My Country, My Home. Poem by Ibekwe chisom

Africa i have been away from your wandering,
like a fulani cow but everynight amist the horros of highway deaths,
and the menace of neon-eyed gods,
i feel the warmth of your arms,
centrifugal reaching out to your sons.

We with our different designs,
inumerable facets,
but all calling you womb of the earth,
liking your image but hating our differences,
becaus we have become the shame of your race.

And now on the third anniversary of my flight,
my heart becomes a citadel of disgust,
my creation haunts me behind the mystical flame.

My river dammed by the poisonous weed in its bed,
and i think of my brothers with black skin and white marks
'i my self is one of them now',
my sisters who plaster their skin with white cosmetics,
to look whiter than the snows of Europe,
but listen to the sufferings of our hearts.

There are those who when they come to plead,
saying, 'make us black English man',
decorated afro-carribean,
crecole masters leading native races.

But we African wandering urchins,
who will return one day? ,
say 'oh listen Africa',
the tomtoms of revolution,
beat in our hearts at night.

Make us the hundred parts of your race,
stretching from the east to the west,
but united inside your womb,
because i have dreamt in the shadows of a free town,
crashing under the yoke of its ferious civilization.