The Geez by Nii Parkes (little red riding hood read aloud txt) 📕

question hovers always in the air

like a trenchant treble in an echo chamber

of wonder. Was he a butcher of livestock

or of men? Was his past work in an abattoir

or a boardroom? Did any of his victims

lean their heads into the curve of a melody,

sun striking one ear, tuned for the song’s end?

#Labour

Two girls are tending a sick calf, kneeling

in the direction of Mecca. I would call it

worship, except religions have spoiled the heart

of these simple acts; of a body moving and finding

orientation; of hands placed on flesh to help

with healing. A haze of dust hangs in the air,

the criss-cross sticks of a Moringa fence makes a grid

that frames their labour. The calf is twisting, but still

– although there is no sign of its mother. One girl

strokes its back. Her scarf is made from a piece

of Presbyterian Church anniversary cloth. The other

girl wears knock off Off-White trainers; conceived

by a designer favoured by Rihanna and Louis Vuitton,

an Ablorh with family roots enshrined less than 400km

away from the earth she crouches on. With coaxing, the calf

finds its feet. Unsteady at first, it regains balance and turns

to lick the hand of the Presbyterian girl. Both girls

dust off their long, bright skirts, rising as the sun sets.

Moonwalk

Once you nail it, you’re hooked as a baby

that’s discovered rhythm; round a bright corner

and back; in the middle of a mate’s party

the crowd parting as if you have dark wands

for legs – skill becoming reflex. It won’t hit you

until after your fifth heartbreak, the probability

that your lust to go back to the lover before

the last, might be linked to that rapid flick

of Michael Joseph’s glove before he floats backwards.

After all, whatever problems you might have had

with the old flames, there’s been reflection. Funny how

you forget the petty flash points of your rows,

but can recall exactly how they made your skin tingle,

the imprint of their lips at the tips of your fingers

still a phantom that can resurrect shivers in you.

What’s important is that, for now, it’s just an urge;

you know cause and effect is never simple; you know

MJJ learned that move from someone, you’ve heard

his father beat him; you know your own daddy

used to slap your mummy. She’d lift you by

your arms, leave... but always returned. The music

his pleading made was an addiction she couldn’t shake

till he died. And that whole vial of time, you hid

in your room, rewinding that Maxell, stopping the tape

at the point in Billie Jean when that bass rhythm hits,

then pressing play, the song’s protest surging forth

while you learned to glide, back, back, back, pause,

shimmy, the volume rising over arguments, your heels

repelling each other like magnets, never touching earth.

To Be In Love

Sometimes love is static, that ancient

honed vinyl crackle, tagging along easy,

a groupie bearing the bounty of beats,

B-flat horns, Hammond highs and double

bass staccatos that make a classic song.

If your father ever missed record’s release

it was due to some lure your mother conjured;

if he didn’t, the record’s pull surpassed the gleam

of the lips Mother smiled with - it was love

either way. Imagine how, out of a lifetime

hoard, he wakes one weekend to curate for you

a selection of songs, letting the 33⅓s spin

as he records them onto magnetic tapes he will

pass on. Stickler for detail, he adjusts volume

levels so Lateef’s horn will not suddenly drown

Masekela’s Lady when the songs lean to transition.

He will die soon after you have learned to love

the five tapes he labelled for you, technology

will move on and you will stop playing them,

listening to A Little 3/4 for God & Co as MP3

instead of on the old grey machine that clicks

with a familiar cushioned resistance in the dark

before the motor starts its coordinated roll,

before the sound lifts the hem of the invisible.

But some blue day, your heart broken, sorting

through the detritus of an eternal love

that just failed to make a full fifteen years,

you stumble upon one of the tapes. You are

surrounded by boxes, a lone black spot

beneath clear-eyed London skies - a rare thing.

Batteries located, you insert modern ear buds

into a pale blue SONY Walkman and press

play. Lionel Hampton’s vibes ring out sharp

and cheery on How High the Moon. Time drags

you back to your book-filled living room in Accra

where all your loves were seeded. You remember

what it feels like to be in love because it is right,

not because it’s what’s expected; you are lost,

close to heaven for 3.20 minutes before Hamp’s

flourish pulls you to the present. As the sound

fades, a shadow falls over you. It may be

a passing bird, it may be the shape of your father’s

silhouette. What is certain is a new song is

beginning, something with brushes as gentle

as lashes - and your cheeks are wet.

Casablanca

PRELUDE

Barely through with the opening credits, film music,

and already I’m mad; that projected map

that stuffs nations into someone else’s dwarf

of an imagination: an entire history named French

West Africa, a bright inheritance of diamonds

and pain flagged for Leopold as Belgian

Congo. I’m relieved that the text inked over

the part of the continent I call home’s blurred

so I can’t see the insult. Then the Black man

from the United States of America starts playing

the white and black of the piano with a big smile.

ACT ONE

Of my father’s stories, the one with the Moroccan Amazigh

who taught him to shoot in London, has everything: star-

crossed lovers, adventure, a kind of betrayal. Shape-shifting

from speeches in the Black Power underworld, it was natural,

after attempts on his life and two sweet honey traps,

to head from Algiers, train and fight with the Independence

movements gaining traction in South West Africa. He broke up

with Kirsten, his Swedish lover, seen with him at a café

table in a picture in our house, staring at him

his whole life. Franz Fanon was waiting; he loved her

but he couldn’t live at ease, knowing his people were not free.

TRANSITION

[pan shot of expected desert scenes; rapid montage

of volunteers in training (remember Black people

can’t be on screen for too long), flash quick image

of Cuban flag as the new recruits take cover

behind sand dunes (maybe a hammer and sickle

for good measure), we hear a quick volley of gunfire,

fade to black present]