This the death of Daksha Mohamed, and the birth of the colonial,

Unindian, Daksha Gladstone, property of the grand Massa Gladstone,

From plantation Albion, their little England in colonial Guiana.

 

According to the Massa’s wife, Missis An-eye-yah:

“The diseased dirt of your lands is dead, now you’re mine.

This land is now your home, and I, your owner.

Kiss the laws of the colonial Guiana and all will be right.”

​

Now, while Massa Gladstone loves to thrust the whips of his

Desire into my bleeding core, his mad ass wife continues to teach me to

Be by un-being myself, as “the brown bitch is now dead”.

 

Instead, she made an army of unwhite shadows, blazing in the heat of colonial sin.

Taking grip of my soul, she ripped the red silk of my mother’s saree, now mine

Unveiling the fabric of my Pradesh, the comfort of my soul gone...

 

Cutting the umbilical cord of my homeland, this white demon

Exposed the curves of my expansion of the Gandhi rivers, and the swells

Of my choli, she broke the image of my Indianess and replace me with

An unwhite shell of Daksha Gladstone, the colonized unindian gurl.

 

Children of colonial Guiana to survive in the land of

The undead one must always bend to the shadows will,

To the Massa’s hand of patriarchy.

One must always echo their movement, and vernacular of the Massa,

No more of the Monkey talk as Madame Gladstone called our native tongue,

Or else is the carcass of your shell will marinate the fruit of our land.

 

But most of all,

Children of the Red Muddah soil,

Never, ever forget, that although

They force you to look like the white savage's talk,

Walk and think like them, you are not one of them.

 

“You’re the lesser, the brown cattle

Plowing the land of the army of the undead,

Never, ever forget your place sweet, Sweet Baby Daksha.”

 

Reiterates Mississ An-eye-yah,

 

“Welcome to British Guiana.”