“Enough is enough” he thought to himself, painting his mind red with anger. Finally he concluded it was about time he threw in his ace card and got a ticket to ride to the other side, ten times being the visa gate key charm. He arrived in Europe with hopes, dreams and thoughts on freedom. He promised himself he was going to work as hard as he had done in his field of dreams. He made himself ready and willing to do anything for currency. On arrival at the cold European soil, an icy wind blew through his bones as he noticed the floors of the airport were being cleaned by a white man. A sense of panic rippled through his brain, like a shiver through his spine, if white men were doing black men jobs, what job would there be for him.
He opened his suitcase and inspected the contents, his hatred of African Governments, his hatred of lack of freedoms, his stolen trillion savings, and his many years lost to the printing machine. Underneath the printing press folded neatly in the right corner, the hospital that killed his brother, packed under that in a plastic bag, the education system that had failed him. He smiled and said I am home. He did what he had to and many years past, to the morning he awoke and realized he was living his dream. Here in the foreign land, with his foreign wife, and 3 Obama skids.
So often he heard the call of Africa, a soft whistle, a gentle breeze, a magnetic tug, on days like that, he found himself defending the very things he hated about Africa. Perhaps it was because no matter how he tried to show his European brothers, that he was not an ordinary mud hut dwelling, lion fearing African, in their eyes he could always read the words “You are”
And even when he stamped on heads and climbed the butt hole smelling stair case of success to a higher level, and his white European brothers bowed to him with Japanese respect, all he could see in that was their bald heads saying, “look I am bald I am bald, and you are an ordinary African.” And with each passing day, the notches of hate against his new-found land began to grow, and he spent more and more days sitting in pubs, defending Africa, and even hating himself for defending a place that deep down he knew he could never return. Africa was not as Fup as the Europeans liked to paint it, the reality was that is was worse, no painting, no matter how Davincian, could capture the scream song reality, of his life before he arrived to the cold comfort of the first world.
Some days he would read it, “you are an ordinary African” in the blue of his wife’s eyes, so Jabu put a notch of hate on his belt for her. “What happened to Amai Jabu?” He asked his mind. “Hellerin is dead” in his grandmother’s voice came a muffled sound from the fake African carving next to the flat screen advertising human mind control box.