Homesick Foreigner:
(The tale of the immigrant)
And home the foreigner wants to go,
But cannot leave without his papers.
So he sends a message to his kin,
But it is lost in transit to motherland.
And while his wait gets longer by years,
For immigrant papers, or lesser passé
That would make his stay a valid one,
He must survive even underground.
And while he yearns dearly for home,
He must not step beyond the borders
For he may not enter the land again,
Where he had hoped to make a living.
And while he craves like a little child
To see his mother’s face even again
And be pampered by her caring hands
He must boldly wear the face of a man.
And while he longs for mother’s dish
And ripe fruits, pumpkins, and pears
Plucked so fresh from mama’s garden,
He must adjust to western dishes.
And while he wants a compatible wife,
Used to his culture and marriage tradition,
He’s forced to choose a foreign woman
Who may help his case with Immigration.
But while he waits for that future time,
When his bare feet shall touch again,
The bare brown sands of his village,
And his bare eyes see the vegetations,
He must learn to wear his winter booths,
And to put on his layers of winter clothe.
He must carry his winter gloves and hat,
And expect to see only white after it snows.
But while he waits for the future time,
When his teeth shall freely chew,
Bush meat and pepper soup of herbs,
Spiced with natures own seasoning.
He must live on frozen fish and meat
Injected against mad meat disease,
And ready-made tin food and packages,
Sterilized and preserved by chemicals.
But while he waits for the future chance,
To dance and share his people’s culture
Of festivals and ceremonial heritage,
Across the town and rural villages,
He must live on borrowed culture,
Striving to live the life of his hosts,
Hoping on television for education,
And computer games for recreation.
But while he hopes sometime again,
To spend his nighttime under the moon
Sharing sweet stories and wise folktales
With new generations of many families,
He must attend the clubs and parties,
Where acoustics, pop, and disco beats,
Pound his eardrum and troubled head
Unlike drums he knew back in Africa.
But while he waits to return once more,
To the royal comforts of his kingdom,
Where he walks the street like a prince,
And chooses the chore good for a man,
He must serve strangers to make a buck,
And must clean their mess to pay his rent.
He must accept an inferior class of men,
And be willing to endure or be deported.
But while he waits when he returns home,
To express himself in his own language,
Coined with proverbs and some idioms,
Familiar with phrases common to him,
He must speak in tones and manners
Of speech and accent strange to him,
Yet important if he must ever be heard
Seen and taken as someone serious.
And back at home were he was born,
His name reigns like a busy word,
In the lips of gossipers and the drunk,
Loafing over wine and roasted corn.
They sing his song but not for praises,
And refer to him but not for good sake.
So every new day his parents wonder,
If it was a mistake that he went abroad.
In agony he ponders over his quandary
Lamenting his plight in a stranger’s land,
Suffering the pressure of homesickness,
Yet, refusing to leave for he must survive.
So while his people count him out,
Believing he is lost in a stranger’s land,
He misses home and his kinship dearly,
And struggles to someday make it home.
INTERLUDE
The Traveler Finally Goes Home
And when he has finally readied himself
Armed with the golden immigrant paper,
Or the status of another strange fatherland,
He begins to see his dream come true.
While he loads his bags and suitcases,
Filled with gifts for his dear loved ones,
His mind begins to run his homely list,
Filled with questions of what could be.
Will he remember the faces of those elders
Whose faces he has not seen for many years,
Except through dreams of the fatherland?
Or would they have joined the ancestors?
How shall my dear mother look this day?
Shall my father be strong to welcome me?
Will my playful cousins still have their jokes?
And will my friends still be there for me?
And then he remembers it has been long.
And he may not even tell his kin by name,
Or remember the faces he has always known,
Back in the days before he left dear home.
It has been a long time of distant hope,
His mind begins to ponder and query.
Shall the school building of mud still be standing?
And shall the market place be filled with voices.
Either way, It matters not he assures himself,
For the son of man is going home to fatherland,
To drink palm wine, and chew bush meat,
Roasted with pure fire of true firewood.
As he takes his seat in the flying plane,
Cruising the Atlantic like a metal bird,
He recounts the great things he's taking home,
All the technology of the western world.
And then as the aircraft finally lands,
In the runway of his fatherland,
He gladly alights to meet his clan,
But only a few men are there for him.
Frantically, his eyes search the scanty crowd,
For that smiling face of sweet dear mother,
And that broad forehead of strong old father,
But they are nowhere to be found around.
“Where are mum and dad?" He quickly asks.
In his strange accent of the stranger land.
Where are my siblings, brothers and sisters?
“You said they will be here to wait for me”
But his uncle quickly pulls him aside,
And murmurs something to his hearing;
"You are too late, they died a strange death,
I think the white man call it AIDS."
© Oliver Mbamara October 6, 2003
(Poems of Freedom)
Oliver
Mbamara, Esq., is an Administrative Law Judge with the State of New
York.
More Poetic Stories and Essays, visit: www.Expressionsofsoul.com
Respond
to this Piece or leave comment
BACK
TO THE TOP
|
|
|
