Am I
really African? This is a question that I can’t seem to answer no matter how
hard I try. I can call it a search for identity yet I identify myself as a pure
African.
I have
heard stories of how my great grandfathers and their friends stood and got off
their hats at the mere sight of a white colonialist who was just 20 yrs. of age
when they were in their sixties, I have stories of how they were whipped as
they bent themselves lame on their masters farms the whole day and humiliated
before the very people who saw them as heroes. I don’t know what I really could
do to repay the pain they endured to liberate a generation that would not even
appreciate their efforts. I wonder, Am I really African?
I have
read poetry that depicted the struggle that we Africans, not even we but they,
went through as they sought to liberate us.
Oh
Africa! What can I do to repay You?
When
Father and Son were separated, Father to the mines and son to jail just for
looking at a white girl. When a mother who had thirteen children was left with only two just to satisfy the colonial demands.
Africa
my Africa! What do I owe you?
I have
read prose fiction of the struggle, how a brother turned against a brother due
to sycophantic tendencies but they still remained a family.
My
Africa, they called you a dark continent and I wonder; was it because you
challenged them so they wanted to make you feel inferior?
Why My
Africa? Why?
They
said You are a question and they are the answers so You shall forever lean
towards them for solutions. But I wonder, is it to be so?
You see,
when I look at your bulged back, I think it is because they overworked you. The
River Nile symbolic of the lashes on your sons backs, the tall mountains
symbolic of the clobbering your sons went through. I occasionally hear your
Rivers weep as they shed their tears into the oceans through which your
tormentors came.
I
remember you long hair, the one which you cherished proudly, whose beauty was
incomparable and incomprehensible but they cut it till nothing was left on you.
These are your trees my Africa.
They
said they wanted to educate your sons and daughters. That they needed to have a
god that they would look up to and all their problems would be solved but they
had a gun on one hand and a religious book on the other. They made us know them
more than you my Africa. We feared them and dis respected you, did to you as
they did and followed the ways they taught us and instead of appreciating it
they said we were ‘aping’ them.
My
Africa, they told you eldest son, a father and a husband, that he was not good
enough compared to their toddler. Let me tell you a secret you know my Africa,
you see when they come here, we dance ourselves lame at the airports but when
we go to them…
They
still come for us even after they left after scattering your children for they
were and still are afraid of their unity. They say you are not good enough to
discipline your own so they do it for you. They force us to take hemlock and
when we refuse they punish us. My Africa, I love You but I just cannot stand
and watch as they Kill You. For long you have kissed their buttocks and they
spat on your face but you said nothing. You reserved your anger and projected
your utmost kindness unto them. Your back is bent from their enslaving work but
you still strain yourself up to shake their hands, your once beautiful face is
scarred and drenched with tears but you still embrace them with a new and
refreshed smile each day. Your beautiful hair is long gone and I know you still
labour to renew its glory but you still bear your pride.
You see
my Africa, I am sorry for all these that they and we did to you.
I want
to be as one of your sons – Neto, Nkuruhma, Luandinho, Kenyatta, Lumumba,
Mboya…
I want
to feel what it is to be African…
My
Africa
I AM
AFRICAN!
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