Of the old era of slavery
With whips and rods
Drawing map, leading more into slavery
On your brutalized, battered, burnt, black back
Would you ever have a moment of joy
Than a hopeless flash of freedom
In your worrisome dream?
Slave!
So you would be called
With shackles on your neck and feet
Broken lips, battered hips
The flash of freedom, still
In your troubled short dream
And you would wake up more into slavery
You would speak the victory of your forefathers
In their kingly palace
While you plough more land for your master
You would narrate the dream of freedom
To your fellow slaves
And one day, the freedom comes
And you become your own master
Your own slave
Will you ever come out of those shackles?
You plough more land for your own slavery
What a miserable master of a stupid slave
You are lost
And you leave no trail for your finders
You sleep all day
Yet have no dream nor any flash of freedom
You are dead, though with life
Blind, though with sight
You are still in shackles
Of the new era of your own slavery
Will you ever come out of those shackles?
Written by: Abdulrasheed Dawodu
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
Whole world is falling into shackles. Called credit cards and debt. World is same in some ways as 200 years ago. Always a way to imprison a person.
And we all struggle…vainly?