I have been a ship 

full of stolen and tortured 

ancestors you feared 

such that you changed their names 

and erased their deities

I have been more kushis 

than the ones you’ve put in chains 

and I am still your boogie man 

whose music captivates your scions

The 808 of a djembe from a stretch goat 

now gyrates your daughters 

like strange fruit on their tongue

a haunting matcha of Magnolia trees

with my language in your sons throats.

The kushi has become their Shango 

a rhythm of Kibuka incarnate 

dancing a second line—