It was very far indeed, decades past,
Oh! our forefathers cried for help, help against suppression,
inhuman treatment and against pretentious posture in the name of a religion.
Help eluded them and their younger generations afterwards.
It later came with pretense on its face.
It came without sincerity.
Our younger fathers danced to the same tune of music played to their forebearers.
Genuine help was murdered in their hearts long time ago.
Think Africa! Must you continously cry for help with your tomorrow in your hands?
Yes, they owe us!
For our manhood they beautifully gained from, leaving us to wallow in the glorious state they left us.
They played gods then and still gods now.
Hence, we move to their directions.
They know we are great, but would distract us from believing in ourselves.
Mama Africa! ! The land of first light, wake thy children.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
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