Africa sings a different song
The remix of the same dirge.
And the talking drum reiterates her story
(interlude)
But my heart, like the palms of the beater
Bleeds as she stutters
With voice ridden with guilt
Voice that must spew the bitter pill
(interlude)
They came from distant lands
Their lustful eyes
Having beheld her shrouded glory
Like Eve’s did the forbidden fruit,
And their egos vowed to covet it
But this was their only sin
(interlude)
The shackles, the scourge, the slime
Vitriol from their stomach pits
That smothered her ego night and day
Were all goods bought and paid for
In a transaction of mutual greed
A witty greed, a witless greed
The ignorance of her forebears
(interlude)
With treasure basins but no brains
They saw it not that the packages were empty
The gold, silver and prankincense
With which they had come
Like the sages from the east
Not to adore but to beguile the new born messiahress
And this black, rough, but priceless diamond
Was traded for flimsy thingamajigs
A Sharp sword in the future’s throat
(interlude)
Listen now to the questions the gangan asks
The serpent’s or the woman’s
Whose sin was greater?
For as the wall-streeters tell
An offer without acceptance
Is hardly a contract
(interlude)
Africa sings a different song
She sings a remix of the same dirge
And the frantic gangan reiterates her story
(short interlude)
But my heart, like the palms of the beater
Is heavy
For her seeds are lost on foreign soils
With black hides and white labels,
Fertile trees that have no roots.
ANN N. AMOS Nov ‘03
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