Mother Africa: When Is The Dawn Of Your Day To Rise Up?
By Gabriel Kucdit Kachuol, Nairobi, Kenya
–
Oh, mother Africa,
The land of great natural endowment:
So pregnant with world highly coveted minerals,
The land with magnificent scenery of flora and fauna.
The virgin land;
Of once a great civilisation, art and philosophy,
Of great Kings and Queens, heroes and heroines,
Of great peoples of ethnographical diversity
Of majestic rivers, Lakes and valleys,
Of impressive mountains and plains
Of savannah and thick equatorial jungles;
The most wonderful land whose imperial geographers and explorers
Approached with curious admiration and spectacle,
When is the dawn of your day to rise up?
–
Oh, mother Africa,
What should I do? Should I cry or pity you?
When you widely open your gates to the stranger naively thinking
You were being hospitable and generous to your fellow human,
Who savagely pounced on you,
flogged your black race,
Ravaged your antique social, political and economic systems;
only ruins of pyramids and a few monuments remains as a trace;
And then they started writing voluminous books that portray you as nothing but a Land of inferior, savage, barbaric, uncivilised, devilish and hopeless race Of people, who sees not beyond the nose;
The books are written such that any African who attempts to dispute any
Falsity they contain is but affirming the stupidity attributed to Africans.
When is the dawn of your day to rise up?
–
Oh, mother Africa,
Like a rat compensating with faeces a farmer whom he has eaten his crops in the store,
The imperialists started to:
Explore and exploit,
Divide and rule,
Brutalise and vandalise your black race;
For their luxury, your prosperous daughters of the Nile,
Kidnapped, whipped and reduced to machines for not only sex in the motels
And hotels of the western high ways and cities,
But also machines for hard and cheap labour,
And when they were won out to do much any further,
They were mercilessly locked and chocked
In industrial gas chambers.
When is the dawn of your day to rise up?
–
Oh, mother Africa,
When the spirit of consciousness and nationalism felt upon your sons:
Kwame Nkrumah, Jomo Kenyatta, Mohamer Gadaffi, Robert Mugabe,
Samore Marshal, Sekor Toure, Sankara, and et tal..
Impelling them to dismantle the manacles
And drove the swines back to their homelands,
And it was then that
Independence were spontaneously declared in Kenya, Libya, Ghana, Uganda….
It was not the end of imperialism
But was a gradual ‘renaissance of Colonialism’ in Neo-colonialism,
Only that this time,
The plotted strategy is more cancerous, dangerous and in
Miscellaneous, irresistible, disguised forms: in technology, politics, education, culture,…
Only that this time,
They made sure they clandestinely eliminate or isolate radical African
Leaders only to set the ignorant black populace in perpetual shock,
Forever haunted by the question: ‘who killed our hero, Dr. JG?’
When is the dawn of your day to rise up?
–
Oh, mother Africa,
They, with impunity, proceed to
Impose on Africans sugarcoated systems of governance that they know:
They will be indirect rulers,
They are the lords of poverty,
They are perpetrators of catastrophic civil strifes,
And then,
They hypocritically display on TVs their pathetic pictures of ‘baits aids’
To the stranded, starving African population.
Nevertheless,
They sponsor and maintain civil instability not just in a frantic want to
Enforce policies of their own interests but as a way to create more
Employment opportunities abroad for their jobless workers who runs the
So-called humanitarian organisations: UN topping the list!
When is the dawn of your day to rise up?
–
Oh, mother Africa,
Through greedy and cruel hands:
Can you hear the cry of your children in the shanty town streets?
The filthy streets makes them disappear forever.
Death squadrons surrounds your dear innocent children,
Who have never seen the gesture of love,
Who, even before hearing the voice of a mother,
Have already heard the whistle of a bullet.
When is the dawn of your day to rise up?
–
Oh, mother Africa,
When is the dawn of your day to respond to the cry of your million Children,
Who are conscripted and trained in military barracks:
With their infantile hands they do not collect flowers,
They do not play with the sand,
They clutch weapons, the instruments of death, that are not only bigger Than themselves, but with which,
They are forced to hate and kill;
Millions of them never attend school that could open up their minds and Help them acquire personal dignity and value.
–
Oh, mother Africa,
It seems that as soon as Nkrumah, Gadaffi and the likes slept,
You, too, went back to sleep and I wonder
When is the dawn of your day to rise up?
–
The poet is a South Sudanese student in Nairobi, Kenya, and can be reached via Kucdidgab@gmail.com
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