I am Africa,
Africa was born in me,
So how am I not African?
The songs of my forefathers,
Praying from the shores of Atlantic to unknown lands.
When their hearts and bodies bled,
From wickedness of the purple faced Europeans.
I am Africa and an African,
Only on the lenses of your new scripts.
I am a poster child,
For poverty,
For war,
And your comic satires,
Painting me as a bondage on the back of a disgruntled society,
So that you can make me your Africa.
My stories are only legitimate when told on the tone of your poetry,
A white poetry,
A white man’s laden treasure,
A discovered city,
A discovered tribe,
A primitive civilization,
Hopping under trees like monkeys,
Is this not your Africa?
We will march in thousands, towards your Empire,
To reclaim that history.
…and Africa will rise again.
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