*First published by Paddlers Press
Centuries after, at the embassy
I sat humbly, praying my interviewer be kind
The room is damped in chained memories
I, the ‘slave boy’ hoping the man across the table sees value in me
He checks my papers thoroughly like his people checked the body of my people
He smiles, and approves my entry
“Oh!!! he is a strong one” whispers in my ears
My ancestors toiled on farmlands
I, too, with my sharpened teeth wants a bite off the big Apple
What’s the difference between an embassy and a slave market?
What’s the difference between La Porte du Non-retour and the airport?
Slavery is still alive, and this time, we are paying our way into the plantation.
