In the purest values she is arrayed,
With concealed beauty of ages untold,
A sight to be blessed to behold,
Where beauty transcends all description,
As such is my mother Africa,
The pride of all creation.
A beautiful woman they say,
Like a ripe mango up a tree,
Engages the curious eyes of all that behold,
For they all did stop at nothing,
To possess my mother Africa,
So for several moons, they bit each other,
Till the fittest could still not survive,
So as it were, to bury their hatchet,
They sort to make their love,
To our mother Africa.
With venomous loins they plowed her woman,
With greedy lust they sort her treasures,
Enjoying to the fullest her valuables,
Some kind of love that must have been,
Some sort of romance that must have been,
For with disgust we did hear her wail,
Who will save me,
For I lose my purity,
To these grave diggers,
Help my sons or I die…
For with tearful eyes I see my Africa,
Each tear, a drop of blood from her heart,
Each sigh, a bubble of life busting from her sides,
As she cries aloud, help my sons or I die
And do we stand and stare,
Do we hide our tails?
Between our legs,
Like mongrels defeated in battle?
If not ……….
Then sound the Gong Gong,
Sound it to the north and to the south,
To the east and to the west,
That Africa must be free ….
1984
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