A Letter To Mandela

Dear Papa, Sad, my siblings and I, Never got to meet with you; You left us too soon, Out in this cold, dark and unjust climate; Out in the deep ghettos and jungles; In the hands of conmen and wolves In sheep's clothing; In the hands of those Who have turned a house of refuge Into A den of thieves With no proof of roof Over our bruised heads The fence you mended Has caved in Your old, durable coat Of many colors Has frayed at the edges Refusing to be mended Father, If we had known When the thief Would stealthily saunter in, We would have guided our loins Now, Men have lost their fate A good name is no more precious Than gold and silver Even when there is a way There is no more will Men have rolled up their Goat skin mats, Tucked away in rafters To be fanned by smoke And feasted on by rats Men have hidden their drink horns Refusing to tap wine or commune Feigning to be temporary Rather than contemporary The glories of yesterday Have been washed away By memories too battered and faint To remember your charge Staten Island is being renovated But they feign ignorance A grave yard is more presentable, appealing and serene Than our back country Dogs now feast on fellow dogs... Father, please don't look back in anger... A child's hand is not scaled By the hot piece of yam bequeathed by his mother; Only a man who has not been To his kinsman' s farm assumes His father's farm is bigger Mandiba, Tomorrow is pregnant We do not know what it will bring forth.... Today is here, alive with us Our hope lies in the fidelity That one day, Perhaps one day, we Will get it right; Smile and call you Mandiba