I was working on a project for the Economics department at my university, for this project we were required to enter data from the national registry. I think the period we were working with was the 18th century, so slavery was still very present.
Through the thousands of people I sifted to populate the Excel sheet came Azamko.
The last person. He was a free man. But. He owned nothing.
Needless to say he really stood out amidst the rich land owners.
And inspired this poem. (Photo: Photos by Louis: Flickr)
I hear your soul Azamko
it’s buried in the ground.
You built this country slowly,
your blood-and-sweat resounds.
I hear you weep Azamko.
Where is what you reaped now?
You left your mother nothing, but;
corpse and coat and frown.
I hear your remnants (whisper) Azamko,
they are rooted in this soil.
You ask this world of plenty,
“Share with (me) my people and in our toil,”
but to You they’ve never listened,
nor will they listen now,
now you lay there bare Azamko;
the immigrant, the African,
the humble but enslaved.
No document or burial
Neither grave nor ground.