IF AFRICA IS A SHE

She’s draped in a fertile bosom

With trees which blossom

She has very strong horns

Horns like electrifying thorns

She has a thick black womb

So obviously has a strong comb

She looks green from afar

But is withering on a par

Withering elements being sewn

By those who will her remains mourn

There is no appliqué:

That will be one saviour appliqué

So she lies like a helpless bulldog

Being dug, cut and licked like a dog

Her beautiful features are giving way

Giving way for horrific skin which cannot sway

She is the punching bag of all desperadoes

As her bodyguards always play the rondos

So the greater part of her womb beings are dazzled,

Dazzled by the music in play only to wake like a horse saddled

Some watch, others yap like monsters or fools

While others are busy being shaped into tools

Ha! Who is not tired watching?

Everyone but those staying

A piece of trash

Deserves no rush to crash

 Let me close this mouth

Maybe as it is being bombed into nothing I can head south.

   Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014

  (Picture from sahelblog.wordpress.com)