The Sun of Africa

He sits down, In the farthest forlorn corner Of the mud walled cracked windowless room, The teacher calls it classroom, the dictionary says otherwise. He knows many a people, Prominent and low, Nelson Mandela, Koffi Annan, Gamel Nasser, All of them, Aren't they kids in the hood? In fact Koffi is Nasser's twin. He knows not the blue waters, But the dusty drops, That merely quench the thirst, In fact, The drops so dusty, Aren't a remedy at all, They leave the throat scratched. He has a sister Aisha, 19 year-old wrinkled face, She is a mother of three, Traded off To a nomad with sheep. She was booked when three, And sold off at thirteen, She is such a punch bag to the man, Thin but bone-hard. The man so ruthless, Even to the eye. He passes his fingers, Through his dust washed hair, Coiled as the only form of comfort, In the distance are gunshots, He can only fathom the receipient, The scattered flesh, Just like his aunt, uncle, And his other cousin, Tears cloud his eyes, The same tears that cloud The Sun of Africa.