Hair? Mocked by the oppressor’s pencil.
Nose? Ridiculed and shunned by he who knew no better, for it’s strength.
Shoes? The bare soles which tarried and ploughed the enemy’s field.
Nails? Scrubbed, sewed, built the oppressor’s home while their own homes lay in shambles.
Accent? Their voices were silenced with bullets while the oppressor vowed to silence them yet.
Skin? Charred by the harsh rays of the African, sun toiling for the enemy’s enrichment.
Yet still they trudged on-
Fought for their voices to be heard.
Streams of blood, soil and tears flowed the streets of our land
Their voices rose higher, swelled with oceans of pain
They could not be silenced yet.
They fought so the pencil would be a friend and not the enemy’s vice
That their nose would distinguish Africa from the world
They marched the streets barefoot that their children may walk as Kings and Queens on their land
They endured handcuffs and beatings so their children should be saved
They sang, shouted and cried for Freedom
Assaults, bullets and prisons where their homelife
Their blood was shed for Africa,
a continent of Kings and Queens stripped of their grandeur
bestowed on the Oppressor
We wear the enemy’s mind
Walk with our borrowed nose in the sky
Walk over their blood in the enemy’s feet
Work their fields with pride
Speak in their tongues against their fathers
Hiding behind a mask, ashamed of our skin
Your blood will forever be, African.