Sad tongue prays:

Mama Africa
Mother of our fate
The silenced moon of fate
Of faithful hypothetical shame
and of ear has been sealed
inside a tale of malevolent


Soul speaks:

did you hear that heart speak
of a pain that has  become
a cancerous wound
with no cure?


The Bitter tale:

The cries of motherhood unheard
The sweating shame of my people
These roads well trodden
Are the same death traps we craved for 
Like octave of pains, gnawings of teeth
And still our eyes gazed with no pity
For a dying brother’s life.

Did I hear you sing praises of colonialism
And preached fire tongues of imperialism?
Wherefore did we lost our eyes from seeing?
And for which negligence did we sold our souls for?
The chains we claimed for her friendship
By selling our own for just the joy of it
The very blood we thirst for it quench in our greedy cups
Are the same demons we yearning for her gratifications.

A preacher of tradition
A singer of ancestry
A believer billed with bile
I am bitter and bitter like cold venom
For how long shall we become like King Kongs
Blaming the tricks that we gladly embraced as ‘fools’?

As I walked my mind along the shores of Africa
As I took a dream of hops and leaps
Fast forwarding my un-blinded eyes
Through the thick of her skin
I saw wicked men of this same land of ours
Spilling blood out of joy
Slaughtering and butchering their fellows
As if they were cows for an abattoir
I was frightened and I shivered within my core
Were these men cnanibals or humans?
And were they white-men with black paintings on their skins?
No, no, no—
They were Africans just like you and I.

Call these failed leaderships
Lay that mind of unfeckless conscious scrutiny on their hearts
And you would be shocked
How gravely their intentions are
Heartless souls with vampire hearts
They care for nobody but their ponging bellies
And O’ through greedy and envy
Our own people have built arsenals of selfishness
As their eternal loyal empires
O’ hallowed self-gratification nemesis of our progress.

Blame not the past
Cast no lips of tantrums on history
Yes, our history may be tattered
Painted by crude white deceits
And oppressed by chronic eurocentric lies
But this our shame is still on our heads
O’ you connivers and looters
Of shame filled immoral souls
When shall we continue to be snared by your lies
The blood you keep spilling
The torment you keep piling on this land
Shall some day rake it horns on you
And when the keeper comes
Tell him this story I weave from my lonesome hut
For I am sad and sombre of what I see in Africa.

The Village Thinker © 2014


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