Bloated bellied families of coloured race;
spindly, dangling frames for support;
eyes deeply sunken with no mist of hope,
laced with lashes of hunger

These are my kindreds --
frail buds of the giant Iroko tree
that fosters the tropic African forest;
now hewn down and left to rot.

Children butchered in parent-less homes
where papa nurtures aborted dreams.
Forcefully enlisted to war
against fellow brothers;
mama lays still, in a pool of blood,
sacrificed for our wishful tomorrows.

We roam the streets of Africa,
no longer terrified by death's mournful knell:
for our death lies in us
the mystery of our empty bloated bellies.

Yet, we will survive
amidst the incessant threats of penury
and the rumblings of infirmity
from one vicious cycle to another.

We wear a face, naked with hunger
and resigned to forlorn feast.
When in some distant continents,
children have enough to eat and throw away
, yet we will survive!

Tell the waiting vultures
that prowl the streets of Africa,
preying on the remains of our brothers
yanking their lifeless limbs apart, NO MORE!

Taking refuge in my silhouette
trailing behind wounded children,
waiting till their last breath is drawn,
and a human dinner is declared ready!

But tell the waiting vultures
that no more carcasses will litter the streets.
Our continent, no more a grave yard
where dreams are murdered, yet unborn
and visions stifled, still in its bud!

For our sun will rise again,
and our earth will bud,
adorned in the colours of nature.
Our barns will burst in abundance;
we will speak one language, one word, PEACE

This is the African dream.
The cause for which our fathers died.
The cause for which we WILL live!