Are you not Africa?

There is a big village of sorrow

Darkened by skin and pain, lowly in pride
Mind I say whitened by poverty and a hopeless tomorrow?
On every street is a gaunt bigheaded child
Cup in hand, deathly stare, at none, at you
There is a horn in Africa that bleeds
I saw it on the news too
Motherless children, childless mothers
When death’s army came on a truck
They left with 276 holes in Chibok’s testicles
Malls of pleasure or mulling of bullets
Garrissa for training or garrison of terror
They say there is a half Kenyan in some not black house
Well, Kenya is now a canyon of horror

There is one country called Africa
Here, we shoot each other for fun with serious bullets
No, it’s not the Arabs who came from afar for New York’s 2996
Not even like the chosen 12 who not for the sake of the gospel
Rather for the ridicule of it, saw Paris no more, no.
Here in this fat seahorse of a country, Africa
We drink each other’s blood, not for love, I assure you
That’s why you can’t be bothered, I feel you
After all, it’s one country, one person
Who punches himself in his face bloodily a lot, so often.
Why should you care, it’s another man’s business
Yours is individualistic, you keep to your own
This country called Africa, constantly menstruating
We can’t stop the incessant bleeding, let it bleed on

Who will go to war for my humbled twin towers?
Those towers of peace that stood in Sudan and South Sudan
Will you march hand in hand for me?
You don’t have to be a somebody, anybody, will you?
For the now badly soured spring of Egypt and Libya, will you?
But why do I lie here crying for your help!
You don’t even know me, or us, all 54 of us, you don’t
See how fat you have become sipping on my oil
How rich you look mirroring my poverty
How developed you feel, because you have me playing developing
How peaceful you sleep, knowing, but not thinking on my misery
Oh how miserable you would be when I am no more
Who would you flaunt your deliberate benevolence on?
In whose name will you stalk passers-by for an aid dollar?
Whose desperation will your kill-machines market serve?
Whose inferior darkness will pronounce your superior whiteness?

So I will lay me down, and not hope, not breathe
I will look up in the sky, and not see, not be seen
I will tell the stars, won’t say why me, just me
I will look at me and think, was I ever here, I should be
Then I will rise, and see, see what I see
I too am Africa

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