At the high tide,
The sea cradled us blind,
Nurtured our egos,
Gilded the guilt of our ills,
Caressed the conscience in our hearts.

At the low tide,
The sea left the skeleton
Of our tangled actions ashore,
Our guilt engraved on the pebbles,
Our conscience straggly with contrition.

We wonder and ponder,
Upon our actions
Of the past.
Tis a heavy price
To pay for our sweet tooth.
Oh Lord
What have we done.

Africa the nation of wonder

They took the child
Away from wonder.

But wonder
Will always be in the child.

Stand aright
Walk upright
In honour of those
Who have gone forth.

Don’t be affright
As you blight
Away the fright
For those behind.

For it will
Be alright
As you are
Not alone.

My legacy was
To be laved twice a day,
To disport myself around the garden.
Enveloped in my crisp creaseless clothes,
Encircled by the aroma of blossoms.
My gladsome day was rounded
Off with a dinner fit for a King.
My education taught me
To read, write and a lot more.
I was conditioned to expect nothing less.


Her legacy was
To toil the soil on the farm
In threadbare clothes.
Steeped in baked clay,
Engulfed by the stench of the fields.
Her meed was to eat
Whatever there was.
Her education was to do
More than her fair share.
She was privileged to expect nothing more.


We walked the earth,
We breath the same air,
Yet,
Like the two oceans,
Our lives never transgress.
Our challenge is to reconcile our inheritances with what should be.

Pasted on the wall,
Glistening flat faced,
All warmed up
I unfold the images
Of destruction,
Blur out rackets of mortar,
Flip blue sky into black.
In the comfort
Of their homes,
They lament away,
At a touch of a button
I am silenced.
Havoc out of sight;
Life goes on.

The Man on a Mission
Scours the East of the continent.
He sees the ravages on humanity
In its full glare,
Mangled bodies,
Riddled with bullets,
Roving children,
Yelling for mercy.
He clams up,
The well of tears run dry.
Unimaginable images of horror
Reel around in his head,
Sounds of terror,
Reverberate in his ears.

The Man on a Mission
Goes to work
Not knowing what
each day will bring,
yet he carries on
in the face of adversity.
The sounds have become a part of him.
I pray some day
All this will come to an end,
So The Man on a Mission
Can be sound asleep.

My home lies somewhere
Across the ocean.
Devoid of my History,
Devoid of my Culture,
Devoid of my Heritage,
Denied of my true Identity,
My Soul is hollow.
Oh! Father thank you for being there
Every step of the way.