I stand in a field of

excessively polite smiles that swear:

I am not, cannot be racist

of people saving me with Africa tattoos on their necks

of pretty people on Berlin dance floors who only want to dance with me and

nothing more (because their friends say black people can dance but perhaps, might turn out to need papers…or worse, a livelihood) —

I turn to watch the video of soldiers massacring Shiites

under watchful, thankful Nigerian eyes

I am listening quietly

Because I dare not mourn loudly

our enemies felled by bullets bought legally.

I am drinking myself

into shapelessness

turning into a

man crushed by his own kilos

hoping I can shape this story I cared about yesterday

but which seems stupid today

Consciousness does that:

turns perfect nighttime ideas into shit

“Over 2million books are published each year”

Google does that:

brings facts and figure to your finger tips

whether you know what to do with it

or are just an idiot with a social media account…

I am thankful that anyone is reading

my damn novel

But now I have to write

another damn novel

that will not change the world

Just to prove

that I was not a fucking fluke

And maybe prove

on that Berlin dance floor:

yes I am black

no, I do not need papers

and no, not all black people can dance.

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