Upon the Seas of Anarchy, Canto III

Canto II

Canto III

There is a certain circular justice

In building the first charter city on

The continent of Africa. A kiss

Of freedom for the world, a kiss of hope

For all the world that looks in the abyss.

I want to talk about the time I went

To Freedom City, met with Song – the “Pope”

Of liberty, we snidely joked – was sent

As a reporter to expose the truth

Of what was happening, so Hell-bent

To show it was corrupt and exploitative,

To show how it was run by the uncouth

And show that it impoverished the native

And immigrant alike. I went to see

My fantasy and what no contemplative

Person, one who truly understood what

Mankind is like in his complexity

And not as I would improve him – a slut

And saint at once – a fractal golden mean –

Who, praised or curse, can always give a “but . . .”

No, I was sure that I would find corruption –

And that, indeed, is what I found: a scene

Of desolate corruption, interruption

Of wealth and progress Song had made upon

Sanaga’s mouth by Kalabi’s disruption.

But I’m ahead of myself yet again.

I went to Freedom City, met with Song,

And entered his great city with disdain.

I could not see the wealth and freedom there –

No matter what, I would see only pain.

But even I could not deny the sight

I witnessed there. A city growing where

A river delta swamped the land, delight

Of senses, energy, and work displayed

Itself in every nook, both day and night.

I saw musicians playing by the streets,

Each one well-dressed, each sounding like they played

The Met each night; the poets rapped their beats

In coffee houses; on each wall there hung

The city’s artists’ works in well-sketched sheets

And brightly painted canvasses. The smell

Of food filled up the city, and my tongue

Had never tasted food and drink so well-

Prepared, no matter where I went, so fresh

And clean. And yet, so certain this was Hell,

I could not see or taste or smell what all

Emerged before me naturally. I’d thresh

The city that I saw to give it, wall

And street alike, back to the people who

I knew this Song had stole it from, install

A government who always would provide

Each citizen the smallest thing and do

All things for everyone. I would divide

The classes, rob the rich to give the poor

What I thought they deserved and chide

Them if they dared complain. Unhappy, smug,

I thought that my unhappiness was more

From all the suffering I saw – the drug

I fed myself – but generosity

Is never true from those who, like a thug,

Would take from others. No, true happiness

Can only come when you give honestly

From what you own – that’s how you get the bless

Of happiness. You give what others earned

And you will simply live a life of stress.

It took me many years to learn this truth,

A truth, despite the evidence, I spurned

In articles and in the voting booth,

Until I looked upon the devastation

Of Freedom City that was so uncouth

As to dare challenge my ideals. But when

I went to see the city, revelation

Was still a long way off. I saw a den

Of thieves at work, and searched until I found

Corruption there, as though a place where men

Existed would not have its stench. But Song

Would have to learn a city needed ground

Of solid stone, that bribes were sand, were wrong

Not just as abstract morals, but because

The bonds they built were simply not that strong.

Perhaps I helped to bring the city’s fall –

Perhaps that’s what a good reporter does,

Exposing wrong – perhaps I pushed the ball –

Perhaps it would have happened anyway –

But when my article collapsed the wall

Of secrecy in Cameroon, a cry

Went out against the city on that day.

The government reacted – they’d deny

Corruption, but General Kalabi

Was sent in right away, and therefore by

The end of that same week, the General

Was occupying Freedom City. He

Had somehow failed to capture Song, but full

Of victory at taking unarmed men,

He declared victory and killed a bull

Right there within the city square, a kind

Of sacrifice, to cleanse the city. Then

He said all Cameroonians would find

The city theirs, but all the rest must leave

Within the week, or he would make them blind.

I think it now barbarity, but then

I thought it right. Back then, I would believe

The lies of all dictators, big strongmen

I now see raped and pillaged those they ruled,

And did it with the mere stroke of a pen.

Canto IV