Dear Female ‘fugee
I got your letter in the delayed developing world yesterday. You said you needed me now more than ever? Your masters sought a cure for Ebola quicker than an opportunity for me, and honestly, it made me feel mediocre.
I hear you’re on a journey? How do you manage it with such weight in your heart and a stomach echoing the meals of last week. I’m sorry to hear about your home. If it’s any consolation, mine has been burnt too. My theory now just embers under the blanketed ash covering the rest of the poverty basin you’re so familiar with.
I know your feet are mapping trails of distress in the sand, tracing tears and fears in your efforts to achieve something close enough to me, in a sense, a world where there is more to life than to flee.
You said you have no country. No anthem monotonously falling off your lips, no flag dancing to the rhythm of a wind singing Viva! You have left your home before I could even see it. You will have to take me there some day.
I’m sure by now your feet are tired. Calluses flourishing beneath your waiting weight, as you’ve crossed borders of abuse and discrimination, only to be met with more fists firmly fighting, because apparently your arrival was unfair.
You asked me whether refuge will become like love, which is more than just a verb, yet underated and overused. I don’t know, dear female fugee. I don’t know how black lives still don’t matter, or how you still get taught that to provoke a man wise enough to walk leads rightfully to him manipulating your temple as he so pleases.
I don’t know whether the world will wake from this ominous,self-indulgent slumber, where a baby too young to count to four had to be carried in on the oceans arms before turning the heads of only three. I cannot say whether this world will realise that the same seriousness taken to tribute king Cecil was always owed tenfold to Syria, Congo, Zimbabwe, Gaza and the First Nations Genocide of ’88.
Mother…you carry nations within the constellation of your genetic melody. I apologise that I have not woven myself intricately into that, as I should have added scores more,creating harmony as only I can. Forgive me for my absence in the carbohydrated imports, sent to excuse those who have exploited your diamonds in return for dry rice.
I write this, while being imprisoned in their bank accounts, big enough to house your continent twice over.
I do hope to hear from you soon, at the earliest convenience of humanity and those who still believe in it.
**Written by Courtney Koopman, 18yrs, TeenPower blogger**