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    Beatriz Aiffil

    Black towns

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    by , 04-06-2011 at 01:20 AM (816 Views)

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    Black towns
    by Beatriz Aiffil
    When I walk in my dreams by these dusty ways of the south Sahara little towns, I think in the romantic idea of the afrodescendant brothers and sisters who tell sometime the back to Africa. Exodus, you know. I believe they realized suddenly that they already weren’t Africans. That this land where we were sowed is now our land.
    And the story tellers, my friends the griots, leave the shade of the baobab and come to me for listening what story I’ll bring them of these American lands. Patakí by here and patakí by there.
    Then my roots bury themselves more and I am kriolu, I’m yasa or bantú, haussa, malinké, wolof, ashanti, sara, mangbetu, kissi, ibo or bassari. I feel myself yoruba, speak swahili, vibrate mankanya, mbororo or mandinga, I jump zulú, recite kongo, mold gurenne, pray ewé, I suffer hutu or tutsi, I walk akamba, show myself bambara, I whisper bemba, resist dinka, fight masai, face azande, I feast batanga, kipsigi or borana.
    I remember when Malcom X spoke about the domestic black people, most outlined blacks, who were employed at the house of the owner and they used to eat the wreckage of the owner meal and gave the life for the owner … And he spoke about the blacks of the field, they suffered the sun on their skins, they had the spoilt hair, they ate the wreckage of the waste, they were the guts eaters, the beat ones, who hated the owner. They were the majority.
    Then I tell them how these owners taught us to deny to Africa. To hide Africa.
    And I confess to them that I dream of returning physically, be in plane doing all the scales and transfers of the world, be in a ship of the legendary Blue Star Line of Marcus Garvey, or walking as they say that Christ walked on the waters.
    Any way I must return some day.
    Return and meet again with the strongest of my origins.
    There the black people are in its ink.
    There we are not ex-slaves.

    Pueblos africanos
    por Beatriz Aiffil
    Cuando camino en mis sueños por aquellos caminos polvorientos de pueblitos del sur del Sahara, pienso en la idea romántica de los hermanos afrodescendientes que plantearon alguna vez la vuelta a África. Creo que no tardaron ni dos segundos en comprender que ya no eran africanos. Que esta tierra donde fuimos sembrados es ahora nuestra tierra.
    Y los contadores de historias, mis amigos los griots, abandonan la sombra del baobab y vienen a mi encuentro para escuchar qué cuento les traigo de estas tierras americanas. Patakí por aquí y patakí por allá.
    Entonces se entierran más mis raíces y soy kriolu, soy yasa o bantú, haussa, malinké, wolof, ashanti, sara, mangbetu, kissi, ibo o bassari. Me siento yoruba, hablo swahili, vibro mankanya, mbororo o mandinga, salto zulú, recito kongo, moldeo gurenne, rezo ewé, sufro hutu o tutsi, camino akamba, me exhibo bambara, murmullo bemba, resisto dinka, guerreo masai, me enfrento azande, festejo batanga, kipsigi o borana…
    Recuerdo a Malcom X cuando hablaba de los negros domésticos, los más perfilados, los que trabajaban en la casa del amo y comían las sobras del amo y daban la vida por el amo… Y de los negros del campo, los que se asoleaban, tenían el cabello esguañangao, comían las sobras de las sobras, los come tripas, los apaleados, los que odiaban al amo. Eran la mayoría.
    Entonces les cuento cómo esos amos nos enseñaron a negar a África. A esconderla.
    Y les confieso que sueño con volver físicamente, sea en avión haciendo todas las escalas y transbordos del mundo, sea en un barco de la legendaria Blue Star Line de Marcus Garvey, o caminando como dicen que Cristo caminó sobre las aguas.
    Como quiera que sea debo volver algún día.
    Volver y reencontrarme con el más fuerte de mis orígenes.
    Allí sí están los negros en su tinta.
    Allí no somos ex esclavos.

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