They call it sub-Saharan—
as if Africa were a submarine,
ducking politely beneath elsewhere,
periscope up, waiting for permission.

Wait.

Sub like “less than,”
like a footnote that forgot it was a library,
like history that somehow happened
before it was discovered.

I’m thinking out loud.

A desert becomes a ruler.
A line in the sand gets tenure.
Everything south of it is “sub,”
as if pyramids, empires, iron smelting,
and mathematics forgot to RSVP to civilization.

Anyhow.

Meanwhile, sub doesn’t touch places whose names end in “land”.
No one says sub-Alps when things go wrong.
No sub-Manchester for past guilt.
Funny how sub only travels south
and never comes back.

Whatever.

Africa, apparently, is always downstairs—
yet somehow hosting the party,
feeding the guests,
and reminding the world
who taught it how to dance.

No, I’m not sub, are you? Would you like to be?

Bye bye!