Native winds dragged the sail
across the azure atlantic
with cargoes of white messiahs,
umbrellas and glittering mirrors
that carried Akanji, Ifenna and Waziri
far off to European plantations
where the scorching arrows of blind sun
and the slavemaster's whip
broke the mid-day silence
on their unbending backs.

History never will lie,
it all began with a faint smile
and a warm handshake
and dances of ignorant buttocks
around bonfires in the village square,
to welcome the 'Men of West',
oblivon
of how little Awele
would be fed bananas
by laughing crowds in a zoo,
of how sizzling iron stamps
will kiss these beautiful black skins,
and how our mothers will serve
to death, white faced wenches.

Diety of childhood,
make not our mothers cry,
wipe our fathers' bleeding faces dry,
even though they hear us groan in pain,
even they see us die
on the fields of hell.
Tell them to weep not,
for we shall all rise again.

© Omipidan Teslim Opemipo