Privacy Overview
This website uses cookies to improve your experience while you navigate through the website. Out of these, the cookies that are categorized as necessary are stored on your browser as they are essential for the working of basic functionalities of the website. We also use third-party cookies that help us analyze and understand how you use this website. These cookies will be stored in your browser only with your consent. You also have the option to opt-out of these cookies. But opting out of some of these cookies may affect your browsing experience.
Always Active
Necessary cookies are absolutely essential for the website to function properly. These cookies ensure basic functionalities and security features of the website, anonymously.
Functional cookies help to perform certain functionalities like sharing the content of the website on social media platforms, collect feedbacks, and other third-party features.

No cookies to display.

Performance cookies are used to understand and analyze the key performance indexes of the website which helps in delivering a better user experience for the visitors.

No cookies to display.

Analytical cookies are used to understand how visitors interact with the website. These cookies help provide information on metrics the number of visitors, bounce rate, traffic source, etc.

No cookies to display.

Advertisement cookies are used to provide visitors with relevant ads and marketing campaigns. These cookies track visitors across websites and collect information to provide customized ads.

No cookies to display.

Other uncategorized cookies are those that are being analyzed and have not been classified into a category as yet.

No cookies to display.

Culture, Sunday poem

Sunday Poem: The Writing on the Wall

‘Wogs out’ the graffiti sprayed

In those Bedfordshire days

That led me to question

With what affection

was my sort held?

 

Signed ‘NF’ in marker pen iridescence

On pallid South Beds Council urinals

Indecencies scrawled indelibly

On my mind

That led me to question

With what affection

was my sort held?

 

The shards of corner shop glass

Thwarted our fragile path

To post-racial harmony

We lived in the Dark decades

Ages

of ignorance and violence

Was it my problem?

That the chant was sung:

‘Pakis outnumbered 10 to 1’

That led me to question

With what affection

was my sort held?

 

In morbid expectation

I awaited black History pages

Of dehumanised victims

 

Beads of perspiration created

A red glow of knowing tinged my skin

As I uncomfortably listened in

to narratives

of the passive recipients of slavery

Tragedies with no heroes

That led me to question

With what affection

was my sort held?

 

In contemplation

Was it your intention?

For me to assent to

Condescending classifications

And ideas of Nation?

 

Racism was never mentioned

In those Bedfordshire daze.

 

Written by Andrew Geoffrey Kwabena Moss

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *