I want to meet Magaret Ogola on the first right shelf and Ngugi on the first left one.
I want to see the black face of Chimamanda staring back at me
And the evidence of the black hands of Caroline Wambui, Mejja Mwangi
I want to go the African Bookshop and linger there for hours
Reading titles of familiar cities; Nairobi, Mogadishu, Addis Ababa, Lilongwe, Ndjamena.
I want to romance with the minds of people who have shared similar experiences in wearing the dark skin and living in the places where they called underdeveloped, primitive, the original sin which must be cleansed through holy water.
I want to feel that raw rebellion you feel while reading Weep Not Child, Detained and Caitani Mutharabaini.
I want to smell that old book smell that reminds me of the days when our ancestors sat around the fire, gazing.
I want someone to take me back to the days of our ancestors. Tell me about ancient Kemit. Tell me how Menelik II fought the Italians and that Ethiopia and Liberia were never colonized.
Tell me about Me Katilili Wa Menza, Field Marshall Muthoni, Moraa Ngita. Tell me how these ferocious women fought for our independence from the white man.
I want to read about our heroes. Not superman or Wonder Woman. Enlighten me with the ideologies of Thomas Sankara, Ras Tafari and Cleopatra.
Tell me about the movement. Yes that one of the Mau Mau. But also tell me about the revolutions in the rest of Kenya. I yearn to know.
Take me to the African Bookshop so I might decolonize my mind from all this filth I have acquired all my life
Photocredits to the Africanbookclub.com