“The artistic sensitivity of the people will rise to create what they need out of the bare bones of the facts of the truth: otherwise art would not be necessary: we cannot yet live with the truths or the facts: it is what we do with them that determine what we are as a people.”-Ossie Davis


In America I came across a mulatto, who told me, “Yes we can—Make America great again.”

And for the first time, the doors of the white house were allowed open for the entrance of a black phallus, America gave birth to dead black babies.

Spermatozoa Sanguinary is ejaculated into a ring of generations. For Joseph did carry out his consummation duties this time, reserving for us no surprises:

Leaving in that metallic womb, the cage, the cadaver of a foetus. In my dream, I can see virility and dignity chained in the bowels of a ship; forced to feed on the contents of their own bowels

I can see men and women baptised with fire, and the whip, for the glory of the indenture.

Blessed by Saint Darwin for their evolution into ghostly ornaments capable of setting and embellishing the table of their enemies on invocation.

Chained to decay with chains of rot for a feast of worms dangling in a pool of red wine. Jangling chains ring the bone’s hollow, setting the tone and tune for the ultimate sacrifice.

In dreamland, I can see angry Europeans stripping Africans of everything. Leaving them with nothing but the colour of their skin.

Men and women forced to stand naked on a scaffold of putrefaction.

Female spectators battling with a spiral of orgasmic reverie.

A strange hybrid cross-checking Africa’s white-teeth, arms, legs, chest, backs, arms, eyes, ears, mouths and genitals.

Making sure he still has the strength to carry another civilization for a couple of centuries. And if her sexual vicinal could accommodate the manhood of Capital,

Dragged into a confederation of races and tribes as a slave; a cheap napkin, apron, bucket or spade. Bought-used-washed and resold expensive; an object recycled in and out of value.

Twisted years, twisted months, twisted days, twisted minutes, twisted seconds— twisted hands, twisted palms, in corroboration with shoeless feet.

Their shirts and skirts sown out of proportion, not for their bodies but for their sufferings.

And in order to satisfy the devil in the machine, they drilled the earth of black bodies for oil glutted with haemoglobin.

While making sure oil and water reserves like black and white lived in a state of apartheid.

Forcing their slaves to carry their names. But denying them access to its heritage and privilege.

When a slave owner bought a Negro, it wasn’t just physical strength he bought, but in essence a contraption of biological organs, emotions and senses; he owned on purchase, the negro’s sperms; ovaries; will to urinate; laugh; cry; smell; think; taste and hear.

I have seen white dynamite attached to rocks of virginity. Milk spilling on explosion and guilt cramming the core of the solar plexus.

All in the name of sensitizing the Negro maidens on their nakedness.

Crying and smiling—smiling and crying. Crying or smiling; the line of difference between the two, is made invisible by the brutality of the master’s ubiquitous presence, as breath and pain go on a conquest to annex the howl!

In a theatre of trepidation, reaped large, the lion mustn’t kill its prey.

But in respect to the script, play, torture and mutilate its members as long as the show must go on.

Killing the man to convene a congress of vultures, who will make sure the primary role of the slave’s breath is to rescue him from the cold, peaceful, comfortable, and relieving hands of death.


In order not to disturb their master-hood, they slowed down the beating of their hearts. While in order not to disturb the lying dog of a death sentence, they slowed down their minds.

Shattering its headlamps with a baton of regret made dumb by the cold hands of fear. And the will to survive.

And with his master’s eyes in the neighbourhood of evil, he sees his mules

standing on two legs and his slaves standing on four.

It was the advent of a new era— the BS era; the third person in the trinity of eras, positing itself behind the BC and the AD eras of human madness.

As a black man, you dare not came close to the “Word” for the “Word” was with God and was God.

Treating with care the whiteness of the cotton you pick as much as you treat the colour of your master’s skin. For the injunction is to fear and respect “white”, the divinity of colours; the colour of Divinity.

To assure the standard weight of each harvest, a slave had to be buried alive. It was nothing else but slave owners raping the earth. . .or better still their mothers with no remorse.

Dancing to the gyrations of falling corpses; stretching the sound band of the earth’s dissonance.

In place of a house, they move in and out of a mortuary; and for their beds, they sleep in coffins.

Projecting themselves into dreams, trapped in purgatory, the Atlantis of the spirit world.

The sun was nothing else to them but nature’s contribution to their tribulations. Its rise was the rise of another day of flames. Excruciating heat. Excruciating pain.

For these black folks, the sun only enhanced the clarity and the quality of their misery by urinating its larva into their clouds.

And its perennial rise was a reminder to every slave, that their masters could not escape the range of God’s infinite mercy

Forced to work more than the sun so when it went to sleep, they continued working…or better still surviving

In essence the only pay they were entitled to was another day to exist enveloped in the mercy of their proprietors.

Weak white egos smash the breast and testicles of their Frankenstein monsters to feed the beast in the hollow of their souls.

Slave owners cracking their mirrors right up to the borders of collapse;

Burying their guilt in those famous phrase-tombs: “yes master”, “please master”, “thank you master”.

Making sure they eschew those images of their souls in peril floating on the ocular sea,
by ordering their slaves never to look a white man in the eye.

Who were these “worthless” men with eyes powerful enough to invoke death from the hips of a white woman?

And how those noble tea leaves in Boston could get anybody drunk is still a mystery.

With men strangely acquiring from it the freedom and bravery to attain heights of inhumanity never dared before.

A spoon of salt and a spoon of pepper into a cup of blood for a taste of pain.

Setting a bed for female slaves to caress the roughest tree backs in history for rapturous delight, mustering the strength to affront the pain of birth in a circle of agony.

Working within the circumference of all those masters who could only see wondering genitalia void of colour at the precipice of their sexual edges;

And with the assistance of something without a name, they dig out the navels of the maid’s offspring with the sentiments of a butcher.

Hope in its nature did nothing but to insult the fatal performance of their reality. He was the hydra in them that they couldn’t kill. Like a ghost he loiters in and out of their imprisoning reality;

Palliative peels for the Sabbath appease, gestating rebellions; and safe the white heavens from war.

At least they had not seen a black pig in the world, axiomatic proof of savagery residing in white hide.

And so like Sisyphus they push the rock up every morning, hoping it would find a stable seat for itself up there…up there— where there can be no more sorrow.


Lifting my eyes to the heavens, I saw God turn his back and close his nostrils on the incense of Cain’s sacrifice; those strange fruits of his plucked from a poplar tree in the south.

The moon hiding its face in the clouds at the sight and sound of “horror mechanic”,

…On hearing the cry, hail and wail of a palpitating heart caught up in flames, the rat, cockroach and gecko stand still…transfixed in their tracks.

While having their brains well trained as prison guards, their beings were transformed into prisons for the incarceration of hate, rage and schizophrenia.

Ghostly hope versus ghastly danger can only be a match made in a Hell.

Their humanity at this point had been banished from the world; they were
“the eternally stained” who had to be eternally stoned not to death but to life in Hell.

Under such circumstances, Ham has to be black and crawl under the weight of Adam’s digestion.

With his cross “Klux-ed” and burned he is beaten and tortured to his death,
with no cross in hand-and the promise of no resurrection in sight.

These slaves have been paddled across an ocean of emotive commotions, into an island called Curiosity: to see and watch those two apocryphal horns push out of the white man’s head.

Abraham must now sacrifice between one hundred and three hundred dollars of his “hard earned” money to their gods, for the salvation of their souls. An act of faith, the gods will greatly reward him for in kind and in symbol.

“To power the streets of Washington, all the units of power in America must be conducted, including those atypic ones in the south—lying in a stretch of pain.”

If greed must run its full course, then a war must be fought between the unionist who sees a worthful interest in a useful body, and the confederate who sees a worthless soul in a useful body.

A fight between the exploiter and the enslaver; a clash in between the bad and the ugly-for the ownership of useful bodies,

For they had tasted Antebellum and it was sweet.

On the 4th of July 1776, Thomas declared that, “the truths were evidently white and that men were created unequal, that some are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of slaves.”

If the poor are to inherit the earth, then they sure did inherit the earth— that which is present everywhere and nowhere, belonging to all and none.

Keeping the Negro in his place is barely keeping him above the ground; in space away from all that is tangibly accessible.

Four million minds locked up in a cell of terror, a galaxy of ideas under the ignorant boots of the miscreant;

America with the knives of slavery did nothing but abort the seeds of an eternal empire.

With a succession of lords and kings who misused gold simply because it looked black.

And who, as a result of their failure to perceive the Phoenix, mortally adopted and sanctified the eagle as creed.


By virtue of their forceful extraction out of history, they forcefully retract back into it. Only this time with a pen full of blood to define, chronicle and write it.

Positing the American, Indian, Dutch, Irish, Italian, Chinese, and Mexican into the moving wagons of the unconscious to watch the eclipse of his history and mythology by the dark presence of black slaves in America.

The history of America was written with a whip on the flesh of its black slaves, and so it lives in their flesh—runs in their veins, resides in their slang, tone, demeanors, morphology, physiognomy and music.

The death of the American Negro would be the death of America’s history:

The fruits of America’s life lie in the seed of its original sin;

Penis Captivus in Sextet.

What else was slavery but hell reaped large with no space or place left in it? For suicide to be trapped in between the padlocked doors of life and death, waiting for nothing but miracle called rapture.

Left to die like bastards by their founding fathers, they cry in the desolate hands of their breastless mothers; left to die by their founding fathers.

I have seen men, women and children dumped into the ground. Left with no grave stones like animals because they have been denied burial.

America’s Soil made swampy by blood. Who, on heading for a seat in the abdomen, ascends through the stem, into the stalk; then into the grain seminating himself into the white teeth of his undertaker.

The premature seeds of freedom would find themselves in a basket, streaming down into Egypt. And since they look like human beings, the Egyptians strangle them on arrival to death and bury them in a soil made fecund by a mass of black humus.

Judas is part and parcel of Christ; he is the bend in the road to Golgotha.

Out of the furnace came illusion made concrete;

The rationing of their plenty brought to fruition the plenty of their ration.

And in the food they were made to scramble for, saliva was the only spice for many slaves, America is the planet itself with just two races ordinally arranged and placed within to cohabit with respect.

The gates of treason will constantly wall their rebellions from freedom. Drunk with fear and fidelity for their masters, they spill out the secret elixir for their freedom on the floor of the

“Big White House”.

And how love still finds a place in between their gangrenous hearts remains a mystery—steering them into “jumping the broom”; to take a great leap into a future clouded by paranoia.

Or maybe love was light from another planet focused on the gangrene. A breath of fresh air from a place called desire; a call to elope.

In a guise to exorcise themselves of that venom, they develop a body of exercises for their bodies, called the Negro spiritual rituals. Defined by trance-frantic movements, hymns modified by pain, cathartic waves hovering over worship sessions, crowned by incantations in a language solely spoken in Babel… Babel: that apocryphal nation with neither past nor future; left to dream in the present. The New World.

If mental decrepitude at certain intervals could provide shattering revelations of the truth, then what would this white res publica do, when it sees white castrated bodies floating on a sea of cerebral excrement?

Slavery is the indelible stain on America’s world-white regalia, and the skeletal muscle of its dollar(s). Tt can only be eradicated from America, in all its forms— if and only if she chooses to starve not herself but her royalty to death.

This has to be done if she truly wants to belong to the human race. For one thing we are sure of is that, “the regal” is something in between God and man, never one of the two.

The sun was chance to watch everything possible under it take place in America. It stood still for three hundred years, saving its gas.

I sincerely hope God almighty has another Son, to spare for the sins of America, because no Son of Man is capable of carrying the weight of infirmities on that land.


Faith with a single wing cannot fly. For it is only the slave who has traveled and explored far enough, to find out that, the extreme edges of prime hatred, are simply the borderlines of love-supreme.

Men and women perennially rebelled not against their masters: but the temptation to run into the barbarian pantheon for the safety of their pride and worth as human beings: refusing to purchase bestiality; the cheapest and the most attractive frame of reactions in the gallery of human history-as illustrated by those female deities who continued to make the soup sweet for the rapists and his offspring.

America, throughout slavery: was the biggest classroom in the world. One in which, the slave was a teacher and the master, a student. A student who for more than 200 years proved himself perpetually incapable of apprehending those famous lessons in relation to the practise of being human—lessons which for once in the history of the world, were though with almost boundless patience, care, passion, and temerity; nothing else but a remarkable demonstration of God-like pedagogy.

Singing the Blues: songs and sounds of blight: life made eloquent in a tomb; it is the articulate expression of an explosion: a dance of emotions: a deep blue sky weeping on her snobs and admirers: it is Hallelujah to Lucifer; father of harmonics,

Men and women seeing in the blues, not the hope of glory, but the glory of hope it self; swinging with rhythm to the ballads of a tornado; the Negro, furnishing his curse for acceptable habitation: basking in the immense brilliance of hell’s luminosity.

But standing between the deity and the magnificent teacher: was a man, who chose to pull out the barbed wire from his flesh and again chose to watch the blood ooze out with regrets and sympathy not in sight.

I am talking of a man who will go Underground in search of a
“Northern Star.” A man who saw death without a fight, as death with a stench of

shame powerful enough to travel with him to the world beyond. A stench he wasn’t going to allow disgust the way into the glorious presence of his ancestors.

A man who would not allow even the innocence of infancy stand in his way— like fire he refuses to discriminate against anything in his path.

And to resurrect the buried hatchet, he would invoke the spirit of vengeance.

To him, waiting for God is waiting for history, time; waiting for the sun to reach Pluto.

I am talking of Denmark Nat Prosser Walker Harriet Deslondes (a name with no tale). The Black Christ. The man who sought to rise above the digestion of the forbidden fruit. A messiah who set out for flight into the infinite, not to save the world, but his own people.

If resurrection is rebellion against the fatal, then he sure did resurrect beyond the scope of record for the salvation of his people.

Constantly defying the bend in his road, against all odds
He would not allow his nation to escape the violence of birth.

Breaking out of claustrophobia a circle of nine months to honour his appointment with blood.


The black man’s rebellion will be part and parcel America’s quotidian existence. For at least three hundred years for those black denizens who have been denied citizenship in that state are willing to go as far as animating their movements underground with the automations of a maggot, and to agitate with the stench of their corpses.

Gestations for the birth of a crow called Jimmy.

The fabrication of laborious motions to stall the erections of a zebra.

The poignant and ferocious blows of a dying master;
straight to the face of a rising slave,

Streams of blood running to invigorate a plantation of corpses,
Bullets into black crannies echo the sound bites of freedom.

Skeletons are now stepping out of their closets; the rise of trepidation
and panic circumferenced by constitutional violence.

The cat poised for the mouse, the mouse poised for the cat;
A convolution of nature,

The bastards of yesterday who sent emissaries to the grave
to convoke their fathers, would today flood the courtrooms and ask for justice.

Those agents of hunger in an obese stomach have no choice but to feed
On the intestinal wall of their host, all in a quest to survive.

The only kind of contact possible in a segregated cosmos are accidents;

Violent clashes;

Uncle Tom’s nephews and nieces bid him farewell in a rush to stop bygones from becoming bygones.

Restless and no longer patient enough to wait for the good lord, they shuttle between their orgasm and narcotics,

Negotiating the exchange of their psyches for pleasurable violence,
They think is time to dismantle the cross— for the fabrication of batons;

Every line is drawn to be crossed and the lines of segregation are in no way

The policeman’s blood is right within the range of the mosquito’s radar.
Bacteria has fallen sick, vomiting the sewage in its bowels into
a white decent pot,

A king named x is roaming the streets of Washington in search of an identity; in search of his
authority; in search of his voice;
the harmony of his forces; the motor of victory.

With the dry bone of deceased the black panthers in this jungle
sharpen their teeth for a battle with the hunter.

Arming themselves with the emotive mechanisms of vengeance, passion and bitterness; Engaged to fight to the last drops of their blood—The last drops of their course.

Setting their afros on fire in federal bureaus they set the jungle on fire.

Preparing the hind legs of the panther to inhale, with each pounce, an ounce of the ephemerida’s curse.

And with the larva from their veins they cast the fist of freedom in a mould of united ships.

Marching everyday through a rusted barrel,
Tarred with worms and maggots;
nonetheless they hold themselves arm in arm and sink to dignity beneath.

Christians and Muslims engage in vitriolic battles,
For the occupation of the niche for protest— throwing blows over the head of a moderator,
who solemnly calls for the negro’s return to his native land Africa.

Dreading their locks they engender themselves into an army of Rastas,
keys to unlock their liberty.

The segregated plates, beneath these United States; are evidently tectonic.
America yesterday, today and forever makes progress by moving tectonically:

How could Cain and Abel enterprisingly build a house together,
only for it, at the end of the century, to be named after Cain alone, for only those suffering
from a kind of amnesia fail to see the falling antiseptic snow as a glorious return of the tree’s
foul sweat.

The black man in America is surrounded by the jumping sparks of an epiphany, casting blurring images of violence; the white man’s god, and like every other human being in the presence of living god, he is susceptible to believe in it and then worship it.

I have seen police clubs forced against the breast of a woman.
Dogs trained to quench their taste with the black man’s blood.
With water hoses opened on black kids; to make grow everything
in their lives except their humanity.

And what does America expect when it kills its kings.
Rapes its queens, and for fuel throw its princes
into the boisterous flames of protest.

“White senators from the south spit on the soil of our lives,
To help us mix the mortar for our pillars’’

They stand smeared by the honey combs of the Supreme Court;
And to be exposed to the insects of those gutters in the south,
Made narrow by forces of law and order,
Stationed to modulate fluidity.

On my visit to white America’s underworld, I found out that,
“the negro’s rise” had constant intercourse
With “the British Empire.”

And white America got a taste of the three-hundred-year-old
Black recipe, they sunk into a Great Depression;

A goat quickly withdrawn from the flames of the sacrifice.
The frightfulness of a mask is bound to drain,
itself into the face of any man who puts it on for at least three hundred years;
Such that when the mask is euthanized for its invalidity,
Masturbators plunge into frenzy trying to hide their nakedness.

The American constitution and all its amendments share a border
with Mississippi— a mortuary for any black who refuses to be a slave.

Any Negro who wouldn’t accept a share-cropping contract to work hard enough for his banker, in order to access his savings.

Everything on the surface has been taken away from the black man.
His wealth has been solemnly peculated by the law,
thereby establishing his inner resources as the only hope
For his survival.

They must mine themselves to those bright and electrifying fossils.
At the nadir of their spirits.
They now know they must climb down

If they must get to the peak of the highest mountain.


Born on the third of April, 1994 in West Africa, Cameroon, Nginyu Ngumba is the last of three children. He holds a BSC in Sociology, and was in 2017 nominated for the Yeovil Prize.