Smile stuck-on, pride woven with ego;
Doubt vanquished, grief knifed to zero.
I beat my chest, and sound the ivory trump,
Glory in ecstasy, and dance with a stomp.
My lips, a castle of fatted melodies,
Hark! They be tunes of sweet eulogies.
They filter swift, as honey from the honeycomb;
Here, my ode to the land I call home.
I speak of this land, the land of my birth,
On which my gone progenitors lived in piquant mirth;
Same haven un-matched by the goodliest of exotica-
I speak of this land, this great land Afrika.
This land, this soil of which am son,
On which, my fathers, their races have run.
This land of most mysterious lore,
Clad in diverse hue, as in days of yore.
Herein a perfect blend of diverse man hue-
Spotted white and dun, thick shade of black too.
Harbour of peoples of most stunning knack,
Fount of greatness, primordial home of the Black.
This land Afrika, idyll as beyond the blue,
The secret of your goodly scape, Man yet has no clue.
Your beauty an enigma through seasons and times,
All men adore, from distant lands and climes.
The land is great, said the robed men at Rome,
And set sail, and floated far from their dome
Just to feel the land of most fertile loam.
They call it Africa, we call it home.
Glory, joy and ego ad-infinitum,
I sound the cornet, and a harp strum;
Tell of the wondrous lustre of this luxuriant land-
Say, Africa, idyllic as a pleasant garland!
Land of my fathers, home of the Black,
To thee Africa, I strum a clarsach.
Cousin of Nature, goodliest of places;
Unique in splendour, pride of all races.
‘Tis on you, Africa, my soul does lean;
On my face is tattooed an infinite grin,
As I glory in my very dark Afro-skin,
Clad perfectly with a cloak of melanin.
Words cannot explain
Of my gratitude
For the pulchritude
Lord, I thank thee again!
I thank thee Lord for making me Black,
So gladly I say: I’m Proud that I’m dark!
meet the poet: Arc Ani Onyedikachi Michael Jr.
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.