My Africa

Every single day I wake up to pictures of a continent I am unfamiliar with…one I live right at the heart of. I see dying children, war-torn villages, raped women walking around with the look of utter dejection on their leather-like faces. I see and hear of an angry but lazy people. A livid crop of youth who sell their souls to unscrupulous men calling themselves leaders. I see bad roads with potholes the size of Europe. I see a backward people who haven’t got the slightest idea of what hope is. I see a thoughtless Africa. I see a dead Africa.

I see a media that is bent on killing the African spirit and making my people seem like they are yet to discover fire.

Woe unto you who believes this to be my land’s truth. A fool you are.

My land carries the wealth of the world in its womb. My people carry the joy of a thousand generations and the wisdom of stars beyond your reach. My people know God in His thousands of faces, not in anyone’s militant and shallow representation of Him. My people still hold on to their humanity, unlike they who place useless paper and silver before their own souls. My people commune with nature, dine with the heavens and make love to love itself.

My people. My Africa. My wealth of wisdom, of oil, of gold, of land, of women of beautiful skins and a thousand curves. Of men who are fathers. And children who are of the earth. My faulty, yet perfect Africa.

Perhaps when next you see that dead Africa you are accustomed to seeing, you will remember that the stars only shine in the absence of the sun’s light. And perhaps you will not be foolish enough to believe that which a foolish world has fed you of my people. Perhaps. I may be the foolish one to believe that a foolish world will change.