Krystal Pen

Fiction, Poetry and everything Literary. Every voice should be heard.

Black migrants: fleeing from death to death/ An essay

“You may choose to look the other way but you can never say again that you did not know.” William Wilberforce
A head now appears worthless somewhere around Tripoli or Benghazi, almost. The texture sketched over a man’s covering is again becoming a yardstick for survival. Migration is now a crime, a fatal one at that.
A slave, as it where, commanded a kind of dignity. To be identified and to fall as a slave was something. It was a honour in itself, relatively. The afoot hubbub is no slavery. It is a plague that is exhaling a kind of death. A death that comes to you in the night and takes your mouth and that thing that makes you a human away.
The black man in the deserts of North Africa is of great worth- #140,000 or one iPhone 6 and he finds a new master. That’s huge- a huge crack in evolution. A second death to humanity. Perhaps the stage is set for a reverse phylogeny.
The fictional movie, ‘The curious case of Benjamin Button’ sparked a delighting curiosity , yet, it was ugly in it’s entirety. How do you reckon waking up one day and unlearn all that made you, helplessly? How do you reckon suddenly becoming a child, unlearning how to walk, losing even the milk teeth you have acquired? That is what happened to a veteran World War II soldier in the movie. As impossible as it seems, the fate of the complacent black African is akin.
What if one day our land becomes inhabitable for all of us? What if one day Europe is the only way out? What if one day we all have to go through the Sahara, in a bid to be ferried across the Mediterranean to Italy. What if one day we are only worth a thousand naira? Remember, it wasn’t always like this.
“Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!” Patrick Henry.
Animals never migrate for just no cause. It’s either the rain is coming or the flood is receding. It’s either they run from the predator or they hunt for food. Either way, it is a hunt for liberty.
The crux of the matter is, we wear our own skins away, we shed our own teeth and we eventually become comatose. Then we are sold for nothing. We are unlearning. It has been going on. But we can stop it; run towards liberty and maybe get shot in the process. That way we no longer afford them the luxury of telling how worthless our silence and our complacency had made us.
Writing ‘no to slavery’ is something. At least the world gets to know we still have our voices and our writing tools. But telling ourselves about the need to create the liberty within, the need to make our fields greener, the need to make our land a more befitting place to die, will stop this plague.
In 1994, there was the untold story of a certain Malachi Kabuka, a 17 year old boy. He died in the cold, along a rough boulevard, in the suburbs of a conflicting city. A bullet, lodged into the cold night recklessly, found a resting place in his tender flesh. It was said his father decided to starve him and compel him to sleep outside for speaking out against his much younger mistress.
What a reckless abandon! R. I. P kabuka.

#Kryatalpen #Nemine Fung-owei

Now share the word. Click the share button and stop the incessant migration, then we stop the slave trade ourselves.

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