Another coloniser in a hoodie

Day 6 #Winterabc26 

Africa and AI — The continent’s place in the global AI conversation

I was born in an era,

Where art held history 

In secret!

For every word,

Reflected the truth

That was hidden to nakedeye.

I was born in an era

Where an artist,

Painted pain & joy

In brush strokes.

For their words & vision

Were never expressed in a prompt.

I was born in an era,

Where a computer

Was just another tool.

Now we live in an era

Where the same is a storyteller

Distorting the rhythm of the art.

I was born in an era

Where the pen that bled on paper

Reflected the heart of where I reign from.

Where words spoken!

Weren't just another piece of information

Generated by a cloud without emotions.

I was born in an era

Where art was a revolution

Holding society accountable

Of the past mistakes culture deemed normal.

Yet now!

The truth is never splashed on walls anymore.

There is no way to escape the movement that have come. While some of the veins that made art enjoyable have now been snatched by machines. We aught to learn to embrace the tech to improve how we craft our art. This could be a plus, but however because most this machines don't reign from Africa, they might distort the meaning of our art. This due to the fact that there training wheels was done by someone who fail to understand the rhythm of the cradle of creation. Due to our inability to beat them we have to embrace before we get left on the sidelines, wondering who is telling bour stories anymore. Before we also lose out on the ability to paint history in our own words. This due to the fact that history has never been told by historians in it's truthfulness but by artist who hide the truth in plain sight. Take for instance the great authors to come from Africa the likes of Tsitsi Dangarembga, Chenua Achebe etc.

From Museum Piece to Living Breath

Give me all and nothing
I plead!
Steal my all and reward nothing
I beg!
For my home, is a rich land
Laid arid by my foolish actions.
Holding me close that partake of the fruit
That I, betray who I am in a longing bid.

As I throw my identity

My tongue

My speech

That I belonging here and nowhere

Ashamed of the riches stained by my home

While trash that which is me

For a view that is empty.

Give me all and nothing
I plead!
Steal my all and reward nothing
I beg!
For I long for an identity that is me

Yet the me I find, is clouded to my purpose

Seeking to be like the rest

While pleading for mercy to heavens.

As take my heritage for dice

Rolling deep in forgetfulness

While shedding tears of be forsaken

For I threw the towel to my tongue

And embraced a ghost speech

That made me inadequate.

Robbing my step

Only to leave me crawling to my future.

        I have often wonder, "Why is it now hard to construct at in my mother tongue and who have I become?" In a bid to belong to the global village I have oftenly found myself wanting to sound like the next person and take offence ssomeone picks a bit my dialect in my voice tone. At the same time I have discovered the more I do so the more I lose who I am cause in my tongue lies my identity. Barricading my heritage, i have also discovered that I have a lost alot in the process for now will give ear to some who sound the same as the rest of us.

The Home Vein

 Buried between the heart and reality.

Dust arises to attest of life.

Bound with unspoken promises

Dubbed the home vein life.

Banned from idle walks in the shade

Into a den of rhythmic soul, I reign.

 

Though sometimes called “Njecha” (sand)

You find me sending notes of joy

Knotting reality with a purpose afar

Surrounded by dust, with an oath

Creativity oozing from every pour

Into every street corner to be a hive, I reign

 

Created to change the world

The dust arises in a dream

Ashy gates speaking volume of plastics

Scrapping the paint in scores

Where goals build goal posts of tomorrow

Exposed to the light of tomorrow.

 

              In my life, there have been moments when I got to ask myself where my home was? Africa being on the global stage I find my thoughts drifting towards. Sometimes wondering whether my goal is just a mirror of who I am without identity, as I consume what others feed without care. Which has often led me to one thought who I am? So, today I am going to try to break it down for my identity to truly shine. For my DNA is found in four in one- home, rural, school and obviously work. But the place I would be proud to show is my home. A place where dust greets you before anything else. Where life is found in the rhythm of dust morphed into pots and likes. Yet, it still stands out to be best ground to groom what is not taught in schools. Street smartness, as kids make something of themselves without a back package. Where greatness is discover

The Rope and the Red Eyes

Barely seeing afar after the mountain

I stood on arid grounds in thoughts
Held close by a belief of a helping hand
Yet in public, life tale unfold in tears

Called to just be, where questions wore thick coats

And answers escaped the mind before giving birth to solutions.

There he was,

Standing at the peak of life

A rope in hand, a voice to encourage

An eye to assist to unearth the path
While shielding bad winds

Pierced by the world's whirlwinds

For my purpose.

There he was,

To comfort a kid

Unknown to a mother's touch

Bewildered by life's platter

Shadow breaking behind curtains

Yet he tored them to assist

Sighting victory on the kid's behalf.

There he was,

Hands burnt for my sake

Feet blisted for the same

Eyes reddened for the same

Head spinning for the same

Yes tired, but still soldiering on

For the kid, the world is never enough...

    You know, it's hard to see someone's value while there are still around only to realize their worth when there are gone. This have been my case so far, missing my dad who stood by us when mum was not around anymore. To many, this might sound strange because often men are the one who leave their families after their spouse is gone. In my case it was the opposite as my father was the only one who shielded us from family politics, which so prevelant in African families. I am sure most of us can testify about this. So reflecting to that, the day my father passed the reality of family politics became our daily bread. Having to grow up in sprint to learning to navigate the whole landmine of family drama.