The Citizen’s Longing

I wish to realize that innate longing.
I feel a swelling; ancestral genes
Singing their archaic tribal tunes
In the fore of my consciousness.
Crack out if you will!
I would stay as I am still:
When your foreign tongues lash
My black skin peels
To gush out white blood.

Do I not love the lushest greens
Of the Irish fields?
The land of which I have been born and raised:
Roghnaíodh mé i gContae Chiarraí,
Agus d’fhás mé suas sa cheantar sin.
‘You foreign boy, we don’t eat that
Pounded yam and bobolo here.’

My black brothers,
Am I still an onyinbo to you?
Bamileke woman, can you not speak Banganté?
Village woman, do you not speak Batié?
Instead of Makossa, there is Burna;
Instead of Ben Skin,Rema.
Speak too, my brothers!
But I do not hear you singing.
Ah-ah!, Où est ton orchestre avec
Les Baka Gbiné Yelli?
I am neither white, nor fully black.

My brothers rip
Those ancients from their
Archaic holds.
My lushest greens
Wilt to some greyish brown, And I
Linger somewhere in between.
Let me remain there, as I’ve always been.
This you can’t take away:
I am a citizen of the world.