Loved by the many within their own state,
Loathed by the few who agitate from the gate.
A pattern repeated, a tale overplayed,
A judgement delivered before facts are weighed.
To the in-state, a father – steadfast and wise,
To the out-state, a tyrant in disguise.
A chronic affliction the Middle East knows,
A fever that silently festers and grows,
A contagion now Africa silently grows.
From Iran to Yemen, where old embers flame,
Through Libya to Uganda – the script stays the same.
From Burkina Faso and others whose names fill the scroll,
Branded rebellious by powers that patrol.
To more nations yet named in the fray,
Rebellious, dangerous – so headlines will say.
Declared by the US with sanctioning tone,
Echoed by the UN from its towering throne.
And others who gather where verdicts are spun,
Crowning a villain when politics is done.
Condemned in chambers where distant flags fly,
While praised at home beneath their own sky.
Rest in Peace: Ali Khamenei, Muammar Gaddafi and many others.
When America wants to cleanse its sins,
it turns to Africa —
the continent it calls disposable.
Criminal migrants for sale,
and you — the so-called leaders —
accept the trade like beggars at a banquet.
Why not Europe?
Why not Asia?
Why only you, Africa?
You wear suits,
but your minds are unclothed.
You bow to dollars
and call it diplomacy.
Ghana, Eswatini, Rwanda, South Sudan —
have you no shame left?
You exchange your soil
for silver soaked in mockery.
Your forefathers died for freedom,
you sell it for crumbs.
You mistake bribery for partnership.
You mistake humiliation for aid.
And yet — one man stood.
Burkina Faso’s son,
Ibrahim Traoré —
he said, “We are a place of dignity,
not a place of expulsion.”
That voice was thunder in a desert of fools.
The rest remained silent —
their silence, a confession.
Africa bleeds not from poverty,
but from poverty of mind.
As long as congenital idiots rule,
progress will wear chains.
And America,
the self-proclaimed savior,
is no longer a light —
but a mafia in daylight,
whose end will be written
in the sorrow of nations.
Ten long years in jail for petty theft at a bus stop,
While leaders steal in billions with a wrist-slap.
A man wore the hangman’s noose for armed robbery,
Yet a governor earned honours for a pen robbery.
Citizens bled by taxes to please Bretton Woods,
Loans secured not for growth but to fatten pockets.
When the people protest, police scatter them with contempt,
And soldiers fire bullets to silence their voices.
Black ink scrawls draconian laws on tyrant’s tables,
Threats and punishments stitched to entrench their power.
But such laws befriend only ephemerality,
Before the masses seize the reins of their rulers’ reign.
Mass anger drove Rajapaksa out of Sri Lanka,
Gen Z rose in Nepal against a media ban.
Burkina Faso’s streets toppled Compaoré,
And Egypt’s squares forced Mubarak to resign.
The people’s voice will always drown draconian laws;
Chains that glitter at first soon corrode into rust.
The rulers may feast while the nation starves in silence,
But shackles will break—the storm leaves none untouched.
Travel taught me one precious thing,
There is always better Elsewhere,
You love your village, visit the Tyrol,
You love Cathy, Sue has more beautiful blue eyes,
My travels taught me to change buses often,
You’ve seen Paris, go see the bayous of New Orleans,
You have gently cultivated your garden, go help the little children
From Burkina Faso,
My travels taught me something,
There is always better elsewhere,
You read James Joyce, go discover Jack London in San Francisco,
You enjoyed Chenonceau, go discover Schönbrunn Palace,
You saw the Big Dipper, go see Cassiopeia, travel again,
You reread Rimbaud, go see the Grand Canyon,
My travels taught me this precious thing,
There is always better elsewhere,
It is since travelling far away, that I learnt what really matters.
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Once in the village of Daka in Burkina Faso,
Lived Koussé the incorrigible drunkard
Very popular was he that his presence was necessary
In all the ceremonies and feasts and meetings,
Wifeless and childless and houseless and penniless was he
But was feared and respected and admired by all.
He is sharp tongued and short tempered
And knows all the secret and history of everyone,
I shall never die till I’ve revealed all your abominations,
And witchcraft and adulterous acts! He’d say
Go away Koussé! You’ve drunk your brain
And chewed your sense!
Yes! I’ve nothing but my senseless boneless rotten baldhead.
He died one rainy midnight lonely and miserably
With a calabash full of alcohol beside his corpse,
Koussé is gone! Some shouted and danced;
All the hidden secrets and history and abominations
Still remains in the village of Daka up till this day.
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The Blood of Martyrs
“He stood aloof the ***** youth
What of his future?”
Peter Abrahams
When the guns thunder
In Cameroon or Côte-d’Ivoire
In Mali or Burkina Faso
Limitless martyrs
Disappear!
Beads of blood still pearling
Running from the martyrs’ hot bodies
I vainly ask to know:
Why are the ill-stricken dictators so greedy
And their peoples so eloquently silent?
Gabon- Togo-Cameroon- Tunisia- Egypt-
Zimbabwe-Burkina Faso
What is going on?
What of our time? What of man?
Nothing but words.
Words of those who see with
Somebody’s eye
Or
Those who have gained
Nothing of their heritage
If not Samory’s puzzle.
Meanwhile
The spring keeps growing
Swallowing creeds to bear greeds
In spite of Ebola and the wars
In spite of Aids killing thousands of people
In spite of the minority who with the help
Of the majority eat from the fruit
Of the majority’s vote
In spite of growing desert….
N’Gaoundéré, 16th February 2010
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