It is of futility a foresight
to relate the Africa's giant future site
Her rind, six decades to be very soon
Had witnessed shades of pogroms under the sun and moon
It is heard, the voices of many seas
Yet, lands fertile with aridness is all she sees
Nibs of authority always ready to write
Lies become true, wrong becomes right
Her anthem, a gyre of gambits
whose implication oozes in trickling tit-bits
Perhaps the genesis of her sickness
was the Berlin 1886 madness
Garage sick from phantoms, ghosts, Benz and gulfstreams
Economy healthy from steady diet of rape and her-screams
Reptiles gulp down tenders to their stretch
crowning the citizen a wretch
Today like a dance in the market square
dancing in rhythm-less circles becomes our share
Perhaps you see letters to be read
I see reality protesting, clad in red
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