Ananse Tell Me When Kings Die. Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

I never lived to believe,
That a king dies a death,
Like the one of simple men,
I just saw the sunrise,
And thought kings live forever,

Then the word came to me,
That the king had died,
I thought the sun would not rise,
For I did believe it came and went,
With his face printed on it daily,
Like the money we used at the shops,

When I saw the sun rise at dawn,
I woke up and pinched myself,
Then was this another normal day?
Was my misery fake as always?
Was it disappearing in protest
To tell me the king had not died?
That my dream of what he was had gone,
To a place where I could not retrieve it,
But just walk inside my deceived skin.

Why had I lied to myself unknowingly?
Who had lied, me or the people
With whom we basked in a sun not there
Growing up believing in humans
That did not even know our names
Or even care about our sorrows?

Yet the sorrow lingered,
For my mind wanted it to go on,
So I can share with my fellows,
The loss we had walked into unknowingly,
A silence of one who we believed to roar,
Like a lion in the wild boasting,
Of strength and wisdom unknown,
Even to good old Ananse,
Who knew every corner of my mind,
For there he had been since childhood.

Ask Ananse I did with honesty,
And the answer I got was amazing,
To be asked a question never heard,
That asks who created the world of believing,
For it is there I had gone to take a story,
And wear it like a blanket,
For it made me warm to know,
I was also one of the many.

I walked away my face drawn,
In the sadness of my own creations,
Where nobody likes what they know,
Once they see the truth rising,
In the east as usual,
Making them wonder where they were,
The day before when they believed,
What now seems a long held untruth,
For kings too die and go there,
Where we are all going someday.

They may walk the world like giants,
Be made in big ceremonies with us like ants,
Milling around to take a glimpse,
Of the making of the world we live in,
Being shown a spectacle to guide us,
Into futures of life we have not lived,
But they do go and leave behind,
The same people they ruled unsure,
What the next one will be like.
Only hoping for the best,
For they learned to be led,
For leading oneself is sacred,
Untouchable if known to exist,
To those who always follow,
The people they created to lead them.

You should have looked into your eyes
For yesterday's beliefs and known,
That the time you accept a truth,
It is already being weighed up,
On the scale of questions by many,
Just like the dust that gathers,
Where the kings walk daily,
For you are a dusty king,
That needs to be shaken all the time,
And told you will one day not even
Have the blessing of dust gathering
Around the feet you walk on today,
And ignore, yet with your knees they bow,
At every alter with toes upturned,
Begging for the life of you,
To continue the way that of kings,
To keep on trampling the earth,
And crushing ants like you do,
For they do not know their names,
For the termites when angry,
Destroy buildings in silence,
When they have not been treated,
To termite proof smells of old,
That can keep them standing.

For renewal is like a truth,
It lives up there untold,
Unless you bring it down,
And hide it in your heart.
It boasts of silences unknown,
And makes others rich and others poor,
Unless the poor bring it down to bear,
On the lives they live alone in poverty,
It continues to hang up there shining,
Hoping one day they will see it,
And live it forever like you.
That is my advice and I am Ananse,
For nobody told you this truth,
The way I tell you today,
That kings are just like rag dolls,
They are made of the cloth they wear,
And get old in same manner,
To be gone never to come back,
Like the one you had when you were little.
That ended at the edge of the yard,
With ashes all over it,
Its limbs no longer there,
The head blinking its eyes
And the torso lying far away alone.

The same is true of rag queens,
They jump up and down in the march,
They raise their knees on chariots,
Like floats from far away,
To end the day getting off,
At their final destination,
The activities of the day over,
No money to count for none was made,
For too expensive was the float,
That left everybody broke,
While they road away with the money,
Never to return at payback time.
For nobody likes revenge that looks backwards,
And comes on head long like a horse.
That gallops with strong hoofs,
And gets into everybody's stable.
To announce the king is dead.

Golden chariots lie empty,
As do big round dwellings,
As do the bellies of those
Who fed on the truth they created,
And told everybody it had to be,
For who would look at a leader,
Whose belly was flat?
But one who told his people he was just
A simple man like them, the Mahatma,
Who walked and dressed like the poor,
For he found wisdom in poverty of the flesh,
And strength in the abundance of spirit,
Only to be shot and killed while sitting,
In that truth that saved his nation,
And still does so today.