The rest of the world is dark; only the skies above the Dark Continent have a fat sun, hanging amidst its clouds.
I am now only lord of the Harmattan,
Lord of September, the Sahara and phantoms of a single light
That stands up straight without a stormy midday.
I only accompany the fires that torch the dry grasses and dry barns,
All across the lands of the Fulanis, to where the south takes flight.
I choose for the delta of Niger and Benue to tan
Slightly, under my beautiful and lush rays so bright.
Bright circle on the black eye of the Dark Continent
I will be.
For trees die without my light,
Games die without the trees,
And the sands freeze without the heat.
Their skies above look like death itself,
With a dark mourning veil spread about its surface.
Dark sands and thick snow stretched to a barren brink-
As barren as the egg’s shell.
If there was once pride, among the human race,
There is even a deeper one in this generation.
There is no yolk in their sky,
But they manage to light up their city like the heaven.
Electricity flows like blood in an artery,
Forged from the dams of whatever water that hasn’t freezed over.
The heavy industrial buzz still lingers,
For their knowledge is greater.
Still, there is no yolk in their sky,
No rains will pour because the water beneath cannot evaporate to aged clouds,
Not even a blade of grass can peek out of the soil,
Night is stronger, so light becomes a luxury,
No one, except those who have nothing to loose
Or something to prove, strives here.
The best suitcases and those full of life
Have long flooded north, east and west Africa-
To the west especially, where I have tilted over my gaze dedicatedly.
The rest see me never or in baking heat haze.
Remember the delta of the rivers, Niger and Benue;
Near it lies tall, modern, towers of metals; reaching the heaven’s lashes.
The land lords are now the real government,
And the government only a bitterly torn and fragile flag.
A time will come, when that flag
Will only be made out of cloth and a pole.
It barely looks green, with white in between;
At least no one takes note anymore.
You see, it is this simple,
One more land is all that matters, even more than a life.
One more grain, will soon become priceless,
One more child is one more crime-
Food is now politics,
This heat is mercy
And basking at my beauty is enough to breed courage
In the mortal heart of the soldier.
They fight the war in the name of harmony,
With weapons which are useless in their parent land;
For here, there is gold
And it is human to want it all.
If you were born here, in this country, of green and white flag;
Then you are privileged
And cursed at the same time.
Children need not to run around the streets half naked and dirty,
They are locked in schools and taught about the tricky world.
They are taught fast that the farmers are the rich ones now
And hunger really is a disease.
They will see the ugly battle for survival;
Yes, they will see an eavesdropper hung.
It is either that or join the hopeful ones
Who camp outside the light.
In all the ugliest ruins, there is still beauty.
Here they are living out the curse laid on Adam,
And yet a twisted beauty remains; fragile and yet mighty.
All of the worlds craftiest politicians and engineers,
And doctors and all great minds in all trades, here in one place, on this giant farm.
Race is now like shades in the snow;
The government has to black, so a big war would not stir.
This is a home for the blacks,
But the whites do not have to accept it; they only need to play their cards wisely.
Civilizations have fallen in the past,
Technology is not a guarantee that it would not do so again.
You would think that a starved world would
Embrace each other like they were siblings.
Days have ran with such long legs that the ages have
Started from the beginning once more.
Astrologers look up and they see it,
They see me, a star
Unyielding and undisturbed.