Ode to my roots

The rivers of Africa run in my veins.

The rhythm of its music shakes my legs.

The sun above Virunga glows on my face.

Cocoa and Shea butter protect my soul’s vase.

From Togo to Congo, this is the trace for many years of migrations before I was created.

I am daughter of Nigeria, of Ògún and Ọ̀ṣun.

I don’t fear blows because I am a warrior like Queen Amina who for reign was born.

I am a child of Africa with honor, therefore, no one will lower my banner.


I praise the strength and bravery of my people.

Still trying to break the chains of the white evil.

They stole us, slaved us, and execute us with bigotry.

In Cape Coast, Bagrady, and Ouidah they took our dignity.

Shipped like a cattle to taint our shine and erase our pride.

Our rich kingdom was occupied, they try to justify that genocide.

Magical cultures and millions of tribes were oppressed.

To possess something they cannot obtain: transcendence.

Them, the “saviors”, us the uneducated “primitives”.

History was written by pale hands, bamboozled narratives.

Creating an illusory sense of dependance .

When they needed our goods, hands, and essence.


Rich and prosper empires: Asante, Dahomey, Yoruba, Kongo, Mali…
They surrendered their powers to the colonizers.

So they could raise their doctrinaire towers.

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