WHERE IS THE VOICE?

WHERE IS THE VOICE?

Someone, anyone;
Please indulge me.
Please tell me;
Where is the voice?
Where is our voice?
Who do we run to?
Who do we turn to?
Who can speak on our behalf
When neo-colonialism and capitalism
Cut our economies in half?

Who is the next Kwame Nkrumah?

The next Jomo Kenyatta?

The next Muammar Gaddafi who will tell it as it is.

Who will have the guts to say "NO"

To western faces who benefit

From the destruction of many African places.

Who has the guts to Mandela
Our motherland; Africa
To a great PRO-AFRICANIST effect?
Whose bold words and coarse voice
Can coerce our corrupt leaders
To reflect on the fact
That Africa is alive?
That Africa is a living, breathing being;
That SHE is free to be herself.
She is not a slave.
She deserves, no!!!
In fact, she is owed
Dignity and respect.

Who can tell the rest of the world

That we have our own culture?

That we have our own music

And our own tulips.

Who can voice our concerns

About the dangers of GMO?

Who can stand on a hill

And proclaim to the vultures?

Saying;

"The concept of human rights already exists

In our cultures"

"Whoever said that we are insufficient?"

"That everything that we do is wrong"

"That we cannot take care of ourselves"

"That we need to dance to the tune of Uncle Sam's belt"

Who can speak for us?
And by us,
I mean ALL OF US.
Yes, Africa is one;
In her full, splendid
Beautifully shaped body.
...For a body that is divided
Is the true definition of death;
Different parts of the body
All wanting to go their own way.
Each part of the body
Being controlled by different nerve endings.
This phenomenon causes her to feel hurt.
Can you hear her?
She lies there in the street.
She is wearing a torn African print dress;
Screeching, screaming;
"Mpwera!" "Mpwera!"
Why is she screaming?
It is because she has different men holding
On to her dress, wanting a piece of her.
They are men of strange colors;
White, brown, yellow et cetera.
They are holding on to her
Like they own her.
Inside the get away car,
There is a man of native color.
He is the get away driver.
He waits for the men of color
To bring HER parts and their asses into the car.
After this is done, the get away driver then drives
Them into the white night.

Where is the voice that will unite us?

The voices that we had have either been killed or dethroned thus;

Where is the voice that will put humpty zulu back together again?

Where was that voice

When it was needed in the streets of Cairo?

And in the streets of Benghazi?

Mother Africa's heart froze in the wake of 2011.

She refused to pump blood to her left shoulder.

...Where is the voice that will hold her

Firm and steady in it's righteous and zealous hands?

Where is the voice that will whisper into her tingling ears

The sweet romances of a devout lover?

Who will speak on her behalf?
Who will speak on our behalf?
Where is the voice that will

Bring us together?
So that together,
We will raise HER.

A poem by Bruno Edgard.