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In the spirals of our ancient code lie secrets
No pill boasts on its glossy label:
We are the cradle of the human genome,
Yet our maps remain blank in global trials.

Test tubes filled with our diaspora’s pulse
Are left untouched—ignored by profit’s design.
Prescription after prescription fails us,
Side by side with miracles elsewhere.

Tell me, Western pharmacopeia,
Why ship drugs proven blind to our cells?
Why let our hearts suffer, our livers wear thin,
While your profit margins bloom?

This is not science—it’s a crime cloaked in white coats,
A quiet genocide as lethal as any missile.
Colonial bias got a new skin—it wears lab coats now,
And it bleeds through African veins still uncounted.

To the leaders in ivory towers of a broken state:
Your silences echo louder than your oaths.
You sold your people’s trust
For crumbs from foreign tables.

But we—the children of a thousand tribes—
We are rising not in whispers, but in fire.
Your puppetry ends where our voices begin:
We will build our industries, staff our labs,
And chart every strand of our DNA.

Pharma’s blood stained on our histories,
Indicted by our silence no longer.
We demand justice, recall every flawed pill,
And rewrite the code of care in our own image.

For if medicine cannot learn our language,
Then it shall learn our resistance:
Made in Africa, by Africans, for Africans—
No more sacrifices for their sterile profit.

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