My Country Africa

Today, I’ll take my foot off the pedal and write about something different; something interesting — poetry, and a young lady who, I think, is headed for bigger things.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Lynette. Check out her poem, My Country Africa.

My country Africa

You seem to be known as a country,
Yet you are a home to many,
Signified and dignified by the boundaries drawn by them.
You hold all race,black,white, Indian,
All shades of brown,
You hold all of them on your bed,
As lovingly as a mother.
You are the richest in color,
Plants,animals,water life,
All give you a fresh vibrance,
Yet they seem to know that you,
You are only green and black.

You are the source of food and water,
Human beings exist largely on your bed,
They are the strongest,most intelligent and creative,
You are endowed with natural beauty and resources,
Yet your children cry of hunger,thirst and poverty,
They cry of inflation,no income,unemployment,
They weep of extortion,exploitation and importation
Mummy, what is the matter, children what is wrong?

You are gifted with life,oh you shine,
From the five babies a mother in the West gives birth to,
The old man and his wife hunting in the South,
The gashing white falls you extraordinarily embrace,
To the little boy that admires the aging president in the East,
“I will be like him one day”, he says, now he is 40 years, the president 80,
Yet he still admires,
All this beauty mother,yet we run through terror and sadness,
We exclaim war in our green mama,
We preach the gospel of bad news, bad bad news,
Yet we have and own it all,
Why dear Africa,why?

But we still live on,
We still raise our shapeful heads high,
With the scars on our bodies and faces,
Our dry pockets and empty stomachs,
Our green darkened by black disease,
Full of imports and aid,as we seem not to work,
We are still proud and i love you my country, Africa.

— Lynette Eileen Rugunda (shared with permission).

And here, folks, I have asked this poet friend that we exchange places for a month–I try out my hand at poetry while she delves into my musings. She’s yet to accept the challenge. I hope she does…some day.

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