I toured the contours of mother Africa cruising on roller skates
I rolled and skated through the deprivations of owed rebates
For Africa, I gave and braved but I'm somewhat still so desolate
I'm disconsolate because my dues are cloned in concepts obsolete
I drank the nectar of culture but got drunk on the fudge of stagnation
I cushioned myself in the wealth of history that hid not my indignation
I savoured the pride of blackness but got lost in the mystery of whys!
Why I ought to like and love, laugh and laud and live in the shifty whiles!
I saw the flora and fauna and floundered in the convolutions of reason
Reason in questions lost in the logic of defending the sanctity of treason
Treason that I was betrayed, derailed and nailed to the faulty defences
That the African fault falls in the ambit of foreign crafted deeds and fences.
I'm weary of denial, wary of drones of justifications for the African mystification
I've travelled the long dusty and pot-holed roads of Africa without satisfaction
Satisfaction that I have facts to demystify the fiction that bonds me to mysticism
The mysticism of enveloping Africa's Africans in the ambience of shifting latitudes
Hearing day in and day out from country to country repeated vocabulary of platitudes
Cliches of why I can't feed me, be me, where I am, without seeking fortune elsewhere.
That when even fortunes of foreign latitudes give me harvest, I remain nowhere.
Nowhere to be someone or to be somewhere except to be perpertually there.
I've heard the mysteries of why I'm part of the diaspora that for most races is temporary.
Why my wants remain needs my gains are no bargains and I'm never a contemporary.
I'm weary of Mother Africa whose shrivelled breasts have no teats to feed me.
For the rape and plunder of Mother Africa is the curse that won't let me be.
Desolate and disconsolate as I am though, deepest in me is the new awakening
The sense that sooner than later new generations will breed the time of reckoning
Time when the pounding problems of a throbbing heart in want shall find recourse
That time comes with honesty to self and candour to the multitudes in discourse
To face up to the fact that Africa Africanised itself into the continental darkness
That if our best see solace in the diaspora, even our sun shall lose its sharpness
I'm confident that mirrored mentors of bloated egos will see terminal oblivion
As surely the youth and its generation determine destiny in their own volition
The tenure of adults of coated cultures feeding their own ambitions shall terminate
New generations shall sprout like petals of roses and new seeds germinate
False prophets of today shall soon sing in discorded tunes and tones shall be dulled
Time will dawn when deliveries are tangible and voices heard instead of just lulled.
Africa hurts because I hate to take to heart that which perpertually produces pain
It so hurts because its problems are probed by protagonists without a truth grain
There is no chapter in the book of Africa that bears objective sights on legitimacy
Fact is pirated by polluted philosophies and logic plundered with sustained obstinacy
When confronted by reasonable fresh sprouts, the African mentor bellows culture
That subdues the loud tunes that would otherwise kill the voracious vulture
Yet I know as I bow to time that the light of the new dawn is filtering through
A ship of time is sailing closer to the harbour commanded by an enlightened crew
Fewer than before are Africans that still lap up the slop of the fake demagogue
False prophets and akin agitators shall soon face the real masters of rousing dialogue
When that happens the truth shall point with clinical accuracy to actual realities
Pretext shall dissolve, denial will recede and evaporate to make room for actualities.
By Andrew Sesinyi
27th November, 2010.
No comments:
Post a Comment