Jambo!


I began in a place called Kenya, Nairobi.
Bloody birth; not very low-key.
White boy playing on black land,
Like a white shell resting on black sand.

My blond Danish Mama
Buttoned my pajama,
Whilst my two black Mamas
Took care of all the drama.

Then at two years old
My Papa was sold.
Egypt was the country.
Sunny, sweaty and strictly dusty.

Everything so seemingly swell.
Housekeeping keeping the familiar smell.
Suddenly, sent with big sister
To a place where you must say Mr.

Seven o’clock: uniform.
March and sing like a sandstorm.
I was made to hate losing.
Being second was very confusing.

Nigeria was next.
Bigger deal, bigger cheques.
I remember the crazy streets.
Living under presidential bed sheets.

Next up: little brother.
Thank you so much my majestic Mother.
The big five were created.
A lifelong pack culturally unaffiliated.

White or black
We were back on back.
But it always felt unfair.
I always felt a deep despair.

Then Papa gets a call.
Three hours later and that was all.
Dresden was the place.
To us more obscure than space.

Bye bye Africa.
Welcome colonial America.
I learned to never be attached.
It was time again to re-hatch.

All I did was run, shoot and kick
And then eventually play with my dick.
At school putting on a mask
Became the daily task.

Clothing and blinding brands
Became everyday demands.
But whether green or red light
I was never scared of a fight.

Never drink sugar or coke.
Mama would choke.
We were different.
I always felt different.

I played a lot of football.
Fame and fortune with every goal.
But not for long.
Family first was the childhood song.

No more Germany.
It’s time to continue the journey.
Headed to the Middle East.
New mentality, larger feast.

So we moved to Qatar.
Another place so bizarre.
It was rough.
It was time again to be tough.

Fight to adapt.
Forced to interact.
I had to be Arab.
I was the only blond Arab.

Introduced to parts of our Father.
His childhood had been slaughtered.
Working to escape
As his Baghdad will always be raped.

Pressured to smoke.
Marijuana; dokha made me choke.
Prime priority: sex.
Bigger muscles, flex.

I wanted to be cool,
I had to skip school.
I hated it.
I wanted to move and quit.

Turned to rap and Scorsese.
Daily fitness, semi-lazy.
Then more to memorize.
Don’t do! Only theorize.

Papa says: “Sorry son
Final move then you’re done.”
It’s the city of Dubai.
One, two, when do we fly?

Complete isolation.
Searching for titillation.
Internet this, Internet that.
I was sick of all the chit chat.

Finally I finished.
School and all the places I’ve witnessed.
It was time to become my own man.
No more Papa and Mama. I need my own plan.

Headed to Deutschland
Leaving the entire pack in the sand.
Studying and working.
But again this felt far from living.

My background was too complex.
Couldn’t relate to only making checks.
Or focusing on irrelevant uni subjects.
Need to engage in global projects.

Learned about today’s trade system.
Began questioning market capitalism.
My childhood started to make more sense.
All the places, people and events.

Environment shapes behavior.
That sentence became my savior.
Where we’re from is how we see.
Schooling myself with Trom, TZM & TVP.

Once again I needed to leave.
Luckily I had Denmark up my sleeve.
Papa, a passport and university
Gave me Scandinavian economic security.

Life became more stable
Making me more capable.
Found a local companion.
A little lady filled with compassion.

Beginning new adventurous journeys.
Many more enriching stories.
Connecting with like minded people.
Envisioning a future that’s much more equal.

Come discover our work at TROMsite.
Trade is the disease we fight.
The solutions are trade-free
And can be tackled by anybody.

Life will keep changing.
Too many factors rearranging.
I will never have just one home.
All of planet earth is my home.

Many start with: So where are you from?
What do you want to become?
Well I don’t belong to one nation,
And I’ll never have just one vocation.

Jambo Sana Mama and Papa.
I loved Masai Mara.
I loved all the drama
And our families global saga.
But now it’s time to button my own pajama
And run amongst the impalas.
Masalama and Hakuna Matata.