Broken Skulls

(for: those who fell on the hills of Liberia) I hear a song from my hills I hear it sound from afar; And towards my homestead Near those aging banks of the Niger I feel the disturbing songs Of drummers announcing with cannons The ravages of Monrovia Like ancestral funeral men But these drummers are different: A shadow of their ancestors? Is it something beautiful For Doe’s ever-haunted soul That Sulima should breathe of Blood-fouled air? Does it touch the heart of Taylor That St. Paul’s river should mirror The dying souls of pregnant mothers On forced premature delivery mats? The guns are eating New diets in broken skulls Everywhere! And all my kins Are traded for the mean Prosperity of war The smell of their black blood Slapping the face of our dignity: And does this dunghill of skulls Touch on the human side of Johnson And those other warlords? How long would the orphan’s bones crack? When would a man walk freely Across the streets? Tell us! you noble warriors, tell us: When the guns would stop singing; When would fear stop celebrating? Here as I sit in my hut Fully fed-up with homicide news Of thousands and countless of my kins Dragged into early and tombless deaths I dreamt of slow-walking hunger Load-bend of the souls of my kins Like ants in a dry season: Would you tell me the number Of black skulls cracked On the top of every hill? Tell me the quantity of black blood Spilled each day along those currents Of Mao and Sherbro rivers And the quantity of children’s bones And ribs ript open near Monrovia: Would you be brave enough To tell these and more atrocities To the deaf ears of the world, O! strongmen of noble Liberia?