To be The World’s Only Anything
By Joel Smith
About the author: Joel Smith is a white writer who can only write about black people. He thinks they exhibit more sufférance, in the Lacanian sense. Apologies to all involved.
______________________________________________________________________________
Benito Mañé killed my mother but it was Sabater Pi who gave me my name: Nfumu Ngui. Do you not know it? I have fathered 22 children, all of whom are dead, even Urko, my last. I come from Nko, near Rio Campo in what was then Spanish Guinea. You might call it the Western Lowlands. Mañé shot my family, simple banana farmers all, just to get to me. He knew I was different, born for greatness.
Why do I tell you this as if you don’t already know? Look at me and try to look away.
At two I left Africa forever. Sabater Pi took me with him to Barcelona, where the Mayor himself, Josep Maria de Porcioles, gave ME an official reception. I asked for nothing, but unto me it was given.
My legacy is secure whether I tell you one word or all of them. But time is short, I have the cancer, and will soon be gone. Oculotaneous albinism type 1, if you find solace in such things. But no science can explain me and no God dares to make another.
You come to me, gawking, beseeching my wisdom, my humor, but I have nothing for you. Nothing I haven’t already given, to the thousands who come to my theater where I am king.
Why aren’t you laughing? You whores to Janus. I am Tragicomedy. The blinding darkness, shadow made light. I breed and breed and yet the only dead end is an average one.
FEAR ME! ASTEROID 95962 Copito is named for me and it’s coming your motherfucking way!