Children of the aged men;
I greet you!
Children whom the white-haired ancient men
have drawn carvings of our peace
on the walls of time; but stick to the violence
on civilization’s screens…
I hail you!
Who rubbed the white clay rub off the walls?
The one which our Nation’s Fathers showed to us
as One Great Empire?
What happened to the lands
which stood out passionately
on the map of the world?
What happened to the labours of our heroes,
who have spent endless nights in the world beyond;
who fought defiantly to free us from slavery?
When did we take off our robes drawn from
ancient sacks of unity and begin to groan
over the rags of civilization?
Where are boys who called themselves brothers?
Where are the nations which once stood together;
in a great circle to voice our terms of freedom?
To break the shackles that held us bound?
Why? Why? Why have the young eaglets decided
to play with the sheddings of a garter snake?
Knowing that hunters sit at the foot
of the hill; anticipating to pounce
on anything uncommon!
What shall we tell our ancestors?
That we’ve desecrated her soil
with the blood of her kind?
That we’ve burnt the fleshes of our
nearby kindreds and jubilated at their deaths
in the outlets of mutilation and jabbing screams?
What shall we tell Mother Africa?
That her offsprings have served her a
meal made of the white bones of her nippers?
That the sauce was boiled with the blood
of her toddlers?
I say, Mother Weep! Mother Weep!
For the sky is draped with tears, turmoil and tremor…
Mother Weep! For the land, once vibrant, is soaked with anguish…
Mother Weep! For your children are no longer at ease!
Mother Weep! See your children’s investments,
the ruins they once called a home, the streets they once
sauntered in… All in a pillar of smoke, flesh and bones!
Look away! Look away, faint heart…
For what you are about to behold,
breaks a pitcher of tears from your eyes…
What you are about to behold..
Will cause your heart to bleed pain…
Children of Mother Africa,
can a suckling child who ignores
the nipples of his mother
survive the pangs of hunger
and the winds that howl at night?
Or the shivers that bite spines
and lungs to a certain death?
Children of Africa,
find the breasts of your mother,
and hold on to it….
For it is the giver of life…
Children of Africa,
Find your essence buried
in the sinking sands of your Land.
Scavenge for your roots…
and you’ll find the solution
you have longed sought in
the branches of westernisation.