I watched him spit at a steady rate,
Chewing at his stick, his head held straight,
He sat on a stool in front of his land,
Typical of a pure African man...
He had on just a cloth coloured red,
Answering greetings without turning his head,
And as the clouds gathered in earnest,
He chewed on with unhurried patience...
I knew he had come a very long mile,
His features had the clear effects of time,
His face, a picture of contorted rage,
Doubtlessly caused by the facets of old age...
But he had no fear for the gathering clouds...
He was black... And I knew he was proud...
Image source: mindblowingfacts.com
