West African Sand

Written from the voice of the sand on the West African beaches during the exportation of Africans as slaves.

Day 1

I am the west African sand
who collected the tears of those
whose toes never again
will feel me soothe

Into me sank the weight of chains
as bare feet imprinted a single file line
dragging to slave ships
desperation heavier than shackles and chains
mental shackles out weighing physical lock down
for after the iron is removed

the desperation remains

And I traveled

Day 2

Grains of me left on knees
that dropped down
with voices crying out to
crying out for
redemption
why me?
I ponder
why anybody?

I sand
ingrained into the wood cracks
of slave ships named
Henrietta Marie, Margaret Scott
Hope and Wanderer

I sand
embedded into the fingernails
of scared fingers attached
to trembling, clinched fists

The grit of me
mixed with tears, sweat and blood
has landed
on south eastern coastal shores
land of beautiful homes
hiding ugly truths

Day 3

Outside under a hot southern sun
I am dismissed
by a bucket of water
that rinses off an African homeland
leaving broken families
clean for another man's dirt

And the grit under their fingernails
is of a foreign soil
whose voice tells of negro spirituals sung

Down by the Riverside
I Stood on the River of Jordan
Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child
My Lord, What a Mornin

I am the west African sand
And I have traveled