Alvin Kathembe
Crossing
I’m an airline pilot. Flying over the Atlantic into New York, one crosses miles and miles of ocean. I think about the people before me who have navigated this same passage—intrepid adventurers who may or may not have been successful (e.g. the legend of Mansa Musa’s predecessor, Mohammed Ibn Qu); African bodies stolen, then crammed in the cargo holds of merchant ships to endure unimaginably cruel conditions. And now me. This poem is an examination of what that stretch of water has represented in the past, and what it symbolizes today.
As we approach the Atlantic’s western shore
America’s outstretched arm rises from the ocean—
Long Island’s palm either
open to us in welcome,
or a warning to come no further.
My ancestors’ kin made this passage
in the leaking bowels of ships
tracking the hypotenuse
of a trade route.
We make ours at 43,000 feet above sea level.
The currents, up here, while stronger,
are not nearly as turbulent
and we count the cost of our crossing
in hours,
instead of months.
We left Nairobi in darkness
and chased west after the night.
Now New York unfolds before us,
the rising sun red
on the wings of this Dreamliner.
My ancestors’ kin made this passage as cargo
in the holds of American vessels.
Today we approach her shore as pilots
sitting at the helm.
Alvin Kathembe (he/him) is a writer from Nairobi, Kenya. His poetry has been featured in Dust Poetry Magazine, The Lumiere Review, Old Love Skin: Voices From Contemporary Africa, and other publications. He co-edited down river road’s third issue—“Asphyxia.” His short stories have been published in Jalada, Omenana, Brittlepaper and Equipoise, available on Kindle. Find him on Twitter @SofaPhilosopher.
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