Kings Who Beg
Even a stray dog chooses dignity over slavery,
but you — so-called African leaders —
have chosen puppetry.
The Western world laughs at your blindness,
a blindness born of greed and cowardice.
If they call you in Russia, you go.
If they call you in China, you go.
If they call you in America, you go.
Always summoned, never summoning.
Even as you feed the world,
you move like jesters,
with your bowls of shame extended.
They steal from you,
then hand you crumbs from your own harvest,
and you bow in gratitude.
That is why the world does not respect you.
At the United Nations, when you rise to speak,
your funders walk out —
for they know a fool has taken the podium.
You have failed to unite,
waiting for your enemies to gather you together.
Your banks, your schools, your armies,
funded and trained by outsiders.
How can progress grow in a soil watered with chains?
You chase breadcrumbs,
while the whole bread lies in your hands.
Is your mind as dark as your skin —
is that why you cannot think?
What magic lies in Europe,
what secret in China,
that Africa cannot forge herself?
Your own son, Ibrahim Traoré,
rises to fight for unity and dignity —
yet you turn against him,
because your masters whispered so.
Everywhere you go, you are an embarrassment.
Your people weep,
the world mocks you,
and your children will inherit only ashes.
What legacy will you leave?
That you stole from your own,
to gift the thieves of Europe?
That you wore suits and ties like kings,
but your minds were empty —
your thrones hollow?
Tell me,
how can the richest continent on earth
beg from the poor of Europe?
What name shall history give you?
Kings who beg.
And beggars who call themselves kings.
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