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By Yannick Marshall

This selection of poetry is a plea and a present from black youths to Africans of the continent and the Diaspora. We sought to discover the broadest issues and such a lot salient of concerns dealing with Africans. via those poems and essays we provide our perspectives, rules, questions, and paintings in the beginning to our humans, our 'Old friends'. "Old pal, We Made This For You" is our contribution as , younger, black, prepared poets to the discourse on Africa and Africa's redemption. Marshall and Aganga met in secondary university in Botswana. presently after sharing poems and concepts they all started engaged on a venture that mirrored a Pan-Afrikan imaginative and prescient from either the African and African Diaspora's point of view. That undertaking developed right into a selection of poems referred to as "Old buddy We Made This For You". Olayemi Aganga born in Nigeria and residing so much of his lifestyles in Botswana has a special knowing of the problems dealing with the continent. dwelling in Sub-Saharan Africa he has witnessed the areas plight with Aids, violence and poverty and has first-hand adventure of what it potential to be an expatriate Nigerian in Southern Africa. As such his poems are good rooted within the politics, tradition and the city adventure at the continent. Yannick Marshall born in Canada to black Caribbean mom and dad has a company figuring out of the Caribbean immigrant adventure and what it skill to be black and a descendant of slaves in North the US. As a member of the black wakeful African Diaspora his poems replicate the slave and post-slavery adventure and the slave's mystic romanticism of the continent.

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This is Kingston Light Somebody heard shots but no, this is Kingston Light The Rastaman and his staff, Trodding to the riddim of some ancient bongo drums, A car passes—Mr. Channer kisses his teeth: “Why dem bwoy nah go dung a August Town an’ play dem ting? Dem nah see nobody wan ’ear dat boogo boogo music round yah” Rice and peas and oxtail are served in a thatched restaurant Moist under plastic wrap. The pineapple sun streams nectar on veranda plants Drawing hummingbirds to ackee-flowered tables, till they fly out over the street 46 Where goat herders lead their goats through rivers of cars and soldier jeeps.

Palm trees. the rise and fall of sandy beaches embodied in your curves. i’d wade knee-deep in coconut water to the place of open sea where poets tug their anchors out from depths to drift over your waters. yes, the moon, it is shining, dusting the sky like squeezed lime, spraying over the love-act, 36 till we sleep waiting for the cry of gulls. 37 A P OE M I NSPI R E D BY A F R I K A N S C E N E RY My sickle’s limp with the weight of love; My hands seek your palm wine— They’re dry like stale milk and barley, You are the love child; I am the fits of passion, The mules can’t drag the weight of love Love stales milk; it dries barley, It is the ale of good times, It is the liquor of worse.

That if we take flight, Our house will find its route Among the fairies. 54 S TOR M V I E W the world splits into fragmented rain life becomes jagged projectile homes, torsos of trees our bodies cling, rural countrysides in deep embrace as the sky dries its head over the basin of stars, our bodies move, you and i, decomposing into torrents, lightning weaving its bright webs around us as we slush, sludge to the mountainside and then it ends and starfish return to water-dancing mocking their celestial counterparts; manicous unfurl and warm their bellies on the rocks and you and i, our bodies like countrysides loosened from each other return to separate hills distant hills 55 look up, a puzzle blown to pieces— fragments of God 56 GR E NA DA GI R L over dem hills dey, her night-village does shine, like a grave of peenie-wallie and at nights we would sleep together blanketed by the scent of nutmeg and the calls of warner women on the hills and so we, and many others, slept, in colourful shacks all over the spice island, inhaling the cloves of night’s aroma, perfumed with peace and after watching us sleep so, so sweet so, in our sweet-scented villages, Night became jealous, and say to himself say, “You know?

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