We used to sit br Around the red teak table br With the Book Of Knowledge br Open with its picture br Of Africa. br br That's where we were soon going. br To the country that stood out like the cat muscle br On Cassius Clay's shoulders br br We would get there, br As soon as father's office papers br Came back from New Delhi. br br For days, months, years, br Africa was our mulberry bush. br br Africa. In all weather, the book would lie open br Upon the teakwood table. br We would sit and dream of the crown of Pyramids br Or of our feet dipped in Uranium. br br The pygmies came out of the Denkali forest br At night br With their poison-tipped arrows br But there was always Phantom, br With his skull ring br And we woke up without sweat. br br Every morning we returned before breakfast to Africa br Turning brown among silver fish in the sunlight from the window. br br Decades later near a soccer field in America, br I saw Boko on film. I saw a black youth's red blood br br On the dark long white patrolled streets of Africa. br br Now I know, br Africa is no open book.