A Father’s Lament to Obama

My son, When the ancestors lit the candle of your destiny, We sang for you in the wind, We carved your name into the stars And called you Moses for your people. But you— You danced in marble halls built on bones, You became fluent in the language of betrayal. They did not give you power— They gave you a costume, A borrowed mask with a golden smile. And you wore it proudly, While your soul withered beneath its shine. Africa did not ask for your riches, Only for your remembrance. We asked for dignity— You gave us drones. We asked for hope— You answered with the fire that scorched Libya, And left it bleeding in the sand. They gave you a prize, For silencing a continent. They called you peacemaker— Yet you stitched your legacy With the threads of war. My son, You did not just forget me— You forsook the very blood That carried you into history. And now you speak as if wise, But wisdom is not learned in Harvard halls Nor purchased in secret rooms. It is born in suffering, And you traded that birthright For applause. Be still, now. Do not teach—listen. Do not speak—remember. Go not to the stage, but to the shadows. Go not to legacy, but to repentance. For only in silence Will you hear the cries of those Who once called you savior.