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I am a fat skeleton, resurrecting
from the sad memories of dada
and dark mysteries of aminism
I am buganda
I bleed hope
I drip the honey of fortune
Makerere, think tank of Africa
I dance with you wakimbizi dance
I am tanganyika
I smell and fester with the smoke of African genesis
I am the beginning
Kilimanjaro the anthill of rituals
I am the smile of Africa
my glee erase the deception of sadness
my tooth bling freedom
I am myself, I am Gambia
when others seep with bullets stuck in their stomachs
I sneeze copper spoons from my mouth every dawn
I am the the Colombia of Africa
I am the Cinderella of Africa
where mediums feast with the ghost of kamuzu in mulange trees
here spirits walk naked and free
I am the land of sensations
I am the land of reactions
coughing forex blues
squandermania
I still smell the scent of Nehanda’s breath
I am African renaissance blooming
I stink the soot of chimurenga
I am the mute laughter of Njelele hills
I am Soweto
swallowed by kwaito and gong
I am a decade of wrong and gong
I am blister of freedom vomited from the belly of apartheid
I see the dawn of the coming sun in Madiba’s eyebrows
I am Abuja
blast furnace of corruption
Nigeria, the Jerusalem of noblemen, priests, professors and prophets
I am guinea I bling with African floridarization
I am blessed with many tongues
my thighs washed by River Nile
I am the mystery of pyramids
I am the graffiti of Nefertiti
I am the rich breast of nzinga
I am Switzerland of Africa
the rhythm of Kalahari sunset
the rhyme of Sahara, yapping, yelping
I am Damara, I am Herero, I am Nama,
I am Lozi, I am Vambo
I am bitterness, I am sweetness
I am Liberia
I am King Kongo
Mobutu roasted my diamonds into the stink of deep brown blisters
frying daughters in corruption microwaves
souls swallowed by the beat of Ndombolo and the wind of rhumba
I am the Paris of Africa
I see my wounds
I am rhythm of beauty
I am Congo
I am Bantu
I am Jola
I am Mandinga
I sing of you
I sing thixo
I sing of Ogun
I sing of God
I sing of Tshaka
I sing of Jesus
I sing of children
of Garangaja and Banyamulenge
whose sun is dozing in the mist of poverty
I am the ghost of Mombasa
I am the virginity of Nyanza
I am scarlet face of Mandinga
I am cherry lips of Buganda
come Sankara, come Wagadugu
I am Msiri of garangadze kingdom
my heart beat under rhythm of words and dance
I am the dead in the trees blowing with wind,
I can not be deleted by civilization.
I am not kaffir, I am not Khoisan
I am the sun breaking from the villages of the east with great inspiration of revolutions
its fingers caressing the bloom of hibiscus
liberation!

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