Hurrying
embarassed towards Shakespeareplatz away
to save my face
only?
Away, half walking half running unsteady
wobbling with wine.1The poem “The Exhibition” is making reference to words that are racist, sexist or otherwise offensive. It does so in order to show that racism exists and how it feels to be affected by it. Valuing the historical significance of both the film and the poem we present them in their original form without editing, redacting or deleting anything.
I watched my arms turn a coppery gold
at the lights orange then red.
(Someone brushed my cheek maybe an innocent
hand but I spat on his face out of habit and
watched his surprised face caught gaping pale
white but I hurried on.)
So many things we should have talked
about but now it is too late.
I left you
at your own exhibition feasting
seeking approval from your guests
pretending not to know
me.
A lover and killer of colours I am
a painter.
I mix colours into a thick
mass and slash with my brush across
white canvas destroying
pinks and browns
yellows and reds
To ease the monotony of canvasses.
I shouldn't be thinking now. –
Count the steps
I'm nearing the subway and
I'm farther away from Us.
The train has just left it's after midnight
now twelve minutes to
wait. I'm impatience.
A young girl in leather pants lies
hallucinating on a bench...
I got tired of explaining how colours are
killed maybe kids would could
grasp it?
I was a coward why didn't I just
spit on your face?
But being
a lover and painter
I can kill you on my white canvas or
in this poem or
in another!
I kill all colours.
How much, nigger arse, how much …
If you don't stop calling me names I'll
kill you all
all you leeches in this
poem now you'll be stone cold and I
mean it before I finish with you.
Why not? Why not in this poem?
I'm mending my faith with words on the
white page –
I mend images on canvasses
Remember how
juicy
you found
my black plump bottom how
sweet
my kinky hair and
it was so good you kept coming for more
until I was drained?
Lately thinking you take my brown to explain
your hiding me from
yourself I think we should
have mentioned that then but
the train is coming now goodbye but you have
not yet heard me of me
the red-hot tropical tart you have
known-heard of.
A black painter a lover and destroyer of
colours I am I kill them I
mix them all I slash with my brush
across the empty white canvas
knifing with my pen.
Wanjiru Kinyanjui, 1984
Reprinted with kind permission of the author.
