Zambia Was My Mother
Zambia was my mother—
shaped like a butterfly resting in the heart of Africa,
her wings curved not by nature alone,
but by the lines of empires
who came to take what was never theirs.
They called her Northern Rhodesia,
after tasting the sweetness of her soil
and stealing the copper from her veins.
Her rivers run wild with spirit—
the Zambezi roaring with ancient songs,
Victoria Falls spilling the Smoke that Thunders,
blessing the weary and healing the broken.
She faces the Scorpio Sun,
and her children, like copper,
are strong yet quiet—
holding centuries in their silence.
Kenneth Kaunda once walked her soil,
weeping for Africa when she was in chains,
rejoicing when she rose again.
Zambia holds the bones of my ancestors
and the dreams of the unborn.
Her wilderness breathes with lions,
her sunsets bleed crimson into the night.
Africa cradles her,
and she cradles me.
When I return to dust,
let me rest in her copper-red earth—
for Zambia was my Mother,
and Africa is my Heaven.
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