In the paint of gloom
With the brush strokes of doom
With a face of crime
And shoes hasty to strife.

You paint a portrait of me,
With no mouth to speak.

I carry a bag of rituals
To appease the gods of cannibals.
I cover my unclothedness,
With ethnic garments

I bear the eye of the mystics,
And the voice of a tribalist
I am unrefined,
That why I need a hand

You accuse in your books,
I look, bemused.

To build my toilets,
And till my lands
I depend on aid
For I am wild, untamed

East-west scavengers,
Spill the blood of trees,
Poison the roots of children,
Playing war games with m-16s

You have judged,
Should I feel begrudged?

For fame and glory,
Your pens spill gory,
In the name of a story,
The 'perfect' African story.

No commets?