Is the African child no more a blessing,
Coming from the heavens so high?
Is he no more the melodious melody,
That sings upon the parents heart,
Making the dark gloom fly?
Is he no more a true sign of fruitfulness,
Wherein they are assured that their God sail their course,
And has approved their union?
Is he not priceless and most adorable,
While they think of him as their improved version?
My eyes has beheld the evading beauty of childhood,
Curled away in covers of poverty.
My heart bleeds while walking through my hood,
Seeing a child been given a heart of a man,
Whilst the man slumbers at home
with the hands of a child;
Commanding, coercing, sending him to the wild.
And yet they sit from dawn to night,
Just in topmost expectations counting through their barns.
The African child dwells in the street,
But cannot feed from his strivings.
His toiling are like the rainfall in July;
Ceaseless, insistent and unduly.
He sleeps in the trench,
And in the gutters he finds peace.
He fights ideology, opinions, home pressure and abuse solely.
He sweats in the morning,
Cries at noon,
And shivers in evening.
He is taught boldness as revenge,
And resilience in a combat.
He is like an opened field,
With no gate, no resistance;
He is totally susceptible.
He wears reproach like a garments,
And pain on his wrist.
He is dead though breathing,
But who would he tell?
He bears hidden wounds,
Sustained while fighting abuse and opinions.
The bullets of curses,
That pulls him to the ground,
The thrown darts targeted at his dreams and ambition,
All giving him the notion that life will always be a mess,
And he is irredeemable;
For he's into a unique slavery,
approved by a suppose father.
Yet, we only watch to see the future die away,
How sad!
If the African child is in such gross penury,
Africa's future is in shambles;
For the future we wish for,
Is the now we all live.
