If only I had the power to rise from the graves, all the buried slaves, who were raped, maimed and murdered. If I could only give them life, locked inside metal enslavements, with their key in my possession as they stood before me, I would set them all free – of mouth piercing nails, chain bound limbs, bells ringing in ears, gags choking in mouths. I would read their story’s future, of their fight to survive, their suffering and death, and tell them they became free. And they’d know their lived history was not in vain.
And as all the imprisoning’s drop from their bodies we would walk toward their future, where they would meet endless leaders who fought for their freedom. They would handshake Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, and Dr. King.
And as we walk on, we would arrive in a place, to see black’s and white’s mixing – no more signs dividing each from thee. And I would watch their slave skin and spirits heal. And they will love the blended colors knowing their fight is now surreal.
We would visit Black museums, where history’s enslavements are present observes, where all torturous metal is under lock and key – never to be shackled on black human beings. No more links to their lynching, each of their descendants living what they fought to achieve. And their spirits would be elated with a freedom never theirs. They would meet Charles Drew, as they look upon their blood now alive in all colored bodies.
And they will shout out their wars were truly won.
And we would walk on. But their spirits diminish when we arrive at walled stone, and they see what they see, and hear metal clanking bones. They view a familiar prison with slight alteration, where Blacks heirs are chained – the slaves linger with unease. As I watch faces and bodies wear their heaviness of history.
I wish for the power to give my ancestral apologies.
Still, we walk on.
Until from a distance we observe thousands of Black youths gathered. And the slaves start to smile, as they see reasons they were freed. And their spirits are lifted, and while we walk they are pleased, and I watch them walk to the center of young babies. And I listen while they are listening, and know why I see tears.
I know what they hear and what they are reflecting – their shackled black skin and raping of their souls are suddenly whipped back into their owned history.
I know what they have realized as they turn and walk away, their suffering was in vain, and they ask for my key amidst all the dialogue they heard their one and only name “nigga’” and the slaves disappeared taking all their fears along with their owned and lived history….