Africa toiled, not sparingly
Like locusts in a leafy field
Africans worked without sunshield
The nations of progress
Are the showcases of African process
At heart is success
Away from thought is ‘to mess’
Look at the Super Power
They could have been lower
Were it not for the African back
Scorching in the sun – so black
Scotching under the lash
Never crying of situations harsh
Africa has lit up the World
But Africa is not proud
Ancestral power built
Comfy beds of quilt
But never had they lain in them
Were nipped at their helm
Just like new tea leaves’ buds
Built they huts of muds
Whilst boss bossed beneath wood
Never, the African pain, understood
Made the spear
Chased the deer
Prepared the cuisine
Savored fire’s pin
But never ate the broth
Their hands brought forth
Very well commended
With kicks and blows – beheaded
Built the train
In hot drops of rain
Sweated blood
Slept sad
Woke up insane
Hoisted their vane
Piled the firewood
As Johny just stood
July chill set in
Bwere with foot carrying pin,
Detained for ‘evading’ them
‘Pretending’ he was not strong
Chest bare, but for hair
Cold floor rot his rear
Passed on a cripple
Dumped in the falls’ ripple
Now Johny says Bwere is his debtor
Bwere believes he is the creditor
Johny ‘writes off’ Bwere’s ‘loan’
Bwere yawns his bowels torn
Fathoms not who owes who
Or even who owns skies so blue
Bwere’s pain; Johny’s gain
So who harvests after the rain?
Written by: David Munene
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
It is not a poem it is a volcano in poetry. It shall burst and submerge the world of loot and plunder soon. hats off. This should written on the sky across the universe
I hope so. Thank you Sir.
The poem so beautiful that it paints Africa in its right colour.
Indeed it does…thanks Sir Bada