Song Of Mother Africa Poem by Frank Bana

The old man sits beside the Council Chamber, stretches out his hand
The officers pass by, their minds on paper
The small shields of security drawn around him by the month
Don’t protect him from the night and dusts of winter

The land used up and over, cattle die up to their necks in mud
Choppers cross the border to machine-gun ivory
The villages have lost their trees and cannot nurse back any
So many children science left, to mothers of this Africa

They wait within prefabricated words and walls
For the big black pots to fill with food of conscience
And when the meal is over, the bells of cities ring
For shifts of building bricks in export industry

The shopping mall is crowded when the pay is out
The queues of supplication jumped by family or favour
The dust of town is somehow of a much more bitter flavour
Than the early morning milk of Mother Africa

And I’m singing of the beauty of her eyes -
I’m thankful for the way she changed my life -
Of stars that fade as people rise and build their fires
In the early morning mists of Mother Africa.