Black

Here’s a protest poem by Olaitan with epic sensibility for Different Truths. It’s intense and passionate. Her pain is palpable and it moves from the individual to the cosmic.

The fertile womb
That lays souls…

The robust breast
That spills…

The seed
Of the ancients;
The black soil that never withers.
The root
Of sacred trees;
The stronghold
Of nature.

The roar and silence
Of the wild and mild,
The prey and predator,
The abundance and need
Of nature,
The bone
Of contention
And cord of unity.

The rain that breaks forth,
The Sun that stands and stumbles,
The rugged skin that swallows
The tests of times.

The garment
Of times,
The wind that spreads
Seasons upon seasons.

The water that rides between
The pristine laps
Of flexible rocks.

The thunder in
The voices
Of sacred drums.

The plays and playgrounds
Of children,
Their dark tales
And length-less choruses.

The riches in secret places
And treasures in sacred darkness,
The harbourer
Of things that glitter.

The arms that shield
The bodies of her children
From the claws
Of vultures.

I am
The black soil that gives and takes,
I am Africa.

©Olaitan Maryam M.

Photo from the internet.