Treasure Island

Babatunde Idowu Ebenezer


The African Child


His voice for the hundredth time mumbled
'Spare some change for the poor boy'
His eyes twinking even in the crepsular light.
His discalceate feet hardly moving at all,
Yet he was moving.

Then came the voice again:
'God loves a cheerful giver'
The metal porringer in his metacarpus gleaming.
Hundreds of limbs actuating around his tiny
frame,
Yet none bothered to even halt a second.
His pleas though never ceased,
No reply came for them.

Then came the bellowings from above,
Accelerating paws now scurrying.
But the voice would not bulge.
Almost singing now:
'Mother is sick, father is no more'
A moving figure eased its stride,
Well manicured fingers went into a pocket.
Followed by the dinging of a coin in the bowl.
A ray flashed across the street,
He did smile.
Decaying fangs yet emmit but sparkled not.

Almost only four leggeds in the hood now.
And those even were not waiting,
Yet he remained.

Then the cascades!

Soon, his coal black curls dripped.
His shred soaked.
There was this look he wore,
Gloom perhaps.
But it was hard to say if he wascrying,
With all his body streaming.
Then he glide down a corner,
To find a dryer spot maybe,
And lay his tired body down fora while.
But only for just a while,
For the hustling must continue,
Else the tree will fall!
Then came racing through my hearts the
questions:
Where would he sleep tonight?
Who would worry if he did not go home?
What would his dinner be?
Why does he have to pass through all these?
What was his offence to mothernature?
And the answers came in one lump:
His only offence is the colour of his skin.
You have been close to him before,
What he was like then,
That he is like now.
Him and millions like him.
The African Child! ! !

Submitted: Sunday, December 16, 2012

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

Dedicated to all the homeless African Children out there.

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