Two poems from 2000 BLACKS by Ajibola Tolase, winner of the 2024 Cave Canem Prize
I’ve Been Diagnosed With Blackness
Descent
I might have seen you for help from my affliction with Blackness.
I don’t know. Kendrick says he has been diagnosed
with real nigga conditions. I needed you to make mine
go away. I wanted you to will the earth to swallow
the cop at my door. My relationship with the land
is the longing of my fathers for their kin. As you know already,
I am not from here; and cannot make request
from the land. Your fathers have reaped from desire.
Upon learning the palace will have its first black son
the crown decreed he will never be called prince
and will hold no titles. Although I do not condone,
I understand the queen. The boy’s mother could
have removed him from the crown’s household
because she could imagine him growing up
to be the queen’s housenigga. What puts us in bed with those
who lorded themselves over us besides our desire for mercy?
When my people knew I stopped seeing you, they wanted to know
if I was thankful because where I’m from it’s often said that to be kept alive by
what could kill you is a gift.
Forty-One
I blamed the time difference. I blamed the miles over which our voices were carried by the phone when my mother claimed my voice didn’t sound like mine. I blamed the ocean between us. I repeated myself; but my voice sounded like a needle. When I opened my mouth all 23 years of Amadou Diallo’s life fell out. I didn’t see his face until I rinsed the blood off. But I held him even without knowing it was him because he has my body, I mean my brother’s body. I hugged him because he is mine in the way my body is mine. I cradled him until his eyes opened. I cradled his head until his mouth opened into stories of the many ways his hands have failed him. He stopped the stories abruptly before their ends. He was restless. He wanted a haircut, food, and travel all at once. He wanted to live all 22 years of his death in a minute. He wanted to live like he never died. But he left me for the shores across which our mothers are waiting for us.
Take a break from the news
We publish your favorite authors—even the ones you haven't read yet. Get new fiction, essays, and poetry delivered to your inbox.
YOUR INBOX IS LIT
Enjoy strange, diverting work from The Commuter on Mondays, absorbing fiction from Recommended Reading on Wednesdays, and a roundup of our best work of the week on Fridays. Personalize your subscription preferences here.
Sign up for our newsletter to get submission announcements and stay on top of our best work.
YOUR INBOX IS LIT
Enjoy strange, diverting work from The Commuter on Mondays, absorbing fiction from Recommended Reading on Wednesdays, and a roundup of our best work of the week on Fridays. Personalize your subscription preferences here.