How to love you more post-colonial child,
The metaphorical firstborn of Moses and pride?
A small finding, grasped tighter by everything
To undermine you, no taller than trees ceiling,
A blade of grass next to a mountain encounter,
Your freewill orbits about who’s in power,
You’ve been news without empathy that blanket,
Your roar is tinier to the howls of wrath spanking.
You charge slower than many wild cats trying,
You charge nonetheless, come away from hiding,
Behind the veil of adjectives equal with shame’s char;
If you’re to look for a miracle, it is you, my dear,
Just as every zebra has its unique pattern of black
And white stripes, the lion and its glorious mane fact.
Take a sip of this palm wine. Taste the feats of love
And quell those that threaten democracies thereof.
Yes, Venus will descend to relay this if you’re tipsy,
She, too, is drunk on the sun’s love-wine, this see.
If she invites you back in the zodiac, there’s a ladder,
They’re your ancestors, and just like flowers gather,
Bloom with their scent intact, every spring expressed,
You’re your ancestor’s heritage, a whiff of their scent.
And a part of the whole never veers off from it.
Rise child, take your rightful place, and shine lit.
The pain, the victories, all are your legacies’ art:
The touchstone that sets your sky of gold apart.