‘Tis the pitter patter
Of nervous African rain,
That melodic screaming
Of the native’s familiars
At night,
(That call to me),
These wondrous delights
I witness.
The music,
The power
Of the rustling ochered trees
With tainted rainbow leaves.
The shifting of shapely forms,
Worlds apart
Those dry dreams of salvation
Consumed by the offspring
Of starvation.
These are the voices,
The drums,
The pleasures
And untold
Slums
Of
My
Africa.

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