Africa's Dead? HAPPY A.U. DAY!
The crow of a cock announces daybreak
Hissing snakes withdrew into
overgrown forests
Africa was a game
A cross
We carried in our scales.
Some speculate
That Africa is not dead
It still trades
And has recently raised
The price of cola.
Its democracy is saddle with disputes
From across the seas
Watches over her
As over an innocent, still
unspoilt child.
Long ago
Someone said that africa was a
bloodbath
And even the stars,
Gazing at her tremulously,
Burn off
I was told
Africa was a princess
And she became enamoured
Of a golden calf
She had met at a dance
And she wore her bridal kabba
Hemmed about the restiveness
of planets.
And everyone came to woo her
Offering her giant mother-of-
pearls
Which later opened up
Like coffins.
She was sad, as if permeated
By the sorrow of harmattan
She was angry with Europe, who
wanted
To kidnap and conceal her under
a rock
Of aversion.
She was British disconsolate
Spouse; but one stormy night
She met a man, Kwame Nkrumah who was to tell
All her misfortunes:
"Look, your kabba is undone,
I think you're courting great
danger;
Listen, don't try to make out
You're still a virginal bride;
Stop overacting - after all,
You're not a harlot
But a woman of prodigious
elegance;
For you kings went barmy;
For you they die every day.
Stop deflecting
Or you may lose the moon
From the chignon of your hair."
There was a time
When Mandela saw her too.
And he loved her speechlessly
Offering her a Table of Silence
And sculpting her body
Into the raptures of the Endless
Column.
Hissing snakes withdrew into
overgrown forests
Africa was a game
A cross
We carried in our scales.
Some speculate
That Africa is not dead
It still trades
And has recently raised
The price of cola.
Its democracy is saddle with disputes
From across the seas
Watches over her
As over an innocent, still
unspoilt child.
Long ago
Someone said that africa was a
bloodbath
And even the stars,
Gazing at her tremulously,
Burn off
I was told
Africa was a princess
And she became enamoured
Of a golden calf
She had met at a dance
And she wore her bridal kabba
Hemmed about the restiveness
of planets.
And everyone came to woo her
Offering her giant mother-of-
pearls
Which later opened up
Like coffins.
She was sad, as if permeated
By the sorrow of harmattan
She was angry with Europe, who
wanted
To kidnap and conceal her under
a rock
Of aversion.
She was British disconsolate
Spouse; but one stormy night
She met a man, Kwame Nkrumah who was to tell
All her misfortunes:
"Look, your kabba is undone,
I think you're courting great
danger;
Listen, don't try to make out
You're still a virginal bride;
Stop overacting - after all,
You're not a harlot
But a woman of prodigious
elegance;
For you kings went barmy;
For you they die every day.
Stop deflecting
Or you may lose the moon
From the chignon of your hair."
There was a time
When Mandela saw her too.
And he loved her speechlessly
Offering her a Table of Silence
And sculpting her body
Into the raptures of the Endless
Column.
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