Coups, Elections, and Africa

In the heart of vibrant Africa, where democracy should reign, Two shadows lurk, two specters haunt, two faces of the same pain. One a soldier, gun in hand, the other clothed in suit, Both rob the people of their choice, both the people's voice they mute. The military coup, so stark, its violence loud and clear, Ousts the leaders chosen by the people, instilling fear. An iron fist in velvet glove, the power it seizes tight, An eclipse of freedom, a darkened sun, a never-ending night. The electoral commission, oh, how it wears a gentler face, Yet hides beneath a veneer of law, a similar disgrace. Votes cast in trust, a people's hope, but when the counting's done, The rightful winner cast aside, the injustice has begun. One uses bullets, the other, pens, tools of power's game, But look within their hearts and see, their purpose is the same. To usurp the will of the people, to claim a stolen throne, To silence the voice of democracy, to make the power their own. A coup is a tempest, fierce and wild, a storm that shakes the land, Election theft, a poison slow, a tightening of the hand. Yet both are a violation, a rape of trust and right, Both leave a wound upon the land, a scar both deep and bright. Africa, oh Africa, the cradle of mankind, In your heart democracy’s seed, these usurpers try to bind. But your spirit is resilient, your will cannot be tamed, For the flame of freedom, once lit, cannot be maimed. And so your people rise, against the bullet and the pen, To claim the promise of their vote, to find their voice again. For whether by coup or stolen vote, the truth remains the same, Injustice anywhere is a threat, to justice's sacred flame. Each coup, each election, a battle in the fight, For the heart of Africa, for democracy's light. Yet, hope persists, the struggle goes, until that glorious day, When Africa is free at last, come what may.