Slavery Was Not Glory

Growing up as a child in the midst of America And Europe, 

My legs led me to an unknown site,

Where chains were the bedspreads for the Negroes.

As their lips befriended silence.


I painfully knelt down, to see if our eyes were of the same kind.

All l could see was the sorrow of words digging down to the center of their hearts.

Their minds were the home of loneliness,

As beating sucked away their beauties.


Their feet were like a fula bread, striving for a brush to be smoothed.

Slippers were their greatest enemies.

And their Shirts were exchanged for chains.

As hunger and setbacks were their national

Anthem.


Sorrow then escorted me to granddad.

In questioning him of what l saw,

"Granddad, why were human creatures,

Treated in the 70s, like a moving object?

He answered and said, 

"They were our vehicles and machines for work".


Oh!

I then wondered,  if slavery was the fruit for the negroes.

Color is just a design, not a fault to be fought.

Silent then kissed his face, for he said 

"We shall talk, another day."


Author Bio: 

Amos Momo Ngumbu Jr. writes from somewhere in Monrovia, Liberia. Born March 21, 2002 unto the successful union of Mr. and Mrs. Ngumbu.  His works are forthcoming in Poetry Soup and We Write Liberia website, Agape Review and somewhere to else. He is also the author of the chapbook called ‘Africa Weep No More”. When this lad is not writing a poem, he finds comfort in graphic designing with his laptop as well as reading books.