AFRICA

03/11/2020

Written by Andrew karamura, Lydia karamura’s son

One day I will write about this place.

One day I will write about this place.

Beneath the rising sun where little feet hit the ground,

Quickening their pace as an orange glow kisses the horizon.

Lyrical voices begin to fill the crisp warm air,

Mothers tie their babies to their backs and step out from their homes

As the overhanging sun bathes the burning grass below in gold.

Later the greater ponds across this land shall be filled with arrows of rain

And the once burning grass will be doused.

The vibrant red and gold of day break will be concealed and revealed and concealed and revealed

As cattle ponder in open fields,

Lions stalk the Serengeti and Tsavo fields.

Pythons taste the warm air and their bellies kiss the delicate green leaves.

One day I will write about this place

I see the origin of life before me

Morula trees and bushes neighbour each other against a backdrop of dominant mountains peaked with moons in a green verde.

Antelopes, gazelles, kudos and the African as a guest in this God given land.

I turn my head away from the villages that roll through the scene towards the cities.

The sound of honking horns, mashing with begging children on the streets

The vivacity of the markets filled with fresh fruit always in season

Alongside the muffling of estranged voices and the delicate slipping of a role between one hand and another

The African buzz and hum of OBUNTU, the thrumming of the drum beat

One day I will write about this place

A thousand seasons of drought and famine, children face down, bones so thin covered by gathered dust.

Harvests of thorns poison business walks and government halls

Behind the rising sun the beggars strike only to be met by 48 guns of the general.

The silent voices of the outcasts ring out and ultimately disappear

With no past, no present , no future

In this wounded and damaged land,

Slave has become beggar and violence threatens Uhuru, Obuntu.

Combat births the only son, the black hermit, the outcast.  the detainee

Upon the backs of oppressed cast on hills of fools

The wasteland of the earth,

Walls of stone houses invisible men and ordinary men become phantoms

With no past no presence no future

One day I will write about this place

Thunder never ceases to be replaced by clear skies

I hear the passionate beating of the Embuutu

The jovial singing of that rich harmony by massed choirs

The smell of matooke drawing families round tables

Villlage tales shared at open fires long in the night

Water birds, beautiful feathers on the lake shores under Jacaranda trees

January children chase their way over  singing grass

People of the cities dream of a land without thunder, of invisible men

This child will be great the minister cries and here is to the past

Upon this mountain will live our castles , restless cities and Christmas gold

As I sit under the Jacaranda tree

Thinking of the naked Gods at the potters wheel

Remember the sunsets in Biafra I cry for that beloved country

As I hear tales from that troubled land I pause and sigh

But oh your land is beautiful

You who dwell in this God’s bit of wood, there will be a homecoming

UHURU Africa will ride great again