Oh you of rich history, legends and tales, envious to no other,
Nations of hospitality, so welcoming, duped into forsaking your own birth rights.
Oh you of morals, high and unflinching,
beliefs transcending supernatural,
Engrained into a way of life, the way of life of the motherland.
Oh you land of flourishing fauna, deep savannah,
blessed soil with minerals.
Oh you of plenty faith, banner to your identity,
that brandishes your faith, which ever it may be, as the only way.
Oh you of rich family ties, may your brothers be more than blood tied,
may they be anyone that touches your life.
Oh you that seeks excellence, without parley,
borderline criminal, your sons and daughters shall only be lawyers, doctors and engineers.
Oh you the wise, every story ushered by your elders
holds centuries of wisdoms in a folkloric tone.
Miles away from home, I can still see your pain, unable to feed your own,
The prosperous land of your ancestry is not yours.
Looted by your greedy sons, you watch, as they destroy you a piece at a time.
Mama I feel for you, estranged, without refuge, in other’s peoples land,
Your own aren’t finding peace.
Left to beg, a sweat at a time you earn your meals,
Oh mama I mourn with you, ebony, the heritage of your kin,
makes of them casts away, the world, unaware that the deep dark and shine on their skin, is only God’s gift against the sun.
Mama I remember with you, these inspiring ways that you’ve fought to teach your own,
Ignored and revolted against like a teenager, some of your kids rather dance and celebrate.
Mama you were never perfect, like many through history you fought, conquered, lost.
Your lavish past is the pain you feel today.
You let go so easy of your sons, but Mama you didn’t know they’ll be in harm’s way.
I saw you teach them all pride,
from birth, with names blessed by the Gods,
Each of them, carried away by their sense of duty to their tribes,
they fight, amnesic they are of the same womb.
Today We are different. Rich of our heritage. Diverse of tongues, and speech, from the Old Mesopotamia to the shores of Cap Verde,
From Marrakesh to Pretoria, we are who we are, perhaps still destined to a good turn in history,
But that day is oh so slow to come.
Strong and powerful, carrying genes of centuries of hard work.
Short of discipline, this strength wasted on meaningless ventures.
Today we sit and watch you decimated, painfully by your own at times. Not all are just watching
Too few are doing. But like you’ve thought us,
We look back and sing, sing to the glory of the past days,
Hopeful for the rise after the dawn.