We roamed with shackles in places
we can’t boldly call our home with cackles.
For pieces worth less than thirty pieces of silver,
we were scattered abroad like grains,
picked and pecked upon by scavenging birds
which flew over seas to boundaries novel to us.
We were fellows who farmed on fallow lands.
We worked while they walked upon our works,
bellowing and making fear trickle through our glands.
Still, with shallow tremble, defying this terrible situations,
We chanted ‘when shall we see our home’ in unison.
We were the ones who saw cheating face to face;
It came without hiding its face in fez in each phase.
We were given inhumane treatment by humans
who believed that black soils were to be trampled upon.
We roamed with eyes watching our features
closely in places we can’t call home,
but we never stopped dreaming of home.
Though whips cut our backs,
We shall weep no more or curse those coarse barks
that caused us to bark as they kissed our sores.
The Clarion shall call,
and it will be heard in all lands
where black heads lay in distress.
Together, we shall chant
the solidarist’s cant of ‘Afro can’
to those who say ‘Afro can’t’.
Africans shall be free from cold and horror.
Together, without cacophony,
We shall share the stories of how
Black is a colour of increase with cackles,
alluring our united voices.
We shall shake hands and stamp feet
that are free from shackles.