I Wrote About Kushan, and The Sub-Saharan African Got Angry
I wrote about the Kushan Empire —
words of dust and gold,
of riders crossing silence,
of a story carved in stone
before any of us had a name.
But he saw it.
And something in him cracked.
Not because I was wrong.
Not because I lied.
But because I dared
to speak a history
that wasn’t his.
He came like a warning shot.
Digital.
Sudden.
Loud.
Mocking me
for remembering
what his world had never learned.
I didn’t take his voice.
I didn’t write him out.
But still—
my words were too much.
My knowing was too sharp.
And isn’t that always the way?
When we speak,
they say we’re stealing.
When we remember,
they call it invasion.
But history doesn’t belong
to the ones who shout.
It belongs to those
who still carry it,
quietly,
like a fire
hidden in the palm.
So I won’t stop writing.
Not for his rage.
Not for his ego.
Not for the borders in his mind
that fall apart
when I speak.