It is just a poem
Written with common ink
By a worthy boy from the bush
No, It’s not an incite
But words that can be seen
Even by ones carrying sacks of hate
Everything on plain field
For I mind those with hippo’s mind too
Grandpa once told me son,
You have to speak to the world
But don’t say the third word
Keep it to yourself
A snake is always ready to choke on your tale.
Or worse, to lick on your saliva
So I write this billboard
Thinking of no one
No being, called human
My love, I’m sorry
I don’t think of you, as always.
I’m just a twenty three burning stick
With no ring on my second finger
No beards, but who cares?
In my cave we value figures
First, second third and more huts
Little kids up and beyond, grazing herds
Fetching woods for smoking late night
And water for creaming morning brew.
I got my cliff which papa is still sleeping in
Still courting on passing waists
Rubbing hips, splitting hearts
With red, blue is a colour of love
I have no worries he still watch my moves
Beyond his last wave
I remember seeing a ray
On his skin drawn by glory
Glory of being raised by my motherland.
© Joweda
The African Son
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