CRUCIFIXION OF AFRICA
Africa, the land of first breath,
Where the sun kissed the soil and diamonds wept from the womb of the earth.
A continent dressed in gold and green,
Where rivers write scriptures and mountains sing freedom.
You gave birth to the world — and the world gave you shackles.
Your lakes are endless, your waters fresh and sacred,
Your belly pregnant with copper, cobalt, platinum, oil —
Yet your children drink from cracked bowls and sleep under broken roofs.
How can this be?
How can the mother of all be the beggar of many?
How can a continent crowned in wealth kneel before thieves?
This is not poverty — this is plunder.
Europe, America —
You have no gold, yet your vaults are full.
You have no oil, yet your tanks overflow.
You have no diamonds, yet you sell them in glass towers
at prices you determine
from the blood you never shed
on lands you never owned.
You have robbed in daylight and called it trade.
You drew lines through kingdoms and called it borders.
You took kings, turned them into slaves.
Now you take resources, and call it investment.
Multinational empires —
Colonial flags dressed in suits and quarterly reports.
And still you ask: “Why is Africa poor?”
The better question is: Why are you so rich?
Bill Gates, Finland, Wall Street —
You sit on thrones built by our minerals,
our forests, our sweat, our silence.
And you dare to measure our worth in loans and aid?
Your wealth is a lie painted in white.
It is not ingenuity — it is inheritance of injustice.
It is not progress — it is polished theft.
But hear me now —
This silence will not last.
The ancestors are awake.
The drums of Nubia are beating again.
Young warriors are rising —
not with spears, but with knowledge, memory, fire.
African leaders who danced for crumbs,
puppets stitched with foreign thread —
your days are numbered.
The people you betrayed will not beg.
They will remember. They will remove you.
Africa, lift your head.
You are not poor. You are pillaged.
You are not weak. You are wounded.
But you are healing —
and your sons and daughters are coming home
with eyes that see and hearts that burn.
The crucifixion is not the end —
Resurrection is near.
And when the sun rises again from the Congo to Cairo,
from Cape Town to Khartoum,
the world will remember:
Without Africa, there is no world.
Without justice, there is no peace.
And without truth, there can be no future.
Copyright © Chanda Katonga | Year Posted 2025
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment