I Speak from the Soil of Congo

I speak—not from a podium or palace, But from the soil, soaked in blood and silence. From beneath the green womb of the Congo, Where my bones lie broken—but not my spirit. You—who call yourselves the civilised, The democratic, the free— What freedom do you preach While your machines chew through the bones of my children? I see your flags in the forests I once walked. America, China, Russia, Europe— Not one came with compassion. Only claws cloaked in contracts, Only teeth behind smiles. You call it cobalt. I call it death. You call it coltan. I call it blood. The glow of your iPhones is lit by the Eyes of children who will never see school. Where are your human rights, your justice, Your pacts, your peace? You only remember us When our minerals fill your vaults. I warned you when I still breathed, That Congo was not a charity chest Nor a field for your greed. But you answered with bullets, With daggers in the night. I fell. So did Kabila. And yet still you come. As if the heart of Congo were yours to harvest, As if God gave you license to steal. You feed rebels with diamonds, Trade arms for silence. You dress your wars in diplomacy, But we know your masks. And to the silent ones— To those who sip coffee and scroll, While my people drown in blood— You are not innocent. You are watchers at the edge of a burning house, Too busy to pour water. But hear me, from the belly of the grave— There is no night So long that it escapes the dawn. The drums will beat again in Congo. The rivers will sing our names in freedom. To my people, I say: Do not forget who you are. You are not dust for boots. You are the heartbeat of the earth. And to the thieves, I say: The soil remembers. The wind carries every cry. The day is coming— When the stolen will be reclaimed, And justice will no longer be whispered But roared.