   on my black, back.

   nighttime on the ocean way
   someone sings the blues
   old man groans, manacle caught in
   teeth, creak and my eyes run yellow
   sores turning old, the colour of plantain
   and I remember now:
   the plantain bowl lies empty
   no one to fill it but
   me. and I am on the white man's ship
   in the white tomb womb
   a steel cage surrounds my blackness
   jars me open, pries my womb wide
   and I am to comply, empty out
   and give forth my blood, the
   seed of you who came before
   give forth a man to toil the
   land and I beside him
   I am breeder now.

   sunshine beats down on me
   is it wombtime in the morningtime?
   I think perhaps
   the plantain bowl is full
   (and) Okonkwo shall pound the dashine
   0umari pick the fruit
   BUT
   NO
   my arms are opening wide
   lying Oumari at the grave.

   No plantain bowl
   No fruit
   we are to work the sugar cane
   sugar sugar sugar cane

   cane-stripes-on-my-back, whipped
   sweetness runs down my head
   sweat flows into screaming sores
   and eyes brim with salt
   and I stand on the auction block
   sold to the Lady in Red.

   wombtime in the eveningtime
   I am an african woman
   sold into slavery
   as breeder, cane-cutter
   my womb is lacerated with
   sugar cane sores
   my hands are open
   wide-palms spilling narratives
   of slavery
   and I dance....

   wombtime in the morningtime
   wombtime in the eveningtime
   tombtime until death.