There she is again.
I think you know her:
Ailing dark-skinned
African child,
edemic belly bulge
or skeletal ribs,
take your choice.
Nearly always
the requisite fly feeds
at a corner
of her dry mouth,
doom resides
in her eyes.
She has become
literary device,
media poster child,
noble poet’s metaphor.
She is
She is lost potential,
cruel dictator’s refuse,
racist imperialism’s bastard.
Object of charity,
endless pit,
nameless victim.
Yet what of Monique Dembele?
Malian midwife with leathery hands, barely 33 years on this earth.
Little formal training, she earned more money than men in her village,
ushering new life, banishing health risks for the women of her village.
Undeterred in both curiosity and generosity,
until the irony of her death in childbirth.
What about this
What about Mustafa Kudrati, lover of both Logic and Spirit?
Born and raised in
somewhere else to our narrowed minds.
What about his efforts: Kuleana, a center for street children,
where there is shelter, health care, education?
What about this
What about Mukuli, five year old Akamba girl?
Persistent, clever & blessed with apple cheeks.
Mango juice dripped so steadily from her chin,
I could take her skin color for orange.
Like she took mine for red, dust kicked up
on my ankles from long walks on dry dirt roads.
She never did believe me, that my skin was white.
When she threw water on my dusty legs, the color trickled down.
She was convinced even more I could not be trusted
regarding facts of skin color, in particular, my own.
What about these
(cc) Karen G. Johnston
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