How could it be – that Africa so blessed,
Would rank with squalor as if cursed?
That misery like a busted wine press
Keeps dripping upon her dry hard crust.
Why are the sun’s rays so harsh?
On this slice of squandered Eden-
Where dreams rot or simply crash
Like the prayers of glorified heathens.
We have shouted from the highest peak…
Offered sacrifices of limbs and arms;
The fortune teller’s gaze remains bleak.
Alas a mocking bird twits…stop feasting on seed yams.
When our loaded dices have all been thrown…
With all trickery and slight of hand;
And our fortunes like migrant birds have flown,
We must tell our children what happened to their land.