AFRICA

The hands with great touches

The hands with the Midas touches

The bees who made the honey

Which attracted so many

The virgin brains without explorations

The grateful beings who paid more for way less

The simple beings who cared not about costly sophistication

The loving beings who loved nature

The crude beings who had no mercy when customs are broken

The naïve beings who were used for barbarisms

That is what we were

But we were happy then

Now our originality has depleted

It burned off as we went through brimstone and fire

Emerging as half baked roasted sweet potatoes

On our own plates

Contemplating on eating ourselves or allowing ourselves to be eaten.

It’s a pity we are fast choosing the latter

While eyes of vipers pop,

Hands of demons stretch,

Teeth of vampires gnash,

Tongues of poisonous snakes lick mouths,

All in wait for the big meal.

How can the most blessed beings

Whose skins have been made strong

By the Most High to last and protect

Not see their superiority by using their brains?

How can we, as a group of soldiers going for battle,

Kill ourselves thinking not of the enemies?

Does it make sense, that we steal ourselves?

Kill ourselves?

Taunt ourselves?

And take to our heels only to be caught by beings unknown

And everything taken including our lives?

So the internal thief steals

And the external thief takes, is our grand plan?

Please open your eyes

Love yours, for yours is yours

No matter where you find asylum

You will still be regarded a stranger

By amoafowaa