Posted by Noble Ojigwe on
This poem is for you O Africa
how strange the look on your face.
beaten black and blue by age.
that frail wizened face, coloured black
by the smoke and the fires
You old man still trying to run as time closes in on you.
Still running and trying to catch up
with the stars and the men that dine on the moon.
I can hear the winds whistling through your torn skins
of leopards and tigers that cloth your naked bones.
souvenirs of your distant strength when you ruled the jungles.
And tamed the forest with your rippling muscles.
I can hear the clattering of your loose yellowish teeth
falling like rusty cowries to the rocks.
This poem is for you O mighty sea.
that beat the coasts in a deluge of storms.
and spares no thought for the babies
whose heads you smash on the trunks of the coconut trees.
Africa, this poem is for your big shots
who plunder your conscience with their greed
who cruise with speed
on their four wheeled Suvs
and pay no heed
to your hungry children
whose need they cant feed nor read.
And this is for your Bishops who pray for their election victories
but spare no thoughts for our miseries
as they conjure their sorceries
in their air conditioned shrines.
This poem is for your jesters who see nothing good in you.
while basking in the warmth of your sunshine.
And for your jokers and dictators
who play pranks
on us with their armoured tanks.
your gun men and their military regimes.
Your camo clad coup plotters.
And to your heroic students and rioters
your labour leaders and protesters.
who fight the exploiters.
This poem is for your destroyers
who rob the banks as the bullets fly,
and falling by standers cry as they die.
This poem is for your child molesters and your mobsters.
your well suited and five star fraudsters,
This poem is for your crack smokers
and the jeering , cheering spectators
who are watching you burn.
This is for your looters and the onlookers
who say our own na to sidon look.
as the few burdened hands try to salvage the madness.
This is for your political prostitutes
who sell themselves to every bidder
as they swindle the voters
with well crafted verbiage
drafted by smooth talking con men
who flaunt smart brief cases laden with lies.
This poem is for your powerful demigods
who dress in black robes
and sit upon your hallowed pews and high tables
and read the second lessons
to deaf beasts who learnt nothing from the first.
This poem is for your wasters
on whom we pray down the wrath of God.
to rend them to bend them
and to mend them.
to send them to the end
for my people to be free.
This poem is for you O whirlwind of hunger
and to you O flood
of bad blood and to you O sword.
This poem is for you O swelling currents of discontent
rushing through the land in your torrent
breaking our fragile hearts
as we watch our ramparts
being torn apart.