Been Down That Darkness (part 1)

. . . you're just walking along the street with her -- young, pretty, shapely, black woman -- and you put your hands in your pockets and she says, "Take your hands out of your pockets."  And thinking that if a man wants to put his hands in his pockets, they're his hands and his  pockets.  "For what," I say.  She didn't say anymore about it.  You assume that she didn't want you to go off on her there in the streets with so many people around.  A few days later you go to  her apartment  and the moment she opens the door she flinches, frowning.  "You didn't comb your hair," she says.  You don't say a word, just turn and walk away.  Many years have passed and you've never seen her again.  You never told her that you were at war.  Didn't think she'd understand it.

You walked alone in the crowded streets with that war; alone with it in your one-room apartment until it exploded attempting to smother affection for all humans, relatives, friends, a sweetheart, a wife, children, and any material luxury; strong to replace them with cold, calculated dedication to revolution, not pamphleteering-leafleteering-rioting-looting "revolution", needing something stronger -- and not with a handful here and a handful there of reckless, attention-seeking numbskulls splattering the air throughout the land with "Pick up the gun", assembling around nothing more than skin color, thinking that they're gonna be another Fidel Castro and a "Che".  Against the most powerful country in the world?  The MFs were stark mad.

You go underground, traveling as in night, darkness, sworn to "Africa or bust" where black is numerically superior and gunning is logical.  "Socialism, communism, complete overturning, total revolution," you've heard and you'll say goodbye to the western world by taking a look at that land where communism had been ensconced under the romanticized, tantalizing cry of "Revolution!"
                                      Part 2, kesho, tomorrow