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35 A Basket of Flaming Ashes Lady of the Morning I do not remember her face but the scar on her cheek followed me Like colonial boundaries it made no sense She did not see my face nor did she care Her body like Africa had been placed on a table Disrobed by poverty and robbed of her tongue Her name could be Arrah, Bih or nothing. She flung open a well of diamonds I labored to get everything, leaving Sweat, moans, culture, language and all She was no woman of the night; She was a lady of the morning. Face washed Scar powdered She was ready for another Scramble for Africa ...

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