I am an African..
I know no white Jesus of the jews.
nor the prophet as imbibe on us,
I know no Bible which was written by apostles.
nor purely written ayats from the arabaic world.
For I am an African.
My umbilical cord was buried by my hut corner.
To symbolise my sense of belonging.
In times of trouble and despair,
I run straight to my chi, Obaatala, Amadioha,
Where I find my gods waiting for me.
Where I speak all my sorrows,
Where I ask for guidance and protection,
In my grannies hut, where I used to hide away from my moms beating.
I am an African.
In trees I find my medicine,
In my ancestors who speak deep down to my spine,
I drink herbs to cure my sickness,
I listen to the voices on my ground as they speak,
I wear lion skins to sell the blackness of my pride
long before civilization kicked us in the face
and imperialism murdered our fathers and
raped our sense of belonging into depression.....
I listen to my Alamọdaju, as he caste the bones to connect me with my bones,
I know a black Jesus that lives on my fathers graves,
and a distinct prophet amongst many others
Jesus died and rose again...so was I told
My ancestors died and rose again in the spirit form,
this one I know without been told..
So let me be,
Let me praise my ancestor,
Let me drink my herb,
Let me wear my lion skin
Let me dance round the Iroko
Let me play with the dirty mud
Let me rejoice in the folly of the white man
For I am not diluted by means of fame and fashion.
Cast the bones my medicine man, and let my ancestor speak.
While they shout amen,
I will shout Asee.
When they say I receive
I will shout Isee.
For I am an african
Not diluted by means of clothes and label.
For Thokoza my friend
Mumu de poet.
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
Form: Blank Verse
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.