We are on a journey to a known destination
But we've not found the way.
Drought, famine and violent breeze
The season is still harmattan;
Dew and mist despite the passage of several days,
Months and years, we are still in the morning.

The unpleasant interlude_ his own time bought with brute_
The previous night was spent chasing away
Our exploiting messiah; but showed us not the way
Who only pointed to the promise land;
And mocks us now with hypocrisies.

Wet by the morning dew,
Chilled to the bone by the violent breeze of this season
And blinded by the mist patches;
The bodies are not able and the eyes can barely see.
Weve still not found the way,
How shallow and unbecoming, but we keep going!

Africa, in this jungle,
Must we employ the robber who destroyed our door to help repair it?
Why do we run around begging for sycophantic helps?
Why do we not pause and reflect:
Find means of getting some warmth and weathering these patches of fog?
Why dont we act wisely and intelligibly?