they didn’t come to the rescue
busy navel gazing
and wallowing in privilege,
distracted by ingratitude.
kens and karens.
you and me.
it no longer works
protested the denizens of the global south,
the people of color,
the global majority,
the colonised. the oppressed,
the ones with the passports that require
permission to travel. to escape.
sharing vapid anecdotes-
performative alley-ship,
white saviourism of adventures
in the bronx, africa-
saving the world.
it’s her,
he thought,
and he felt guilt.
tattered clothes
turned to uniforms,
wanting to help
to do right
to do good,
but self preservation will always
obstruct revolution when
we pretend to fight for others.
at dawn, the dreams are jumbled
with the burden of shame.
in a house by the sea,
twenty years ago,
sleeping to the sound of rain
on a corrugated zinc roof,
teaching under that tree,
so earnest and naive,
but there i go again,
shining the spotlight on me,
this work should have always been
an honest evolution.
August 26, 2021
238/365
Labels:
dailypoem,
Kenya,
Mozambique,
privilege,
shame,
white savior
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