I blame you for our misfortune
you this parasite of the African dream.
Like a pecker bird on a fragile tree,
you bore through our hope and leave it for dead
and like a gale from the east,
you carry our fruits all to the west.
I blame you with a burning flame
you keepers of our rains.
Like an ocean swallowed by the desert,
you starve our fields of their due drops
and the only wetness they get to know
are the drops of tears and fruitless sweat.
How long shall we go on this way?
We till the fields we sow the seeds,
we water the young with our tears and sweat
on this rough, though and sandy lands
yet when it's time to harvest the fruits,
the rain pours hard to wash them away.
Late rains late rains late rains
you are bad for the African dream.