MY ANCESTORS RIDDLE













They called us barbaric ……..these pale humans drenched in sweat.
Stepping on our land, swathing in their desire for conquest.
They came in their ships, pulsating with intrinsic self-righteousness from their Monarch.
They offered gifts, wrapped cunningly with chains, destroying our shrine, delivering us from our gods.
Their lips filled with sweet honey mocked our native  tongue, they would offer us salvation that we never knew we needed.

Slightly above apes was how they described us to their monarchs back home.
Disdainfully writing off our culture, several centuries passed down through generations.
until it  gradually reduced to cannibalistic allegory, we were a species close to cave men in need of reforming.
Our songs of victory, a signal of our strength…our warrior’s opium the heartbeat of our kingdom.
Were reduced to pagan symbols, uncharacteristic bursts of devil worship they called it.
They would give us a new tongue, give us a new name, and give us a new God …..Make us civilized.


Uncivilized was the label they gave us, with our animal skin garments and our thatched huts.
Their Land was better, their language superior, their religion the only true religion.
Yet they sought after our women, their dark skin which shone with oil from palm trees was all they desired.
Yet they sought after our Land, the treasures that lay beneath was all they desired.
Yet they sought after our pagan symbols, the art crafts hand woven in worship was all they desired.
Yet they sought after the strength of our young men, the efficacy of our manual labor was all they desired.

They called us barbaric …………..these pale humans drenched in sweat.
But our culture passed down from generation to generation never prepared us for what they did next.
Chained……slaughtered……enslaved……..raped……murdered……carted off our land like animals.
For years and years until their lands were made fat with our fruits.
The seas unripened with the smell of our corpses.
Their Farmlands bounteous with the sweat of our young men.

My Old brain fails me my child  but I remember in phrases  the words they forced us to learn.
The  unmistakable  picture these acts  paints,
Not our songs, not our culture , not our children obedient to their elders, It was not us all along.
You do know without my speech,  who were the real barbarians my child ?

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