What if I could plant a memory in your reality? Touch your thoughts with my pain. Consider remembrance a destination and I am your runaway train. Suggestions of your brain corner you to consistent blame, everyday you awake and every morning is the same. Dark clouds and ever persistent rain, say you were on a plane free falling to gravity’s calling. How would your heart manage the strain?
It was never about how we had fallen but how we awaken. Replace sense to give back the dreams that were stolen. Tenderness and torture, carcasses for the vultures, that pick the bones left by the hyenas. The representative monkeys swing on the trees for show, while the intercontinental elephants trample the ants below. Ebony eyes continuously seek justice beneath the African skies, who is my land benefiting. Last I checked the essence to give my children a bright future was still missing.
Africa’s splendour resides on a brochure, scratch beneath the surface and you enter the realm of the hopeless governed by the minority of the thoughtless. Feel free to question my thought process but don’t break the mirror because it reminds you of your ugliness. Cowardice and lies as truth does not cause profit to multiply thus the life force of the peasants must be present to apply. Mental slaves never pay respect to the gifts freedom gave or issue the purpose of the streets they pave.
Every honourable story I heard as a child revolved around a shepherd, then grew up and saw that he was the only one that would fight to save a single sheep from the mouth of a leopard. For days I carried this reality in my head, from running the street to seeking rest my bed. Sometimes they say I speak the dialect of the dead. Different from today’s ambition, I wish not to take from the poor man’s bread.
But here we are in a never changing situation, why is my livelihood been exported. When industrialization would stop exploitation and give the people the skills of production. We are the forefathers of novelty, nothing has enhanced this world more than African contribution. How can our children reach their abilities potential when our elders don’t view their deeds as principle?
Handshakes and international relations turn beautiful plains into heavy interest laced burdens. Concaved backs along with thoughts of living and nothing to show in kind. Both eyes functioning yet truly blind, as if your certificate of birth was your death with your sweat signed. Maybe I am the one who is ignorant and seeing life though a distorted vision. Yet I am not here to teach a lesson but to start a truly liberated tradition.
Valour does not mean firing ammunition, it means being a father a teacher. Swimming stops you from sinking the same way water keeps you amongst the living. The human emotion is not bulletproof, fed up and torn hearts is the testimony. The cries of the young have a familiar melody. What I can’t seem to understand is why there is so much weakness in the kindest hand. Africa is more than a diamond in the rough it’s the home of heavenly wonders, they say colonialism is over yet they still plunder.
Slavery just changed the old structure, found me foolish enough to accept their manager because we share the same colour. Here I was a few years ago thinking democracy was the answer, now I weigh my options. My heritage and my own makings will free me from these illusions. My objective is for us not to object to the truth, search your history, in those pages you will find your sovereignty and proof.
Hamza Egal © copyright 2012 all rights reserved.
I have been into poetry recently and hamza broReplyDelete
You have outdone yourself on this one...
There's beauty in it all from "what" to "proof"