Spoken Word: “The Work You Didn’t Choose”

Spoken Word: “The Work You Didn’t Choose”

In Kenya

they did not always say—

Work.

They said—

“Show me your papers.”

A small book.

A pass.

A record of your movement,

your breath,

your worth—

written by someone

who did not know your name

before they needed your labor.

Walk without it—

and you are illegal

on your own land.

Stay without work—

and you are punished

for being still

in the place that raised you.

They took the land—

and called it progress.

They took your movement—

and called it order.

They took your time—

and called it opportunity.

And somewhere,

a man stands between two worlds—

his home behind him,

a settler’s field ahead—

and neither one

is his anymore.

In Ghana

it came softer—

No whip in every moment,

no chain on every wrist—

just a slow rearranging

of reality.

A road built here.

A railway there.

A port calling your name

without ever speaking it.

And suddenly—

the old ways feel…

far.

Not gone—

just pushed to the edges

of survival.

You can stay—

but staying grows harder.

You can farm—

but now the soil whispers:

cocoa… cocoa… cocoa…

And you begin to grow

what feeds a market

you will never see.

You begin to live

in a system

you did not design.

Freedom stands beside you—

but survival walks the other way.

In Senegal

they did not ask—

They counted you.

Not your hut—

you.

A head.

A body.

A number in a ledger

that breathes.

Pay to exist.

And if the coin does not come—

your labor will.

Roads do not build themselves,

they said.

Rails do not lay themselves,

they said.

Empires do not rise

without hands—

and your hands

were already chosen.

Even your body

could be called to war—

a uniform placed over your story,

a rifle placed in your memory,

a flag placed over your future.

And across all three—

a quiet design—

Not always the crack of a whip,

but the tightening of a world.

Where:

Land is gone.

Money is required.

Movement is controlled.

And choice…

Choice becomes a narrow path

between hunger

and obedience.

They never had to say:

“You must work.”

They built a world

where not working

meant disappearing.

But listen—

Even inside that pressure,

something moved differently.

A knowing.

That this was not natural.

That this was not destiny.

That this was designed.

And what is designed—

can be undone.

So when you speak of labor—

do not just say “work.”

Say:

They engineered survival.

They redirected life.

They made existence conditional.

And still—

the people learned to bend

without breaking.

To move

without forgetting.

To work…

and still remember

a time

when work

belonged

to them.