Much can be said about freedom.
Is it a feeling, a state of mind, is it found in what we possess?
Perhaps you're like the African child who writes this,
often carrying a rootlessness that he can't articulate either in his mother's or his borrowed tongue.
All he knows right now is 'they' came, 'they' saw 'they' conquered.
We bowed, we wept, defeated.
To this day our ebony coating carries a curse.
Often perceived as less than,
with a lucky few who are above the rest.
Perhaps you're well versed in the beautiful tragedy of who we are.
You're acquainted with our jovial spirit,
Our fierce fortitude and our soiled scars.
I appreciate you and I hope you continue to teach others.
Maybe you're a young Paris Hilton who doesn't know there's more to us than south and west,
Be our guest,
but learn our story,
strive to know me and my children for who they really are,
some will try to deceive you like all is well and rosy.
Others will make you weak with worry,
portraying me so pitifully,
wailing my woes while waving my wins.
Anyway, today you celebrate my freedom.
As for me, I grimly grieve.
From my vantage it seems that foreigners feed the feet of the ones most trampled.
Yet your own heads gormandise at their expense.
Many are conforming to the very ways that enchained them.
Sometimes I'm ashamed to call you my children.
Yet I still hope, I always will.
That one day you will begin to shine in this darkness with all of your blackness,
ride with all of your beauty,
tread upon the slick serpents from abroad and from within,
loosen the limbs of the lions and wolves that corrupt credence to your detriment.
Find ways to forgive the injustices all the while resolving them beyond words.
Perhaps it's a dream, but I hope one day all of you my dear children, near and far, one day, may all of you be truly free.
With love,
Mama Africa
