Psalming a dying Africa


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MY TONGUE IS DRIED
(Psalming A Dying Africa)

I— Africa’s voice

—hearts
I have been through the eyes Africa, flushed my heart through her spines and seen the fate of her golden rains poured down my throat. Sometimes I ask why this fate of a ghost’s gossip would slowly and subtly stifle the hands of time on Africa.

I am a yondering baked issues from the grimmer beneath servitude from the pillows of Africa. Nine months of a bleating journey inside the belly of slavery has robbed my grey, my daughters and sons look at me with disdain and gnaw their teeth for the cross laid with them to their plights. Did I ever made a harvest of mushrooms without showing the mound I took her tip from?

My tongue is dried, my words have expired as the axe of this time bottled in colonial saw grinds me to the pool of blood. You lift your eyes to the walls of countries, you seek beyond the merits of today and all you see is chaos eating the brewed peace which was poured into the calabash of the old. Who is thirsty amongst you, that he  may live worth to drink this hidden water under my bleeding eyes?

I have washed my face from the cup of slavery, I have washed my feet, seeking freedom from the frivolous scary bones of imperialism, but who takes the prize now that the seeds from my belly have gone the craze line of ugly corruption?

Where lies peace? Where lies truth? And where lies the seeker who dream of salvaging the rot? I see none, O’ wails and tears of poverty sucking the blood of my children. They claim love of humanity, sing praises of hypocrisy on their campaign trail— after they have had their pie and eaten the sweat of the poor, they come in sheepishly with host of lying lips. Woe unto you, poor leadership souls!

Who breaks a vow and go unpunished? I lay in tatterdemalion waiting for who is of purified eyes to wash my feet of it dust and cleanse my body of it bleeding wounds. But in all these tragedies and regrets of my folded tongue, I know the sky rumbles a future— a future where tigers and lions of African sons and daughters would take an hour and an honour, crucify the injustices and say, “Africa must wake from her slumber”

II— The Village Thinker

—Vows
I am a soul of multitude rejected fate
Thousand hymns hidden in my heart
The plights bills my loins
And who chained the lion that came the night
When rats dances with squirrels?
Breath in me thousand songs
Hug me with million mysteries
I wonder and ponder about
Plough the land of infertility
Africa is full of rot—
She is full of blood sucking bourgeoisies
But who wakes to sink libation songs
That thunderstorms would pray with me?
I am the son of this soil
And I sojourn on to this course
Tomorrow won’t be a new day
I sing to cry my last tears
African must wake from her slumber!

The Village Thinker © 2014

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