Tongue of the Forgotten
I speak English—
not because it is mine,
but because it was burned
into the soft clay of my childhood.
They called it brilliance
when I spoke the master's tongue,
and shame
when I whispered my grandmother’s lullaby.
But language is not just words—
it is blood,
it is soul,
it is memory coded in sound.
Africa,
how can you rise
when you dream in the syllables of strangers?
When your science wears foreign robes,
and your spirit speaks a muted voice?
You cannot build a future
on borrowed breath.
You must write your destiny
in the language that calls your ancestors by name.
Swahili sings in your bones.
Your tongues are ancient rivers—
deep, alive, and holy.
No empire stood tall
on another’s voice.
Teach your children to speak to the stars
in their own vowels.
Let them pray in the rhythm of drums,
count in the cadence of their tribes,
lead with words rooted in earth.
Africa—
your brilliance was never broken.
Only misnamed.
Return.
Speak.
Rise.
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