If the ground which we walk on could tell the story of its life
It would tell you about the black men and women who find their knees caressed by the pricking ground.
Black folks who go down on their knees at the sight of a white man twisting their tongues to speak “perfect” English and be accepted
Black folks who go down on their knees, feet touching their backs and chins against their chest to worship the ground white man walk on
It would tell you about the men and women who kneel down to wipe spit and shit on the floors so that they can feed their children.
If the ground spoke,
It would tell you about university graduates who sleep on pavements hoping that tomorrow becomes a better day.
It would tell you about the street vendors who go down on their knees to collect scattered food on the floor by cops hoping to “clean up” the streets yet they can’t feed their children.
If the ground spoke, it would speak in a language known to no man because it understands…
It knows the sound of mothers crying when they find their children killed on the streets
It understands the weight of unattained dreams when corpses make it down the grave
It can comfort widows when their husband dies of AIDS and they have no aid to cover their eternal wounds
It knows the language of grief and regret
Because the ground speaks.
Black folks know who it feels to have soil deepen into their skins and darkening of hearts
Black folks go down on their knees asking God “why my people?”
When we are called monkeys
When are actors are too streets to be leads
When our brothers are shot on the streets and no one accounts
When we sleep with half-empty stomachs
When we are segregated yet “freedom” exists
When we are killed yet we stay alive
When our stories cannot be our own
We go on our knees asking God why hath he forsaken us?
We are down on our knees and our souls are still bleeding.
Where is our redemption?