All God’s Chillun by Edward Kamau Brathwaite
They call me Uncle
Tom and mock me
these my children
mock me
they hate the hat
in hand
the one-
roomed God
I praise.
Winds raise
the flat-
roofed house
each harvest
time
each southern soft Se-
tember.
“Hey, nuncle!
wanna see
what God in heaven
brought for me?
One pink-ear’d rat,
thick knuckle-headed land
one plot, you know, one
bloody plot; one cow, one dog
one fuckin’ plough that only works one way
a snotty pond in which my children play
leap frog’s habitat.
A sniffin’ mouse
won’t touch the best
we have to offer it; and yet there was a time
we kept
our state on golden stools – remember?
2
Yes, I remember…
but what good
is to recollect now
my own mock
me;my own seed,
ruined on this rock
of God, struggle
to strike me
and what need
my story
in these fields
where these cart-wheels
turn over heart
crush hard our hurt
destroy the root of love
with pain.
Boss man makes rules:
who works, who jerks
the rope, who rips
the patient dirt
Boss man makes rules:
I am his patient mule.
Boss man rates gain:
I am his living vein
of sustenance:
his corn, his meal, his grain.
Boss man lacks pride:
I am his hide
of darkness. Bide
the black times, Lord, hide
my heart from the lips
that spit
from the hate
that grips
the sweat-
ing flesh
the whips
that rip
so wet, so red,
so fresh.
3
They call me
Uncle Tom and mock me
they laugh
laugh loud
laugh loud at me
from the barrels of their bellies
swishing loud with liquor.
They laugh and the white
man laughs: each
wishing for mercy, teach-
ing their children to hate
their skin to its bitter root in the bone.
Hold hard
heart
From the bold
sun of the over-
seer’s rod
from the cold
sneer of my own
children’s fear;
for I fear
to see them
back broken
black broken
teeth their own
gravestones,
pinched
by fever
lynched
by the balls.
4
‘But to hell with this, nuncle!
You fussy black Uncle
Tom, hat in your hand!
Cut the cake-
walkin’, man; bus’
the crinoline off the white woman,
man; be the black buttin’ ram
that she makes you
an’ let’s get to hell out’a Pharoad’s land
5
These my children?
God, you hear them?
What deep sin
what shattered glory?
What harsh logic
guides their story?
When release
from further journey?
6
Ease
up, Lord.
