Uncle Sam sometimes whispers a little bit too close. I’ve felt so many scraps scraping against my cheek- those numerous numberless things he carries in his beard by ‘accident’. So many things get stuck there and I feel them all, whenever he dares, and he dares often, to whisper alittlebittooclose. One time the grey beard leaned in and touched me in my sleep and planted in me strange dreams of faraway gothic towers passing off as libraries: Harvard dreams, Princeton dreams, Yale dreams: I haven’t quite slept since. The shaggy scraps stuck to the forest of strands on his face would never let me. They scratch away at me often even in the brightness of day, and claw jaggedly in the darkness of night. Little heart of mine has lost its own beat. It beats to the beat of a beat on a beat from a beat with a beat by a beat which beats those beats and beats beats that beat not of my beat. Little heart of mine, when did you lose your own pulse? Why won’t you tell your family that Uncle Sam’s whispers are more than whispers? Why won’t you tell your family what Uncle Sam does to you in the brightness of day when everyone is smiling as Uncle Sam pats your shoulder? Little heart of mine, why doesn’t your family know what Uncle Sam does in the darkness of night as he whispers whispers under your whispers and what he does beneath your skin? Didn’t you know, little heart? They have laws that say that greybeards shouldn’t be digging into little boys’ insides, don’t they.
(Uncle Sam has travelled far and wide, far and wide to tell me lies. Recall that this is not the first time…)
But little heart you know why. This is not the first time. It is the natural progression for a Coconut like you: darkness of night on outside and brightness of day on inside. Your skin doesn’t matter; you all taste the same. Cut you off the homeland-tree and cart you all away. Then, in this way we can say and say the homeland is “Rising”-
Uncle Sam tells the world of his diversity in selection of little boys to touch with strange dreams. And I like the feel of the scraps in his beard. Maybe I can become one of them. One with them.
So... I'm yet another African scholarship student in America.