The Day the Devil Has Won

A Poem for Black Revolutionary Women!

By Amin Sharif

Somewhere in Africa

Fourhundredyearsago—

An old black woman stood before her children

and spoke of the day when the sun

was hidden behind the eclipse of a slave ship,

the earth moaned and the skies wept

the fires in each hut flickered small and dim

against the darkness—

someone called out the name of a lover—

someone called out the name of a child—

each name sounded like the beating of a drum

the drum like a beating heart

the heart like the waves of the sea

upon a distant shore—

we were not watchful—the old woman said—

and the devil came and stole away our treasure

had the devil asked us for our gold we would have

given it gladly—but it was flesh and blood that the

devil wanted children—flesh and blood

remember, the old woman said, this is the day

that the devil has won

Somewhere in the Southland

Twohundredyearsago—

an old black woman sits with her children

at her knee and sings soft and low—

tomorrow master gonna sell one of you—

he done said that much—

the fire in the cabin flickers dim and small

against the darkness

she calls out the name of her child

and sings soft and low—master says

that he gonna sell you, baby.

if they drove nails into my flesh

they could not hurt me more—

but the devil don’t want just

just our flesh and blood baby—

he wants our very soul.

in the morning, master comes and ties

the child’s hands and leads him away.

remember, the old black woman says—

this is the day that the devil has won

Somewhere in Harlem

Onehundredyearsago—

an old black woman holds her daughter’s

hands and tells her to hush—

white men are like that she says

they not only wants us to make their beds

but to sleep in them, too, baby.

they wants everything we got.

the old woman looks into the eyes

of her child and wonders why

misfortune must always wear blackness

what a curse it is for a pretty

brown skinned girl to be born into

this world—

the evening sky turns red

and then indigo

stars are scattered above their heads

inside she lights a candle

it flickers and grows dim in the darkness

on her knees she ask God

why must the devil always win?

Somewhere . . . fiftyyearsago—

ola stands with the rifle

cradled like a child in her arms

around her there is a rustling in

the banana trees—

parrots the color of rainbows

perorate in a sky filled with light.

they say that the white man

comes this way—

if he does today

ola will have him

she pulls back the bolt

on the rifle and pushes it forward

the bullet is delivered into the chamber

as smoothly as an act of love—

ola looks at the high mountains

and thinks of her children there

sweet manuel and zerita

they are the love of her body

and soul

if I do not return, ola tells her

sister—

bathe and sing to them the

lullabies of our fathers and mothers.

beware the snares of the devil, ola’s

sister says as she lifts zerita into her

arms. then crosses herself and kisses

ola’s lips

she hears the car

and shoulders the weapon—

a small jerk of her body

and it is over.

the body lays slumped

and motionless in its seat.

this is the day, ola whispers to

the sky as she disappears

into the jungle, the devil has won.

* * *

A black child stares at a tv screen-

and she hears and sees—

and she hears the cries of

a thousand niggers drowning down in New Orleans

and sees the America flag as just another rag

stuffed into the bleeding vagina of oppression

in her small mind there arises the question:

should any slave die a natural death?

The Statue of Liberty is

just another Gringo bitch waiting

to have her toilet cleaned

* * * * *

posted 17 December 2005

* * * * *

update 5 July 2008