Poetry, Tale Africa

Cryptic Me

By Takaedza Madzikanda, Zimbabwe:

They say, you're cosmopolitan
They admire you, o citizen of the world
You know so much about, well, so much
Outwardly a child out of Africa
But children of Gaia say you are cosmopolitan

Who exactly am I, I make no sense
I feel I am not the layman or the lawyer
Neither above nor below the Line of stratification
That artificial projection by men, to define men
The real line is black, and in an abyss
The chasm of thought
So deep, you can only get lost, and forget

Who are you man?
Are you not your father's child, from the motherland
Surely it would simplify the question,
Were your father not an enigma.
But the sphinx of patriarchy offers the easy conclusion
Yet sometimes the maternal is more consoling

I am a concoction of experiences
The fragmentary product of my own memories
So lost looking for the one that makes me
Does this make me largely pretentious?
Then again, why would it be so hard to be real?
How comical if it were,
To construct, easier than to just be
To know what you admire, more than what you are

I am supposed to know so much about, well, so much
But the specifics of identity fluster me
Time differentiates you from your documents
And I, just like all, am unique,
In essence, the purpose is always being defeated
Right from day one…

But then, that's it
Think of a time when YOU had not been interfered with
YOU had not been socialised
You were just you, untarnished
Unexposed to the falsities of the world
We are all prototypes of tomorrow
But nothing conclusive,
We are not us, not anything real to say the least

Day one is in fact the most real moment of my life…
The only real moment, of life itself

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